CHAPTER I.

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COLLECTION OF FOREIGN AUTHORS,

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IN PARADISE.

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IN

PARADISE

_A NOVEL_

FROM THE GERMAN OF

PAUL HEYSE

VOL. I

NEW YORK

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

549 AND 551 BROADWAY

1878

***_It has been decided to omit from this translation the poems which

are scattered through the novel in the German. A few trifling changes

in certain passages have been made necessary by this omission; and the

translator has in two or three cases very slightly condensed the text._

* * * * *

COPYRIGHT BY

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,

1878.

IN PARADISE.

_BOOK I_.

CHAPTER I.

It was a Sunday in the midsummer of 1869.

The air, cleared by a thunderstorm the night before, was still

tremulous with that soft, invigorating warmth which, farther south,

makes breathing such an easy matter, but which, north of the Alps,

seldom outlasts the early morning. And yet the bells, that sounded from

the Munich Frauenkirche far across the Theresienwiese, and the field

where stands the great statue of Bavaria, were already ringing for high

mass. Here, outside the city, there seemed to be no human ear to

listen. The great bronze maiden stood there in the deepest solitude,

holding her wreath above her head, and with a mazed and dreamy look, as

though she might be thinking whether this were not an opportune moment

to step down from her granite pedestal, and to wander at will through

the town, that to-day raised its towers and roofs like a city of the

dead above the bare green plain. Now and then a bird flew out of the

little grove behind the Ruhmes-halle, and fluttered about the shoulders

of the giant maiden, or rested for a moment on the mane of the lion

that sat lazily listening, pressed close to the knee of his great

mistress. But away in the city the bells rang on. The air grew drowsy

with the steadily increasing heat, with the hum and the vibration of

the distant ringing, and the strong fragrance that rose from the

meadow, which had been mown the day before. At last the bells ceased;

and now not a sound was to be heard, save that there came from a house

in one of the outer streets the sound of a flute, played by fits and

starts, as though the player stopped for breath between the passages,

or as though he forgot his notes in other thoughts.

The window, from which this singular music sounded into the summer air,

opened from the upper story of a house that stood some distance back

from the street--a house of a kind of which there are many in this

western suburb. They are generally entirely unornamented, boxlike

buildings, windowless except on the northern side, and there pierced by

great quadrangular openings, supplied with all manner of arrangements

for admitting the steadiest possible light from above. In summer one

never sees above them the little cloud of smoke that betrays a domestic

hearth, and no profane smell of cooking meets the visitor upon the

threshold--as in most other Munich houses. From the open windows floats

only a light, invisible odor of tobacco-smoke, agreeably mingled with

the invigorating fragrance of varnishes, oils, and turpentine--which

shows that here only the holy fire of art is fed, and that here, upon

silent altars (three-legged easels and sculptors' pedestals) are

offered sacrifices that cannot even shelter the priests that offer them

from the pangs of hunger.

The house of which we speak turned its windowless southern side

toward a little yard, in which lay scattered marble and sandstone

blocks of different sizes. The four studio-windows of the northern side

looked into a carefully-tended, narrow garden, that sheltered them

from all disagreeable reflected lights. Around a little, slender,

drowsily-splashing fountain in the middle bloomed a glorious wealth of

roses; and the neighboring flower-beds, filled with all kinds of

garden-stuff, were enclosed in thick borders of mignonette. Here the

smell of oil and turpentine just referred to could not penetrate,

especially as only the two upper studios were those of painters; while

in the lower story, as could be seen by the blocks of stone in the

yard, a sculptor carried on his art.

Artists--enjoying, as they do, a perpetual holiday mood over their

work--are not wont to be supporters of a regular celebration of the

Sabbath. Those who are so must be such as in the course of years

have come to devote themselves--as not a few do in a so-called

"art-city"--to the mere business-like manufacture of pictures for

"art-clubs," or of parlor statuettes; and so are privileged to take

their rest on the seventh day, among the other customs of solid

citizens. They, "thank God, no longer feel obliged" to be industrious,

and to work even on a holiday.

But the dwellers in this little house were not of such a type.

On the ground-floor all possible panes in the windows had been opened,

to let as much as possible of the glowing air stream into the sunless

room; and perhaps, too, to tempt in the fragrance of the flowers, or

the notes of the flute that sounded from the window overhead. A flock

of sparrows, that seemed accustomed to make themselves at home in the

place, availed themselves of the opportunity to whirr in and out of the

garden, to flutter, chattering and scolding, about among the ivy-vines

with which one wall of the studio was thickly covered, and to hunt

through every corner for neglected crusts of bread. With all this,

however, they seemed well-bred enough to make no other trouble but

their noise--though the busts and clay models, that stood about the

room on boards and scaffoldings, showed many traces of their visits. On

the damp cloth, in which a large group that stood in the middle of the

great room was carefully wrapped, in order to keep the fresh clay from

drying, sat an old and rather decrepit-looking sparrow, who still

looked about him with an air of considerable dignity--evidently the

chief of this wild army, to whom the pleasant coolness of his seat

seemed to make it an agreeable one. He took no part in the fluttering

and chatter of the younger company, but fixed his attention with

critical gravity upon the artist in the gray blouse, who had moved his

modeling-table close to the window, and was busy in finishing from a

living model the statue of a dancing Bacchante.

The model was a young girl, hardly eighteen years old, who stood on a

little platform opposite the sculptor, and, with her arms thrown up and

backward, held fast by a rod that hung from the ceiling--for the statue

held a tambourine in the hands flung upward with such _abandon_, and

the _pose_ was none of the most comfortable. Still, the girl had borne

it a good half hour already without complaining or asking for a rest.

Although she had to hold her head far back, with its loosened auburn

hair that fell below her waist, yet she followed with intense

curiosity--her little eyes almost closed the while, so that the long

golden-blond lashes lay upon her cheeks--every movement of the artist,

every one of his critical and comparing glances. It seemed to flatter

her beyond measure that her youthful beauty should be the subject of

such conscientious study; and in this satisfaction to her vanity she

forgot fatigue. And indeed she was of unusually slender and graceful

form; and from the rough brown calico dress that was tightly fastened

about her waist there sprung, like a fair flower from a coarse husk, a

girlish figure of as perfect whiteness and delicacy as though the poor

child had no other occupation but to care for her complexion. Her face

was not exactly beautiful; a rather flat nose with broad nostrils

projected above the large, half-opened mouth. But in the ill-formed

jaws, that gave to the face something wild and almost like an animal,

shone perfect and beautiful teeth; and a merry, innocent, childlike

smile enlivened the full lips and the otherwise rather expressionless

eyes. The complexion of her face, too, was of a brilliant, transparent

white, spotted here and there by a few little freckles, of which there

were two or three also on her neck and breast. It was comical to see

how she herself shared in the study of her own beauty, as she found

such serious attention given to it by another; and, as she saw her

girlish self treated with such respect, she seemed to forget every

trace of anything like coquetry, such as might otherwise have entered

into the matter.

"You must be tired, Zenz," said the sculptor. "Don't you want to rest

awhile?"

She shook her auburn hair with a laugh. "It is so cool here," she

answered without stirring. "You don't feel your own weight at all in

the open air like this--and besides, there's the sweet smell of the

mignonette in the garden. I believe I could stand this way till night."

"So much the better. I was just going to ask you if you were not cold,

and didn't want a shawl over your shoulders. I don't need them now; I

am just doing the arms."

He went seriously and quietly on with his work. In his plain face,

framed in smooth blond hair streaked with gray, the only features that

struck one at first glance were the eyes, that shone with an unusual

force and fire. When he fixed them upon a certain point, it seemed as

though they took complete possession of what they saw, and made

themselves completely master of it. And yet there could be nothing more

quiet or less inquiring in expression than these same eyes.

"Who is that playing the flute up stairs?" asked the girl. "The first

time I was here, a week ago to-day, it was perfectly still up there;

but to-day it goes tramp, tramp, every few minutes, and somebody plays,

and then it stops again for a little while."

"A friend of mine has his studio just over us," answered the sculptor;

"a battle-painter, Herr Rosenbusch. If he can't make his work go to

please him, he takes up his flute and walks up and down like that, and

plays, and buries himself in thought. And then he stops in front of his

easel and looks at his picture; and so goes on until he hits upon what

he is after. But what are you laughing at, Zenz?"

"Only at his name. Rosenbusch![1] And paints battles!--Is he a Jew?"

"I don't think so. But now if you want to rest a little while--your

neck must be perfectly stiff by this time."

She let go the rod at once, and sprang down from the bench. While he

was polishing with his modeling-tool the portion he had just finished,

she stood close by him, her arms crossed behind her with a lightness

peculiar to her figure, and looked closely at the beautiful statue,

which within the last hour had made such obvious progress. But only in

the upper half; for the active hips and limbs of the dancer, only

hidden by her long, flowing hair, were only very roughly outlined.

"Are you satisfied, child?" asked the artist. "But then I can only, at

the best, work it out in marble for you, and you are really a better

bit for a painter. That snow-white skin and flaming mane of yours--if

you had lived two thousand years ago, when they made statues of gold

and ivory, you would have been just in your proper place."

"Gold and ivory?" she repeated, thoughtfully. "Those must have been

rich people! However, I am satisfied for my part with the beautiful

white marble--like the young gentleman there behind, that you didn't

finish."

"Do you like him? It was a long while ago that I began that bust. Isn't

it fine, how the small, firm, round head springs from the broad

shoulders? It's a pity that I only sketched out the face; you would

have liked that too."

"Are you going to make my portrait too, there in the clay? I mean, so

that it will be just like me--so that my friends will say at once 'That

is Red Zenz?'"

"That depends. I could use your little nose and your small, sharp-cut

ears well enough. But you know, child, I had quite another wish; and,

if you will fulfill that, I'll make the face so that no human being

will ever dream that Red Zenz was my model. Have you thought it

over--what I asked you a week ago?"

He did not look at her as he spoke, but kept on diligently smoothing

and kneading the soft clay.

She made as though she had not heard his question, and turned on her

heel, wrapping her thick hair about her like a cloak, and went over to

a corner of the studio, where a great black Newfoundland dog, with a

white breast, was lying on a straw mat with his head between his fore

paws, and growling lightly in his sleep. The girl bent down to him and

began to scratch his head softly--of which he took no other notice than

an instant's opening of his eyes, dim with old age.

"He isn't very gallant," said the girl, laughing. "One of my girl

friends has a little terrier, and when I stroke him he is perfectly

wild with joy, and I have to look out that he doesn't lick my face and

neck and hands all over with his little pink tongue. But this fellow is

as reverend as a grandfather. What is his name?"

"Homo."

"Homo? What a queer name! What does it mean?"

"It is Latin, and means 'man.' Years ago the old boy showed so much

human reason, just as his master seemed on the point of losing his

head, that it was decided to rechristen him. Since then he has never

brought shame upon his name. So you see, child, in what good company

you are. If I am hardly as old as a grandfather yet, I am almost old

enough to be your father. And I thought these two sittings would have

convinced you that you were perfectly safe with me--that I shall

faithfully keep what I promised you. And that is the reason--"

"No, no, no, no!" cried she, jumping suddenly up and whirling around,

and shaking her head so violently that her hair flew about her like a

wheel of fire. "What makes you speak of that again, Herr Jansen? You

take me for a silly, thoughtless kind of girl, no doubt--and think that

in time I shan't be able to refuse you anything. But you are very much

mistaken. It is true, I don't mind doing some foolish things; and

standing about for you here like this doesn't seem to me anything wrong

or disgraceful. Why, at a ball last winter where we had made up the

flowers, and so they let us look in through the dressing-room, the fine

ladies appeared before gentlemen in a very different way from the way I

am standing and walking about here; and there were a great many

officers there--not even artists, like you, that only look artistically

at a bare neck and shoulders. But, if I will do _that_ for you, you

mustn't ask anything more. It is true, my friend, when I told her, did

not think anything of it--and she could come with me. But that is

decided--it would make me so that I never could look anybody straight

in the face again. No--no--no! I will not do it--now or ever!"

"You are right, child," interrupted the sculptor, breaking in on her

excited words and, suddenly changing the form of his speech into the

more familiar "thou." "Nobody need know of it, and, if it is

disagreeable to you, I will not speak of it again. And yet--it's a

pity! I could make the figure from a single mould, so to speak; and in

half the time that I shall have to spend now in looking about for

something that will suit."

She made no answer, but of her own accord mounted upon the bench, and

leaned back again, hanging from the rod.

"Is that right?" she asked. "Am I standing just as I did before?"

He only nodded, without looking up at her.

"What makes you cross with me?" she asked, after a while. "I cannot

help it because I am not like my friend. To be sure, she has had a

great deal more experience than I. And then she has been in love more

than once."

"Have you never had a sweetheart, Zenz?"

"No; a real sweetheart, such as one would go through the fire

for--never! My red hair didn't have very good fortune out in Salzburg,

where I have generally lived. And, besides, I was too ugly. One of them

said I had a dog's face. It has only been within the last year, when I

have suddenly shot up a little, and grown a little stouter, that the

gentlemen have sometimes run after me; and with one of them--a right

nice young fellow--I had a kind of a flirtation. But he was so silly

that he tired me; and so it hadn't gone far between us when one fine

day he fell sick and died. And it was only then that I found I couldn't

have loved him so very, very much; for I didn't even cry about him.

Since then I have taken good care not to make a fool of myself again.

Men are bad; everybody says that that knows anything. As for me, if I

liked one--if I really liked him, 'von Herzen, mit Schmerzen'--"

"Well, Zenz, what would you do?"

She was silent for a moment, and then suddenly let her arms fall close

by her sides. It seemed as though a chill ran over her soft skin; she

shook herself, and shrugged her white shoulders.

"What would I do?" she repeated, as though to herself. "Everything he

wanted! And so it is better as it is--much better."

"You are a good girl, Zenz," he muttered, nodding his head slowly.

"Come, there is my hand; shake hands, and I promise you now that there

never shall be a word again between us of what you are not willing to

hear."

CHAPTER II.

She was just about to lay her round, white little hand in his, which

was rough and muddy from kneading the clay, when a knock at the door

caused them both to look up and listen.

The janitor called out through the key-hole that a strange gentleman

wished to speak with Herr Jansen. When he heard that the sculptor had a

model sitting to him at the moment, he had asked the janitor to take in

his card. With this the janitor pushed the card through a narrow hole

in the door made for the purpose.

The sculptor, grumbling, went toward the threshold and picked up the

card. "Felix, Freiherr von Weiblingen." He shook his head thoughtfully.

Suddenly he uttered an exclamation of joy. Under the printed name was

written, with a pencil, "Icarus."

"A good friend of yours?" queried the girl.

He made no answer, but threw down his modeling-tool hastily, hurriedly

wiped his hands on a towel, and hastened to the door again. As he

opened it, he turned around.

"Stay here, Zenz," he said. "Amuse yourself for a while; there is a

book of pictures; and, if you should be hungry, you will find something

in the cupboard. I will lock the door behind me."

In the hall outside there was no one but the janitor, with his bent,

long-shaped head, that looked very much like the head of a horse,

especially when he spoke; then he moved his under-jaw, as though he had

a bit between his great, yellow teeth.

He was a most serviceable old fellow, who had grown gray in the service

of art, and had a more delicate judgment than many a professor. He was

a thorough expert in preparing a canvas; and occupied his leisure in

studying the chemistry of colors.

"Where are the gentlemen, Fridolin?" asked the sculptor.

"There is only one. He is walking in the yard. A very handsome young

gentleman. You can see in his face the look of the 'Baron' that is on

his card. He said--"

But the sculptor had hurried by him, and had rushed down the steps that

led into the yard. "Felix!" he cried, "is it you or your ghost?"

"I am inclined to think it is both, and a heart in addition," replied

the person addressed, grasping the hand that the sculptor held out to

him. "Come, old fellow, I can't see why we should be ashamed to fall on

each other's necks, here under God's free heaven. I have had to get on

for years without my best and dearest old Daedalus--"

He did not finish his sentence. The sculptor had pressed him so

heartily to his breast that it fairly took away his breath.

Then suddenly he loosened his grasp, and, stepping back a pace, cast a

critical glance over the slight figure of his friend.

"Still just the same," he said, as though to himself; "but we must get

those Samson-like locks under the shears. You don't know your strongest

point, my dear boy, when you bury your round head in such a thicket.

And your full beard must come off. However, all that will come with

time. Tell me what has conjured you forth out of your primeval forests

into our tame art-city?"

He grasped the young man's arm, and led him around the house into the

little garden. Both were silent, and seemed to avoid looking at one

another, as though they had begun to feel ashamed of the extravagant

affection with which they had marked their reunion.

At the extreme end of the garden was an arbor overgrown with

honeysuckle; at its entrance stood sentry two potbellied Cupids in the

_rococco_ style, with little queues and all that--both of them painted

sky-blue from head to foot.

"It's easy to see whom one is visiting," said Felix, laughing. "'His

pig-tail hangs behind him,' or have you had it cut off?" Then, without

waiting for an answer: "But tell me, old fellow, how have you had the

heart to leave your poor Icarus all these terribly long years without a

sign of life on your part? Haven't any of the six or eight letters I

have written you--the last only a year ago from Chicago--"

The sculptor had turned away and buried his face in a bunch of

full-blown roses. He turned suddenly toward his friend, and said, with

a quick, lowering glance: "A sign of life! How do you know that I

_have_ lived these terribly long years? But let us drop all that. Come

and sit down here in the arbor, and now unpack your budget. A

circumnavigator like you must have brought all manner of things with

you that are entertaining and wonderful to dusty stay-at-homes like us.

When you went away from Kiel, we did not either of us think the earth

would turn so often before we looked each other in the face again."

"What shall I tell you?" asked the young man, and his delicate brow

contracted, "If my letters reached you, you have not lost the thread of

my story. As for all the details that belong to it, you knew me well

enough in my first university days, in those old times at Kiel, to

imagine how I went on afterward in Heidelberg and Leipsic, till I got

an older head under my corps-student's cap. It is true, I soon grew

tired of the ridiculous corps business; but, for the mere sake of not

seeming to play the renegade, I kept on with the old associations even

more shamelessly than before. My three years passed away, and a fourth

beside; I was fully three-and-twenty when I went back into my dear,

dull, little home, and passed my examination to enter the civil

service. How I managed to get on so long without giving you a call,

Heaven knows! As early as the second year after our separation, I was

very near you. I had a trifling reminder of a pistol-duel with a

Russian, here in my left shoulder, and had to go to a watering-place

for my health. In Heligoland I heard that you had moved to Hamburg. I

needn't say that I designed to call upon you on my way back. But,

suddenly, a sad message called me home abruptly. My poor old father had

had an apoplectic stroke, and I found him dead. Then there was all the

dreary necessary business, and, after it all--. But why must we spoil

our first pleasant hour with all these old stories? My dear Hans, if

you had a notion how good it is to be sitting here again by your side,

to smell these roses, and imagine that my life is beginning all over

again--a new life in a better world, free from all fetters and--. But,

by-the-way, you have married, I hear? An actress, was it not? Where did

she come from? I heard in Heligoland--"

The sculptor suddenly rose. "You find me as you left me," he said, his

face darkening quickly; "what is past, let us let it rest. Come out of

the arbor; it is suffocatingly hot under those thick vines."

He went toward the little fountain, held his hands under the slender

stream, and passed them over his brow. Then, for the first time, he

turned to Felix again. His face was once more composed and bright.

"And now tell me what has brought you here, and how long you are going

to stay with me."

"As long as you will have me--for ever and ever--_in infinitum_ if you

will!"

"You are joking. Don't do that, my dear boy. I am so utterly alone

here, in spite of a plenty of good comrades with whom I can share

everything except my most intimate thoughts, that the thought of

beginning our old life again seems far too happy to me to be only made

a jest of."

"But it is my most serious earnest, dear old Hans. I am going to stay

here with you, if you have nothing against it, in your most intimate

daily companionship; and, if some day you strike your tent and wander

away somewhere else, I will go too. In one word, I have put my whole

past career behind me, and broken up all my old associations, so that I

may begin, as I said, my whole life over again, and not be anything but

what I care most to be--a free man; not make myself anything but what I

have always secretly longed to be, an artist, as good or as bad a one

as mother Nature will let me."

He poured forth these words hurriedly, and with downcast face, and as

he talked drew a light circle in the nearest flower-bed with his cane.

It was only after a pause, and when his friend made no reply, that he

raised his eyes and met, with some embarrassment, the quiet gaze fixed

upon him.

"You don't seem quite able to accept this change in my life all at

once, Hans? Others besides you have had the same feeling--the person

most concerned in it, for instance. That I have become a conceited ass,

and fancy that because I used to be extravagantly fond of modeling all

manner of absurdities in clay, and cutting caricatures of my friends in

meerschaum--this I hope you will not believe. But why I can't get

beyond the condition of a dilettante, if I only am serious about it,

and think of and do nothing else but study my A, B, C, under a good

master--I beg of you, my dear Daedalus, don't pull such a disheartening

face! Don't look so sadly at the lost youth--as I probably seem to you;

or at least smile ironically, so as to rouse my anger and wound my

_amour propre_ a little! But by the eternal gods--what is there after

all so horribly fatal in this decision? That it hasn't occurred to me

till after twenty-seven years? That is bad, I admit, but not a proof

that it is hopeless. Think of your own half-countryman, Asmus Carstens,

or of--well, I won't give you a whole chapter of artists' biographies.

And besides, when I am altogether independent and have burnt my ships

behind me--"

He stopped again. His friend's silence seemed to check his utterance.

For a time nothing was to be heard around them but the splashing of the

little fountain, and from the window above them the notes of the

battle-painter's flute, every little while dying dismally away.

Suddenly the sculptor stood still.

"And does your fiancee agree to this project?"

"My fiancee? What in the world puts that question into your head?"

"Because, although I never answered your letters, I remember them all

very well. Is it possible that you too do not remember what you wrote

me three years ago, under the seal of the deepest--"

"So I did do it then!" cried the young man with a short, abrupt laugh.

"So I did chatter, did I? I assure you, my dear Hans, I was myself

doubtful how far I had initiated you--you, the only one before whom I

ever lifted even a corner of the veil from this veiled picture. After

awhile--as you sent no congratulations--I began to persuade myself that

I had kept a quiet tongue in my head, even with you; and, in truth,

that would have been the best thing to do. Then I should have escaped

the full confession that it is hard enough for me to make--and after

all, it is perfectly superfluous. For how shall I--who am no poet, and

who am besides an interested party in the transaction--how shall I

describe the persons concerned so that you will understand how it all

came about--how it was partly the fault of both--and yet how both are

innocent, after all?

"But if you must have it, let it be so--as briefly as possible.

"I came back, then, to my native town, to pay the last honors to my

good old father. You know what an unhomelike home I had always found

it. The capital of a third-class Duodezstaat--thank your good star that

you have no idea what it means. My father before me had suffered under

the absurd despotism of this court-etiquette, this endlessly-branching,

complicated, spun-out primeval jungle of dry genealogical trees--under

these ridiculous traditions of a worm-eaten bureaucracy. He was a man

of quite another type--a sturdy, stately country noble, of the most

exclusive and most independent spirit; and since the death of my

mother--who could not of course withdraw herself so entirely from her

family connections--he had lived on our own estate, altogether apart

from 'society.' Then came his death; and I--looked upon askance even as

a boy because of my likeness to my father, and almost given up as far

as a career at court or in politics was concerned--I believe no cock

would have crowed at it, if I had once for all acknowledged that I was

my father's true heir in this respect also, and had forever turned my

back on the spot where I was cradled. But, much as I felt inclined to

do so, it fell out otherwise."

He put his hand into his pocket and took out a little memorandum-book.

"You shall have the romance in an illustrated edition," he said, with a

rather forced attempt at jesting. "See, it was this little person's

fault that I thought for a while it was really my calling to be a

useful citizen--chamberlain to his Highness--by and by master of the

hunt--court marshal--heaven knows what all. Is not that a face that

could persuade one of anything, and could turn a head that never sat

very firmly? And that is only a commonplace photograph, and three years

old; and besides, in these three years the wicked child has learned all

manner of witches' arts; and the eyes that here in the photograph look

so still and fixed--half curious, half timid, as if they were looking

at a theatre-curtain that would not go up--I can tell you, my dear boy,

they look into the world now with such a queenly confidence and dignity

that it fairly--but that is no part of our present talk. And at that

time, when the misfortune happened and I lost my heart to the child,

the little thing was hardly more than a schoolgirl, just sixteen years

old; and shy, silent and unformed as a young bird. We had known each

other since we were children--she is some sort of a cousin, seventeen

times removed--just as all good families with us are related in some

way. I had not the least idea, however, of visiting her, until her

uncle, with whom she lived--her parents died when she was very

young--until this jovial gentleman came to make me a visit of

condolence. Of course I had to return it, and it was on this occasion

that I first saw the slender, pale, large-eyed child, with her

exquisite, tight-shut red lips and her ravishing, tiny little ears.

"Soon afterward I went away again, and only after a year had

passed--after the infernal examination that I would not shirk, in spite

of my freedom, lest it should seem as though I were afraid of it--only

then, when she was seventeen years old, did I see her again. While I

was away, a recollection of her had come back to me from time to time;

suddenly, in the midst of altogether different things, I had seen

something flitting before me that resembled nothing but her slight and

somewhat spare figure, about which there was one trait that always

seemed to me especially charming--that though she was perhaps not quite

tall enough, her little form was always so haughty and erect and so

delicately and perfectly balanced on its slender pedestal. Sometimes,

too, her eyes met me in a fairly ghost-like fashion, when I was among

my comrades or alone out of doors. And yet I had never exchanged ten

words with her.

"And now, when I found her again, a year older and suddenly developed

into a young woman--no, Hans, you need not fear that I am shamelessly

going to put our whole love-story at your mercy, here in the bright

morning sunlight. Enough to say that it had fared much the same with

her, as far as my worthy self was concerned, as with me in respect to

her. We saw that we were meant for one another, as people say--without

ever thinking how much is meant by the words.

"Well! everything would have been well enough; the match seemed as

_bien assortie_ as could possibly have been wished even in such an

aristocratic and cosmopolitan capital as ours. If we had only

married at once, on the spur of the moment, we should have been just

the people--she with her seventeen years, and I with my three or

four-and-twenty--to be altogether suited to one another, and, as time

went on, to so round off the very perceptible and serious corners and

sharpnesses of our two temperaments, that finally it would have been a

thoroughly happy marriage. But, unfortunately, Irene's mother had

married at seventeen, and attributed her lifelong invalidism--for she

was a delicate creature and always remained so--to this early marriage.

When she died--still very young--she charged her husband solemnly that

he should not let their only daughter marry before she was twenty; and

the uncle, who afterward filled a father's place to my sweetheart,

considered himself absolutely bound by this inherited pledge. I must

wait patiently, therefore, for three whole years. And as he was a

bachelor, and his niece had no chaperon to call upon but a former

servant, I was required to pledge myself to avoid all companionship

with my betrothed during this long probation, and only to carry on my

courtship by letter; so that every temptation to seek to shorten the

time of waiting might be put a stop to once for all.

"You can imagine what my feelings were when the old gentleman told me

all this. To decree a three years' banishment just because we should

give him trouble--because he hated responsibility, and because he

believed, as an old hand at love-making, that this was the best way to

protect lovers against themselves! But, jovial as his manner was, he

was an uncompromising egotist where his own quiet and comfort were

concerned. And I was too stubborn and too proud to make any

supplications, and too sure of myself and my sweetheart to fear the

length of the interval; which did not seem to me at first glance so

intolerable as I often felt it afterward--in sighs and misery.

"My sweetheart, too, threw back her little head and said: 'Yes, we will

wait.'--Afterward, it is true, when it came to our last parting, she

fell out of my arms as though she were dead, and I thought she would

never open her eyes again. Even now I don't know how I succeeded, in

spite of it all, in tearing myself away.

"And this three years' separation itself! If I had only been a man of

sense--that is, if I had been another than myself--I should have

settled down somewhere in Germany, and taken up some task at which

I could have worked myself tired--to fight down my unprofitable

lover's-melancholy. Why could not I devote my three years to making

myself a perfect agriculturist, or a prominent jurist, or a politician,

or something that is of some use in the world? To make one's self so

completely master of some department of life or knowledge that one

knows every square foot of it is rather an absurd and commonplace

consolation, to be sure; but it is better, after all, than an

objectless activity, a love nourished on prison-fare, and a longing for

freedom that at last makes one look upon mere change as something

desirable.

"Even then I thought of my old Daedalus. I was on the very point of

falling upon you in your studio, and, for want of a smooth, girlish

cheek to caress, of trying my hand on a soft bit of clay. Just then I

chanced upon an opportunity to go to England; there I stayed until I

was ripe for America; and he who once sets foot in the New World, and

hasn't left any very pressing business behind him in the Old, can get

rid of a few years of his life without knowing exactly how he has done

it. It is enough to tell you that I had already reached Rio, traveling

by way of San Francisco and Mexico, when I said to myself one day that

if I did not want to prolong my exile voluntarily, and so appear to my

betrothed in rather a bad light, I must take the next steamer that

sailed for Havre, in order to land at last, after all this wandering

over the wide world, in the harbor of my wedded bliss.

"I had written regularly to my betrothed every month--beautiful

diary-like love-letters--and had received with equal regularity letters

from her, which, to speak honestly, had now and then irritated me

greatly; so that we had already had (on paper) all manner of

misunderstandings, tiffs, quarrels, and reconciliations. I considered

that all this belonged of right to a well-conducted three-years'

engagement, and did not take it too much to heart when my well-bred,

rather provincial little sweetheart, who had grown up in the atmosphere

of the petty capital, occasionally gave her vagabond _fiance_ a little

moral lesson. Perhaps I was wrong, and certainly I was foolish, always

to report my varied adventures with absolute candor. There were no very

serious matters among them; and the few cases of real human weaknesses

and sins I kept to myself--shut up in a sincerely remorseful heart. But

she found fault even with the _tone_ of my 'sketches from two

hemispheres.' Good heavens! it is easily comprehensible that the poor

child, living as she did among such absurd surroundings, could not have

much taste for a free life out in the world! Thrown entirely on

herself, watched over by a hundred eyes in a narrow, starched, formal

society--I once wrote to her that she was only so serious beyond her

years because she had had to fill, as it were, a mother's place to

herself, and be her own governess and duenna. And, besides all this,

there was her uncle's frightful example--for she could not long remain

ignorant of his habit of compensating himself for outward

respectability by private orgies at his bachelor clubs and _petits

soupers_.

"Only let the three years be over, I thought to myself, and we will

soon weed out the tares that have sprung up between our roses. But I

did not know the vigor of the ground in which all this bad crop had

grown up. Nor did I know how much the years between seventeen and

twenty signified in such a girl's life.

"At last, then, I arrived at home, and found--but, no!" He checked

himself abruptly, and made a sharp cut at the air with his cane. "Why

should I bore you with a detailed story of a domestic comedy that has

only a decidedly unfavorable likeness to 'Much Ado about Nothing,' and,

instead of ending with the reconciliation between Benedict and

Beatrice, finished with a ridiculous eternal separation? For isn't it

almost as laughable as lamentable that two lovers, who for three whole

years, the world over, have been extravagantly fond of one another,

should count the days till they could fall again on one another's

necks, and then should not be able to get on together for six weeks?

And all this only because--as old Goethe says--man strives for liberty,

woman for morality; and because the said moral law seems to the man a

wretched slavery, while the unhappy young woman thinks even a very

moderate freedom immoral! Ah, my dear old Hans, what did I not endure

in those six weeks!--and more especially because I was thoroughly

dissatisfied with myself. After our altogether fruitless (and therefore

all the more obstinate) discussions of these questions, in which I

poured out my bitterest scorn upon her court-etiquette, her kid-gloved

prejudices, her duenna-like code of morals, while she put my baseless

principles to shame with a maidenly pride and firmness that I could

have kissed her for--always after these discussions I used to say to

myself, in the quiet of my chamber, that I was a mad fool to upset

matters as I did. With a little diplomacy, a little delicate tact, and

patient hypocrisy, I could have thoroughly gained my end; could have

borne the stupid ban of society until my marriage; and then, when we

were alone together, could have gradually developed my little wife out

of her doll-like state of servitude, and rejoiced to see her spread her

wings in freedom.

"But it was odd: as often as I appeared before her with the best

resolves in the world--the war began again. You must not imagine that

she fairly entered the lists, challenged me, and herself brought up our

old points of conflict. But it was precisely her quiet reserve, her

obvious good intention to be cautious with the reckless scapegrace, and

to leave his reform to time--it was all this that overthrew my finest

diplomatic projects. I would begin to joke, then to chaff, then to hurl

the most fearful insults against people and customs that seemed fairly

holy to her--and so it went on, day after day, until there came one day

that fairly 'forced the bottom out of the cask'--a wretched, wretched

day!"

He paused a moment, and fixed his eyes gloomily upon the ground.

"There's no help for it!" he said, at last. "It must come out.

Once in my life I did something that humiliated me in my own eyes. I

committed a sin against my own sense of honor--a base act, for which I

never can forgive myself, although a court of honor in matters of

gallantry--chosen from among my own equals, mind you--would probably

have let me off with a slight penance, if not scot-free altogether. You

know what I think of what is called sin; there is no _absolute_ moral

code; what brands one forever is only a little spot upon another--all

according to the delicacy and sensitiveness of the skin. Even

conscience is a product of culture, and the categorical imperative is a

pure fiction. What a brutal blackguard of a soldier permits himself in

plundering a captured town, and feels his conscience untroubled, would

dishonor his officer to all eternity. But I am not going to theorize;

suffice it to say that that inner harmony with one's self, on which

everything depends, was utterly destroyed in me by this act. From the

way in which it haunted me, you can conceive how, in a moment of

weakness, I confessed the whole story to Irene's uncle, little

consolation as I could get from the absolution of so very odd a saint.

I saw _how_ little, when he utterly failed to understand how I could

take the matter so to heart, especially as it had taken place a

considerable time before my engagement. I instantly repented most

bitterly that I had confided in him; and his promise, never by a single

syllable to recur to it, reassured me but little.

"I was right. He forgot it himself; and one unhappy day he began, in

the very presence of his niece--we had just been speaking of all manner

of far more innocent adventures, and even these she would not let

pass--he began to refer to that wretched story. Something must have

come into my face that instantly gave my sweetheart an idea that this

reference meant something beyond the common. Her uncle, too, began to

stammer, and made a clumsy attempt to change the subject. That made the

matter worse. Irene stopped talking, and soon after left the room. The

uncle, good-natured as usual, cursed his own loquacity again and again;

but, naturally, that did not help things. When I saw my little one

again, she asked me to what his words referred. I was too proud to lie

to her; I confessed that I carried about with me the memory of

something that I wished to conceal from myself--how much more from her!

With that she grew silent again. But on the evening of that day, when I

was a second time alone with her, she told me that she must know the

whole. I could not have done anything that she could not forgive me;

but she felt that she could not live by my side when there was such a

secret between us.

"Perhaps a wiser man might have invented some story, and so have

avoided a greater evil. There is such a thing as a necessary lie. But I

held to the belief that every man is alone responsible for his acts;

that I should add a second sin to the first if I burdened the pure soul

of my darling with such a confidence; and so I remained unshaken,

though I knew her too well not to know how much was at stake.

"On the next morning I received her parting letter--a letter that for

the first time showed me all that I was losing.

"But I had gone too far to turn back. I answered that I would wait

until she changed her opinions; that in the mean time I should look

upon myself as bound to her; but she was, of course, entirely free.

"That was a week ago. I reflected that of course it would be necessary

to leave at once those places where she might meet me. In putting my

house in order for an indefinite absence, I came upon a package of

visiting-cards in one of my mother's cupboards that had on them the

name of her brother, my godfather, Felix von Weiblingen. It occurred to

me as a good idea that, under this name, I might for a while

(_incognito_) breathe the same air with my oldest friend, and at the

same time attain the goal of my dearest wishes--to begin a new life.

There is nothing in me of the ordinary numbered and classified type of

'man with a calling,' and, even with the best wife in the world, I

never should have been able to busy myself quietly on my estate with

bringing up children, making brandy, and fox-hunting. It is better,

then, that I should use this involuntary opportunity to dispose of

myself as I choose, in trying whether I can't really make a life of my

own. If in time she should bring herself to my way of thinking, she

would then find a _fait accompli_ that she would have to accept.

"It will be no shame to me in your eyes if I don't at once find my

spirits so entirely in order that I can go rushing into a mastery of

the fine arts by lightning express. I have reached the door of your

studio but slowly, and by very short stages--but this very slowness has

done me good. You see before you a thoroughly sensible man, who is

determined to submit to fate without a grumble. If you will only take

me into _die Mache_, it will not be long before the wings of your

faithful Icarus will grow again, to lift him above all this wretched

world of Philistinism and its foolish love-affairs."

CHAPTER III.

The sculptor had listened to this long confession in silence. And even

now, when Felix ended, and began to pull to pieces a sprig of

mignonette as carefully as though he were trying to count the stamens

in the little blossoms, he betrayed neither by word nor look any

opinion of what he had just heard.

"I find that you have made great progress in your old art of expressing

yourself by silence," said the young man at length, with a somewhat

forced lightness of tone. "Do you remember how I used to be able to

tell from the degree, and, so to speak, from the pitch of your silence,

just what you were thinking of my nonsense? I can tell in the same way

now: you think my decision to become an artist is a mere absurdity. You

used to tell me that I was not fit either for science or art--that I

was an _homme d'action_. But there's no help for it now: if it is a

wrong road--why, I am in it once for all and mean to follow it to the

end. So speak out, and tell me candidly whether I must look up another

master, or whether the lion will endure the company of the puppy in his

cage--as he used to before he himself was a full-grown king of the

desert?"

"What shall I say to you, my dear boy?" replied the sculptor, in his

quiet, rather slow manner. "The thing is a matter of course. I need not

say to you, well as you know me, that I can hardly base any very

exalted hopes upon an art-apprentice who takes up his task somewhat as

a man might marry a woman with whom he had not been especially in love,

but who now, when his real sweetheart has given him the mitten, is a

good enough last resort; that the future career of an art adopted thus

out of spite, as it were, seems to me very doubtful. But then, too, I

know you well enough to be sure that all the Phidiases and Michael

Angelos in the world couldn't make you break your resolution, and that,

if I should lock my door against you, you would be just the fellow to

bind yourself out as an apprentice to the first of my colleagues you

might chance upon. And then--to be honest--it is such a pleasure to me

to have you back again at all, that out of pure selfishness I can't

make any objection if your energy, instead of taking hold of real life,

chooses to spend itself on a harmless bit of clay. For the rest--let us

speak of it another time--or not at all, whichever pleases you better.

In such matters we take no counsel, after all, but that of our own

souls; and if this isn't always the best for us--why, we are sovereigns

of ourselves, and have it in our own power to save or ruin ourselves

according to our natures. Here is my hand, then. You can begin

to-morrow, if you like, your apprenticeship as a kneader of clay and

chipper of stone--and your baronial ancestors can turn in their graves

at it as they please."

"Chaff away, dear old Hans!" cried the young man, joyously. "Now I'll

stake my head that I will become a famous artist just to have the laugh

on you! I will work from morning till night with a true malicious

pleasure, grinding and fretting till the dilettante skin is rubbed off

and something better appears below it. And you shall see that I have

not spent these seven years altogether in lounging. If you will run

through my sketch-books from both continents--but _apropos_, what have

you been doing in the mean while? Is it not a shame that I haven't been

able to keep track of your progress toward immortality, even by a

wretched photograph? And here I have been running on for an hour over

my own adventures, while the most glorious wonders of the world are

waiting for me over yonder!"

He strode quickly across the yard, to which they had come back while

they were talking, and entered the house.

"You will repent this haste, rash boy!" Jansen called after him, while

an odd smile played about his lips. "You will indeed wonder over much

that you see--but the wonders of the world that you dream of--they are

still in this narrow room" (he pointed to his forehead), "and even

there they are not always in the best light!"

With these words he unlocked one of the two lower doors, and let Felix

pass in.

It was a second studio, adjoining that in which he had worked during

the morning; a room precisely like the other, its walls painted in the

same stone-color, and its great square window half draped in the same

fashion. And yet no one would have believed that the same spirit ruled

here that had created the dancing Bacchante in the next atelier.

On slender pedestals stood a multitude of figures, most of them of half

life-size, such as are used for the decoration of Catholic churches,

chapels and cemeteries. Some of them were just begun, some were almost

finished works; and in all could be clearly recognized the hands of the

pupils who had their execution in charge--sometimes more and sometimes

less skillfully imitating the little original models, barely six inches

high, that stood on small shelves beside the copies. While the latter

were neatly cut in sandstone or in the cheaper marbles--and a few in

wood, decorated with all manner of painting and gilding--the little

models were in plaster, and spotted and nicked by constant use. Yet

these doll-like little madonnas, saints and apostles, and praying and

playing angels in their heavy draperies, had a certain odd and now and

then almost caricatured life-likeness--so great that not all of its

charm was lost, even in the dry copies made by the assistants. They had

something of the same element of humor that Ariosto gives to his

personages--which by no means lose in life or force because their

author has lost his own simple faith in them.

"Allow me to ask," said Felix, after looking about blankly for a

moment, "into whose room you have brought me? And is your good friend

who practises this pious art hidden somewhere close by, so that one

must be cautious in his criticisms?"

"You needn't be in the least disturbed, my dear fellow; the lord and

master of this worshipful company stands before you."

"You, yourself? Daedalus with a saint's halo! The preacher in the

wilderness of modern art actually at the foot of the cross! Before I

believe that, I shall have to take the cowl myself, and declare poor

naked Beauty to be an invention of the devil!"

The sculptor cast down his eyes for a moment.

"Yes, my dear fellow," he said, "this is what we have come to in our

art-desert. You ask me for beauty, and I offer you clothes-racks with

dolls'-heads! As long ago as when we were in Kiel, I had to learn that

the world of to-day will have nothing to do with true art. You know how

hard I found it to turn these stones of mine into bread. It was still

worse when I moved to Hamburg, and there--" he checked himself

suddenly, and turned away; "well, living is more expensive there, and I

began to be older and less easily satisfied; and, when I could no

longer support myself in the place--it was the wretched trading city's

fault, I thought--I packed up my best models and sketches and came

here, to the much-praised land of art, the 'Athens on the Iser,' of

which so much is said and sung. You will soon learn how it is here. I

won't begin as soon as you have crossed the threshold to sweep all the

disagreeable things in the house out of the corners for you. I will

only say that the Munich Philistine isn't a hair better than those on

the Jungfernstieg or in our old Holstein. After I had managed, with

great difficulty, to keep myself alive here for a year, and had hardly

earned enough in the service of pure beauty to keep life in my body, I

found that such misery was enough to make a man turn Catholic--and, as

this spectacle shows, I did turn so, half-and-half. It wasn't so easy

as it may seem to you here--to my shame! Besides a trace of conscience,

which was always reminding me that

'Man, after all, has higher goals to seek

Than simply feeding seven times a week;'

besides my own humiliation before myself and a few of my good

colleagues, I was hampered by a real lack of skill. It needs a good

deal to take all the manliness out of one's self, so that one can fit

himself to all the miserable complications, the twisted deformities and

tameness of our modern civilization. But it only depends, after all, on

one's capability of getting the humor out of the thing. The idea that

I, an unmitigated pagan, should establish a manufactory of images of

saints, struck me as so indescribably rich that one fine day I actually

set to work to model a Saint Sebastian, in which task my knowledge of

anatomy stood me in good stead. But, even here, I soon found that it is

only 'clothes that make the man.' It was only when I betook myself to

making draperies, trains, and sleeves, that the result took on the true

devotional air such as the public is accustomed to and desires. And,

since then, I have grown prosperous so fast that now I employ eight or

ten assistants; and, if it goes on, I shall some day bid farewell to

temporal affairs, in the odor of sanctity and as rich as----." (He

named a colleague who enjoyed a continued rush of business.)

"Yes, my dear Icarus," continued he, still more laughingly, as Felix

made no reply to these revelations, "you would not have believed it

all, I know, when in the first fire of youth we rode our proud hobbies,

and called every man a low fool who, in art or life, proved faithless

to his ideals by a straw's breadth. But the mill of every-day life rubs

off much that a man believed was bound to him as with iron--like a very

part of himself. And here you have an example, worth your deep

consideration, of that celebrated 'liberty' you think to find here. If

I allow myself the liberty of doing what I cannot give up, I must, at

the same time, make up my mind to work at absurdities with which my

heart has no sympathy. In order to be an artist, such as I wish to be,

I am compelled to make Nuremberg toys and to display them in the

market-places. But, after all--behind my own back, as it were--I

continue quietly to be my own master. Let thy troubled heart take

courage, beloved son! thy old Daedalus hasn't even yet become quite so

utterly bad as these trade-wares show him. I think you will give me

back your esteem if I lead you now out of my holy into my profane

_atelier_--out of my tailor's-shop into my paradise!"

CHAPTER IV.

With these words he opened the little door that separated the two

studios and passed in, followed by Felix.

"You will find an old acquaintance again," he said. "I wonder whether

friend Homo still remembers you. He has certainly had time to grow old

and dull."

The dog was still lying in front of the old sofa, on the straw mat, and

seemed to have slept quietly on, although the girl had seated herself

near him and had buried both feet in his thick coat as in a rug.

Evidently the old dog thought it not disagreeable, but rather pleasant

than otherwise, to be rubbed and trampled on by the little shoes. At

all events he uttered a comfortable growl from time to time, like a

purring cat.

To the girl herself the time had seemed very long. At first, when she

heard voices out in the garden, she had climbed upon a chair close to

the window, and, pulling her skirt over her bare shoulders that she

might not be seen by any chance passer-by, had peeped out curiously

through the roses. The strange young man, who spoke so long and

seriously with Jansen, had taken her fancy greatly, with his tall,

slender figure, his small head above the broad shoulders, and the fiery

glance of his brown eyes, that wandered absently about. She had seen

directly that he must be somebody of distinction. But, when he

disappeared with Jansen into the arbor, her post at the window grew

uncomfortable. She climbed slowly and thoughtfully down, stationed

herself before a little looking-glass on the wall, and looked

attentively at her own youthful figure, which only seemed to her

anything especially remarkable now that an artist copied from it. Only

to-day she was even less satisfied than usual with her face, and tried

whether it could not be improved if she screwed up her mouth as much

as possible, drew in her nostrils, and opened her eyes very wide. She

was vexed because she could not make herself as beautiful as the

plaster-heads that stood above her on the brackets. But suddenly she

had to laugh at the horribly distorted face she made; her old high

spirits came back; she thrust out her tongue at her reflection in the

glass, and was pleased to see how pretty and red it looked between her

glittering white teeth. Then she shook her thick red hair and went

singing, and patting her shoulders in time with the tune, up and down

the room, so that the sparrows were frightened and fluttered out at the

window. Then she stood still for a long while and looked at the casts

and clay models around her on the walls; and seemed especially

interested in the half-finished marble bust. It reminded her again of

the stranger outside in the arbor, whose head sprung just so from his

stately shoulders. Finally she tired of this also; and besides, she

began to feel a little hungry. She found in the cupboard, behind her in

the corner to which the sculptor had directed her, a few rolls and an

opened bottle of red wine. There was all sorts of rubbish besides in

the cupboard; a masquerader's costume, pieces of gold-stamped leather

tapestry, of blue and red silk and brocade, with large flowers in their

patterns, and a saint's halo, cut out of paper and painted with

beautiful golden rays--that might have done service for a _tableau

vivant_, or some other profane purpose. The idle girl seized upon this

last, fastened it on her head with the two ribbons still attached to

it, and went again before the looking-glass, where she smiled and made

faces at her own reflection. Then she took a piece of blue damask out

of the pile of things, and threw it like a cloak over her white

shoulders. Her hair flowed freely over it, so that at a distance, when

one did not see her uncovered neck, she looked like a mediaeval madonna,

who had stepped out of her frame and had wandered into some merry

company. The girl thought herself very beautiful, and quite worthy of

reverence in this disguise, and secretly congratulated herself on the

surprise and admiration of the sculptor, when he should find her so

dressed. That she might await his return more comfortably, she had

seated herself on the sofa, put a glass of wine on a chair beside her,

and begun to eat a roll. She had come across a portfolio of photographs

of celebrated pictures, and had laid it open in her lap, resting her

feet on the dog's back; and so she had sat now a full half-hour,

absorbed in looking at the pictures (which she found generally very

ugly), when the little door opened and Jansen again entered the room.

At the same moment she started as though shot up by a spring--so rudely

that the old dog, giving a low howl and shaking himself, also scrambled

up from his sleep.

She had seen the young stranger enter behind the sculptor; and now she

stood in the middle of the atelier, drawing the little blue silk flag

as tightly as she could across her breast, her eyes flaming with anger,

and her whole body trembling with excitement.

"You need not be afraid, my child," said the sculptor, "this gentleman

is also an artist. Good Heavens! How magnificently you have dressed

yourself! The halo becomes you excellently. Turn round a little--"

She shook her head violently.

"Let me go! I will never come again!" she said half aloud. "You haven't

kept your word to me! Oh! it is shameful!"

"But, Zenz--"

"No, never again! You have deceived me. You know very well what you

promised me, and yet--"

"But if you would only listen! I assure you solemnly--"

Shaking her head and blushing crimson, she ran to the chair where she

had laid her waist and her straw hat, seized them hurriedly, and shot

like an arrow through the little side-door into the second studio.

The sculptor tried to follow her, but had to turn back at the bolted

door. Vexed and annoyed, he turned again to Felix, who had let the girl

pass almost unnoticed in the demonstrative recognition he received from

the dog. The powerful animal had come leaping toward him with all the

liveliness of his younger days, had rested his heavy paws on his old

friend's breast, barking hoarsely the while, and seemed unwilling to

let him go again.

"Do you really know me still, true old soul?" cried the young man,

patting the dog's great head, and looking with real emotion into the

faithful old fellow's large eyes, already grown a little dim.--"See,

Hans, with what _empressement_ he receives me! But what have I done to

vex the little girl? Is it the custom here in your blessed land of free

art for models to set themselves up as examples of propriety?"

"This is rather a peculiar case," answered Jansen, with some vexation.

"It was only after long hesitation that she did me the favor to stand

as a model at all; and I shall be hard put to it now to make the shy

thing so tame again. She has neither father nor mother--at least, so

she says. I used often to meet her on her way to an artificial-flower

factory, where she works hard to support, herself. Her figure attracted

me; and the little pert-nosed thing did not look as though her ideas

were very rigidly conventional. But she would have nothing to say to

it, although, as I look older than I am, I have made much shyer people

trust me. Finally, though, my last resort helped me here, as it had

before."

"Your last resort?"

"Yes; the remark that, after all, the matter really was not worth so

much trouble as I had given to it; and perhaps, on the whole, she was

wise in only wishing to show her figure with the aid of dress. This was

too much for the vain little creature, and she consented to come as a

model--but no one but myself must ever enter the studio. I

thoughtlessly broke this agreement to-day in admitting you."

Felix stepped before the statue of the Bacchante.

"Unless you have greatly flattered her, you are to be congratulated on

finding so good a one," he said. "And, as far as I have been able to

see in to-day's wanderings through the town, you must have every reason

to be satisfied with most of the figures you can find here."

Jansen did not answer. He seemed to be absorbed in gazing at his

friend, who happened to be standing at the moment in a most favorable

light. Then, muttering to himself, he went over to the cupboard in

which the girl had been rummaging, searched a while in its

compartments, and at last came back to Felix, hiding behind him a great

pair of shears. The young man still stood absorbed in admiration of the

Bacchante.

"Before we do anything else, my dear boy," said the sculptor, "you must

allow me to crop this hair of yours into a more rational shape. Sit

down there on that stool. In less than five minutes we shall have it

all arranged; and that neck of yours, that looks like the neck of the

Borghese Gladiator--the very best point about you--will be got out of

all this thicket."

At first Felix laughingly refused; but finally he submitted; and his

friend's skillful hand cropped his long hair, and trimmed his full

beard more closely.

"There!" said Jansen. "Now a man needn't be ashamed to be seen with

you. And, as a reward for this submission, I will show you something

that until now very few mortal eyes have had the privilege of seeing."

He approached the great veiled group in the middle of the studio, and

began cautiously to unwrap the damp cloths in which the work was

everywhere enveloped.

The figure of a youth appeared, of more than mortal strength and

stature, lying stretched upon the ground in an attitude of perfect and

natural grace and beauty. Sleep seemed to have just left his eyes; for

he lay with his head a little raised, leaning upon his right arm, and

passing the left across his forehead as though to clear away the mists

of some deep dream. Before him--or behind him, as it appeared to the

spectator--knelt upon one knee a youthful female figure, bending over

him in a posture of innocent wonder. This figure was much less advanced

toward completion than that of its male companion--there being, indeed,

scarcely anything left to do on the latter excepting a little delicate

work upon the luxuriant hair and the hands and feet. And yet, though

the lines of the woman's figure were still almost in the rough, and her

beautiful form seemed only the fruit of a few days' labor, the modeling

of the whole was so broad and strong, the bend of the neck and the

posture of the arms were so expressive, that no one could fail to catch

the full force of the whole, even from the unfinished work, and to see

that the two figures were worthy of one another, and of equal birth.

Felix uttered an exclamation of delight. Then, for a full quarter of an

hour, he stood motionless before the mighty group, and seemed

altogether to forget the sculptor in his work.

At length the dog, which came beside him and began again to lick his

hand, aroused him from his reverie.

"The old-time Hans still lives!" he cried, turning to Jansen. "And more

than that--this is for the first time the complete, genuine Daedalus,

who has thoroughly learned to use his wings. Listen, old boy; it is

gradually dawning upon me that I must have been altogether mad and

absurd when I introduced myself to you as a kind of fellow-artist!"

"You shall go to the art-club to-morrow, and gather new courage when

you see some of your other colleagues," said Jansen, dryly. "However, I

am glad the thing pleases you. You remember how I used to dwell on the

germ of the idea of this work years ago. The First Man face to face

with the First Woman--hardly daring as yet to actually touch the being

who for the first time makes his human existence full and complete;

while she--more mature already, as a woman is, and having had time

while he slept to recover from her first surprise--feels herself drawn

by a strange and joyful yearning to him who is to be her lord, and to

call forth for the first time her true woman's nature. It is a subject

that stirs one to the core; it touches all that is deep and sacred in a

man's fancy; and yet it is not impossible to reproduce it with the

means our art affords. I have made more than one study of it, and yet

not satisfied myself. It was only this spring, when I realized one day,

to my horror, how this wretched business next door--this money-getting

and trying to please priests and women--was threatening to demoralize

me, that for three weeks I never set foot in my saint-factory, but

locked myself in here and expanded my soul again with this work. I know

that I am only doing it for myself and for a little group of true

friends, as restless as I am. Where could I put such a thing as that

nowadays? True Art is homeless and without a place to lay her head. A

dancing Bacchante is sure to find a lover in some rich man who will put

her in some niche in his _salon_, and think when he looks at her of the

ballet-girls who have been his associates. But Adam and Eve, before

their fall, in all their rude and vigorous strength, with the fragrance

of the fresh earth lingering, as it were, about them--they are as

useless for a decoration as they would be for the altar of a chapel.

Even their heroic proportions would pass for brutal! But, after all,

they are my old favorites; and, if they please me, to whom does it

matter?"

Felix did not answer. He was again absorbed in gazing at the group.

"A good friend of mine, whose acquaintance you will soon make, by the

way," continued the sculptor, "one Schnetz, who likes to play the

Thersites, advised me to put a fusilier's uniform on Adam, and make Eve

into a sister of charity, with a medicine-glass and spoon in her hand.

Then the group would perhaps be adopted to ornament the pediment of

some hospital. His satire on the present condition of our art was so

true that I had almost a mind to try it for a joke. My first man and

woman, without an inkling of all the ills of our pestilential century,

enthroned over the door of a _lazaretto_--what do you say to that as a

piece of colossal humor?"

"Only finish it, Hans!" cried the younger man. "Dream out your dream,

and I will vouch for it that, however stupidly and sleepily men are

plodding on, this lightning-stroke of genius will dash the scales from

their eyes! Why haven't you made more progress with your Eve?"

"Because I have never yet found a model; and because I will not

botch my work by mere patching together of my own recollections,

or by the last resort of borrowing from the Venus of Milo. Ah,

my dear fellow--the fine figures you think you saw in the streets

to-day--psha! you'll soon think otherwise. The German corset-makers,

the school-room benches, and the miserable food we live on, may

possibly leave enough of dear old Nature for me to make a laughing-doll

out of, like my dancer there; but a future mother of mankind, untouched

as yet by any breath of want or degradation, and fresh from the hand of

her Creator--what do you think our professional models would say to

that--or the seamstresses or flower-girls that money or persuasion can

induce to enter the service of art? If it were a Roman, now, or a

Greek, or any untamed child of Nature who had grown up under a happier

heaven than ours! And that is what makes the ground here fairly burn

under my feet--and if they were not fettered with leaden fetters--"

He suddenly checked himself, and a dark shadow passed across his face;

but Felix shrunk from the effort to draw from him by a question any

confidence beyond what Jansen offered willingly.

At this moment the clock in a neighboring tower struck twelve; and for

a few moments the bells for mid-day service filled the pause that had

interrupted the talk of the two friends.

The sculptor began to wrap up the group again, after he had given it a

thorough sprinkling. And then, while Felix examined in silence the

other sculptures, many of which were familiar, he went to a wash-stand

in a corner, where he washed the traces of the clay from his hands and

face, and exchanged his working-blouse for a light summer-coat.

"And now," said he, as he finished his toilette--"now you shall go with

me to our high mass--one that we never miss on Sundays. At the stroke

of twelve we working-bees forsake our hives, and swarm to that great

flower-garden, the Pinakothek, to gather our store of wax and honey for

the whole week. Do you hear the door slam above us? That is my neighbor

in the upper story--a right good fellow, by the name of Maximilian

Rosenbusch, but called 'Rosebud' for short by his friends. An excellent

youngster, not in the least cut out by Nature for a desperado--but

rather inclined, on the contrary, to all the more delicate pursuits of

the muses. He is suspected of being secretly engaged on a volume of

'Poems to Spring,' and you could have heard his flute up-stairs

an hour ago. But at the same time he paints the most tremendous

battle-pieces--generally in Wallenstein or Swedish costume--battles of

the bloodiest sort, and where there is no quarter. In the studio next

to his lives a Fraeulein, a thoroughly estimable woman, and by no means

a despicable artist. Among her friends she goes by the name of

Angelica, but her real name is Minna Engelken. This good creature--but

there they come now down the stairs. You can make their acquaintance at

once."

CHAPTER V.

It was certainly an odd pair that they found waiting in the yard. The

battle-painter, an animated young fellow, with a clear, bright, rosy

complexion, wore an enormous gray felt hat, with a small cock's-feather

in the band; and an abundant red beard, that looked as queerly against

his pink-and-white face as though a girl had tied a false beard round

her chin, in the attempt to disguise herself as a brigand. Looking at

the face closely, there was a decidedly spirited and manly look in the

clear blue eyes, while a merry laugh lurked constantly about the mobile

mouth. Beside him, his companion--though she was apparently still under

thirty--seemed almost as though she might be his mother, there was such

a weighty seriousness and prompt decision in her movements. She had one

of those faces in which one never sees whether they are pretty or ugly;

her mouth was a little large, perhaps; her eyes were bright and full of

life, and her figure was rather short and thickset. She wore her hair

cut short under a simple Leghorn hat; but in the rest of her dress

there was nothing especially conspicuous.

Jansen introduced Felix, and a few commonplaces were exchanged. After

her first glance at him, Angelica whispered something to the sculptor

that evidently related to the stately figure of his friend, and its

likeness to the bust she had seen in his studio. Then all four strolled

along the Schwanthalerstrasse, followed by the dog, which kept close

behind Felix, and from time to time rubbed its nose against his hand.

They stopped before a pretty one-story house in the suburb, standing in

the middle of a neatly-kept garden. Rosenbusch took his flute out of

his pocket, and played the beginning of the air "Bei Maennern, welche

Liebe fuehlen." But nothing stirred in the house, although the upper

windows were only closed with blinds, and every note rang out far and

clear in the hot noonday air.

"Fat Rossel is either asleep or else he pretends he is, so as to shirk

our high mass again," said the painter, putting up his flute. "I think

we had better go on."

"_Andiamo!_" said Angelica, nodding. (She had once passed a year in

Italy, and certain everyday Italian phrases had a way of slipping

involuntarily from her lips every minute or two.)

The conversation, as they strolled on, was not exactly animated. Jansen

seemed to be lost in thought; long silences were a habit of his, and,

especially when there were several people about him, he could remain

for hours apparently without the least interest in what was going on.

And then, if something that was said happened to kindle a spark in him,

his eloquence seemed all the more surprising. Felix knew him well, and

made no attempt to disturb his abstracted mood. He looked about him as

he walked, and tried to recognize the streets that he had first

strolled through, long before, in one of his vacation journeys. Nor did

Rosenbusch seem to be in a particularly talkative frame of mind; and

only Angelica, who had a way of assuming a certain chaffing tone toward

him, and besides was out of humor because, as she said, she had got

"into a blind alley" with one of her pictures, kept up a fire of little

sarcasms and ridicule against her neighbor. She even adopted the

familiarity of calling him by his nickname, but not without putting a

"Herr" before it.

"Do you know, Herr Rosebud, when you're composing a picture, you ought

to repeat your poems instead of playing the flute? I know it would

inspire you a great deal more, and your neighbors would suffer less.

Now, to-day, for instance, I put some carmine on a whole group of

children I was painting, and spoiled it, just because that everlasting

_adagio_ of yours had made me so sentimental."

"Why didn't you pound on the door, then, my honored friend, as we

agreed, and then I would have 'ceased my cruel sport?'"

"If it hadn't been Sunday, and I hadn't said to myself it will soon be

twelve o'clock, and then he'll stop anyhow--. But see that sweet little

girl in the carriage--the one with the blue hat, next to the young

man--it's a bridal couple, surely! What eyes she has! And how she

laughs, and throws herself back in the carriage like a thoughtless

child!"

She had stopped in the street in her ecstasy, and impulsively imitated

the gesture of the girl who was driving by, bending back and crossing

her arms behind her head. The friends stood still and laughed.

"I must beg of you, Angelica, calm your enthusiasm," growled

Rosenbusch; "you forget that not only God and your artistic friends are

looking at you, but profane eyes also, that can't imagine what you are

driving at with your rather reckless studies of posture."

"You are right," said the little painter, casting a scared glance about

her, but somewhat relieved to find that the street was deserted. "It's

a silly habit of mine, that I have fought against from a child. My

parents gave up taking me to the theatre because they said I always

went through too many contortions over what I saw. But, when anything

excites me, I always forget my best resolutions to maintain my

composure and dignity. When you come to see my studio, baron," she

said, turning to Felix, "I hope you will bear me witness that I know

how to keep within bounds on canvas at least."

"It is comical," she continued, as no one answered, "what singular

neighbors we are. Here Rosebud, who looks so gentle and innocent, as if

he could not kill a fly, wades ankle-deep in blood every day, and isn't

happy unless, like a new Hotspur, he can kill at least fourteen

Pappenheimer cuirassiers with oil in a morning. And I--whose best

friends have to confess that the Graces didn't stand beside my

cradle--I bother myself over fragrant flower-pieces and laughing

children's faces, and then read in the reviews that I should do well to

take up subjects that have more body to them!"

So she ran on for a while, without sparing herself or her companions in

her jokes--yet without the least rudeness or old-maidish bitterness in

her talk. A certain element of womanly coquetry showed now and then in

her frank, honest speeches--an attempt to caricature herself and her

faults and follies, so that she might be taken, after all, at a little

higher value than her own exaggerations gave her credit for. But even

this was done so good-naturedly that any gallant speeches that her

companions might try to make were generally smothered in laughter.

Felix was greatly attracted by her cleverness and droll good-humor;

and, as he showed clearly how they amused him, her mood grew all the

merrier, and one jest followed another so that the long walk seemed

very short to all of them, and they stood at the door of the Pinakothek

before they realized that they had come so far.

"And here, Baron, we must bid one another good-by for the present,"

said the painter. "You must know that in this art-temple of ours we

behave like good Catholics in their churches. Each kneels before a

different altar; I before St. Huysum and Rachel Ruysch; Herr Rosebud

before his Wouvermans; Herr Jansen before Saints Peter and Paul; and

Homo stays outside, in silent converse with the stone lions on the

steps. I hope I shall soon have the pleasure of seeing you in my

studio. Don't let yourself be alarmed by these two malicious gentlemen

with the idea that I shall try to capture you for a sitter. I must

paint your portrait some time, of course--it is a fate you cannot

escape; but my brush is by no means so presumptuous as these wicked men

will try to represent it. When you are a little more at home among us,

perhaps; but now--good-by!"

She nodded to the others, and disappeared into a side hall, into which

Rosenbusch also retreated, after a short stay among the old German

masters.

"We don't enforce this separation very rigidly, of course," said

Jansen, smiling. "But we have found out that when we all go together we

cannot bring ourselves into a really proper mood for study; we neither

learn nor enjoy. At best, we only get into a discussion of technical

points--problems of color and secrets of the palette, which are

especially unimportant to me, as I make no use of that kind of thing."

"But why do not you prefer to hold your Sunday solemnities before the

Medusa or the Barberini Faun?" said Felix.

"Because I know the Glyptothek by heart. And besides, I do not believe

that what we ought to look at in the works of the great masters is the

purely artistic side, if we want to profit by their study. Every one

who has passed his apprenticeship has his own ideas and prejudices and

obstinacies on those points. What we ought to get from them are

characteristics; force, refinement, and contempt for small means used

to small ends. But these I can learn just as well from a symphony of

Beethoven as from a noble building--from a gallery of paintings as from

a tragedy of Shakespeare; and then next day I can turn them to account

in my own work. And it is just these things that Rubens gives me better

than any other here--Rubens, whose works fill this whole room. As soon

as I come near him, he makes me forget all the photographic pettiness,

the fashionable rubbish and 'art-association' absurdities of our own

day."

"Tell me yourself," he continued, pointing to the walls of the Rubens

room, "do not you too feel as though you were in your tropical

wildernesses again, where Nature hardly knows how to restrain her

overflowing vigor, and where all that moves or grows seems fairly

intoxicated with its own abounding strength? Here, no one dreams that

there is an everyday, prosaic life outside, that presses all created

things into its service--men serving the State, women mere family

beasts of burden, horses harnessed to the plough--and only suffers

untamed animals to exist in its midst when they are on show in

zoological gardens or fair-booths. Here the whole glorious creation

swarms unadorned and vigorous as on the seventh day after chaos; and

all that we conceal and pamper in our dapper civilization appears here

in all innocence in the open light of day. Look at this brown, lusty

peasant and this beautiful woman--these sleeping nymphs watched by the

satyrs--this glorious throng of the blessed and the damned--all this

unveiled humanity is living and acting for itself alone, and never

dreams whether prudish and pedantic fools are looking on and taking

umbrage at it. You know that nothing is really good or bad _in itself_;

it is only the power of thinking about it that makes it so. And these

creatures have never troubled themselves with thinking. They are

enjoying life fully and overflowingly--like the fat little satyr's wife

above there, nursing her twins--or they are absorbed in the sharp

struggle for existence. Look at this lion-hunt! Horace Vernet, who

wielded no unskillful brush, has painted one too. But just there you

can see the contrast between great art and petty art. Here everything

is mingled in a raging turmoil, so that there is not a hand's breadth

between--here is the very instant of highest conflict, the climax of

struggle and defense, fury and death--every muscle strained to its

utmost, and everything in such deadly yet triumphant earnest that one

trembles and yet is filled with the spirit of victory. For all true

strength is full of a certain triumphant joy. But the French picture is

like a tableau in a circus, where, in spite of all the grimacing and

posturing, there is no real struggle _a l'outrance_, And look at the

purely artistic side; here all the outlines are so melted into one

another, so lost in each other in spite of the strongest contrasts,

that they necessarily lead the eye into a network from which it cannot

escape, where it never has an opportunity to wish for anything else, or

indeed to think that anything else is possible. A skillful modern

artist, going to work with his patchwork of knowledge on the various

subjects, could not possibly produce such a work. You will always find

holes and gaps--stiff triangles and hexagons between the legs of the

horses, and the figures kept apart as nicely and neatly as though they

were going to be packed up in their cases again after it was all over."

He stood a good half hour before the lion-hunt, looking at it as though

for the first time. And then, as though tearing himself away with

difficulty, he took Felix by the arm and said, "You know I am no mere

fanatical _doctrinaire_. Nobody can have more respect for the other

great artists of the golden age. But still it always seems to me as

though I did not find, even in the greatest and most immortal of them,

a true balance between art and Nature. There is always an excess of

technical aim over unaffected seeing and feeling--an excess of 'can'

over 'must.' Even with Raphael (whom, it is true, they say one doesn't

really know until one has seen his work in Rome), I feel a too great

excess of the purely spiritual and abstract over the sensuous. And with

the glorious Titian and the Venetians, this paradisaic naturalness,

this effortless flow of beauty from an exhaustless soil, this breathing

forth of pure and unadulterated force and freedom, is only found in

their greatest moments; while this man, like the immortal gods, seems

never to have known an hour of poverty or insufficiency."

He talked on in this fashion for some time, as though to pour out his

heart before his friend. But just as they were standing before the

little picture of Rubens and his beautiful young wife in the garden,

walking beside a bed of tulips, they heard Angelica's voice behind

them.

"I cannot help it, gentlemen; you must tear yourselves away from this

well-fed domestic happiness and these tedious box-hedges, and come with

me. I have something to show you that is quite as much a masterpiece of

its kind. Please have confidence in my artistic eye for this once, and

come quickly, before the miracle disappears again."

"What is this beautiful thing you have discovered, Fraeulein?" asked

Felix, laughing, "that instantly vanishes again if one is not

immediately on the watch?"

"Something that is alive--but hardly according to your taste, as I

imagine it," answered the painter. "But our master there--"

"A beautiful woman?"

"Ah! and what a woman! I have followed her about like a young Don Juan

ever since we have been here, and looked askance at her as I stood

before the pictures. She seems to be a little near-sighted--at least

she half shuts her eyelids when she looks intently at anything; and she

looks at the upper row of pictures through a lorgnette. A blonde--and a

face, I tell you--and a figure!--just what you call _Portament_,

Jansen--the kind of thing that grows much oftener in Trastevere than

among our German oaks."

"And why don't you give _me_ credit, too, for enough taste to do this

lady justice?" asked Felix.

"Because--well, because you are a trifle young, and--thus far at

least--you are not an artist. This beauty of mine is far from being

conspicuous or attracting attention--like everything really great. I

will wager, Baron, that you find my enthusiasm exaggerated. These

polished checks and temples, and the poise of the head on the neck and

the neck on the shoulders, and the whole figure--neither too full nor

too slender--but hush! I believe she is standing over there at this

moment! Yes, it is she--the one in the raw silk, with the broad,

somewhat antiquated straw-hat set back upon her head--doesn't it look

almost like a halo? Well, Jansen? Do say something! Generally you are

so extraordinarily prompt in picking flaws in my ideals."

Jansen had paused, and had coolly turned his quiet, clear gaze upon the

lady, who stood, entirely unsuspicious of scrutiny, a few alcoves away

from them, and turned her full face toward the observing party.

Angelica had not said too much. Her figure was of rare grace and

majesty, as her light summer-dress showed its beautiful outlines

clearly against the dark background; her head, thrown back a little,

hardly moved upon the slender, graceful neck, and her hat allowed its

form to be all the more distinctly seen, as she wore her soft, light

hair simply parted, and falling in a few curls upon her shoulders. Her

face was not striking at first glance; quiet, steel-gray eyes,

concealing their brilliancy behind the slightly closed lids; a mouth

not exactly full or rosy, but of the most beautiful form and full of

character; and a chin and neck worthy of an antique statue. She seemed

so completely absorbed in the study of the gallery that she did not

look up as the friends approached her. It was only when they entered

the alcove, and Angelica began to express her wild admiration (quite

secretly, she imagined, but really loud enough to be plainly audible),

that the stranger suddenly noticed them. With a slight blush, she drew

about her shoulders the white shawl that had hung carelessly about her

waist--as though to shield her from these curious eyes--cast an annoyed

glance at the whispering painter, and left the alcove.

"See how she moves--a queenly walk!" cried Angelica, looking after her.

"But alas! I have driven her away. I like that in her, too, that she is

too refined to let herself be stared at. _Quant' e bella!_ But _do_ say

something, Jansen! Have you suddenly turned into a statue, or has the

enchantment worked too strongly?"

"You may be right, Angelica," said the sculptor, smiling. "I have met

this kind of phenomenal being here now and then; and, as they were

always strangers (for you never see a native of Munich in the

Pinakothek), looking at them was always but a fleeting joy, and I could

only gaze after them as they went. So now I have grown cautious. You

know 'a burnt child--'"

"Nonsense!" exclaimed the artist. "This divine being may be a stranger,

of course, but no one studies the pictures so closely who is looking at

them for the first and last time, only to carry out the instructions of

her Baedeker. What's to prevent our watching her again? And, even if I

lose all to-morrow forenoon over it, and let my group of children dry

into the canvas, I must study this exquisite creature once more, and at

leisure. There--there she is again! Rosebud is just passing her, and

starts back as if he had met the _Bella di Tiziano_ in person! See how

he stares after her! He has taste, after all, in spite of his old

Swedes."

And now the little battle-painter came hurrying up to his friends, and

began to tell them what a discovery he had made. Angelica laughed.

"You come too late, Herr von Rosebud! _I_ am the one to whom belongs

the fame of having discovered this comet! But do you know what I have

in mind, gentlemen? As none of you seem to be inclined to follow up

this adventure, I, as the least suspicious of us four, will take it

upon myself to pursue our beauty, and see if I can discover where she

lives and who she is. If she stays here but a week, she shall be

painted. I have sworn it! And whichever of you is particularly good

shall come to the last sitting; and Herr Rosebud hereby receives

permission to play her a serenade under my window. _Addio, signori!_

To-morrow you shall hear how the matter turns out."

She nodded hurriedly to the friends, and followed the stranger, who had

in the mean time passed through the rooms, and was now preparing to

leave the gallery.

"I'll wager she does it!" said Rosenbusch. "An astoundingly resolute

woman that, and absolutely not to be stopped when an enthusiasm seizes

her! This time she really has made a devilish remarkable discovery; but

you know what wonderful beauties she has tried to talk up to us

before--eh, Jansen? She has a positive mania for admiration, and, when

she is possessed by it, she is not very fastidious in her choice of

subjects. 'The sea rages, and will have its sacrifice!'"

The sculptor did not answer. He strolled along beside the others for a

while, silent and abstracted. Then he suddenly said: "Let us go! It

seems as though the art-sense had suddenly disappeared or died out in

me. Such a perfect piece of living Nature puts to shame all illusions

of color, so that even the great masters seem like bunglers beside it."

CHAPTER VI.

Meanwhile the beautiful unknown had slowly descended the steps of the

Pinakothek, and turned in the direction of the Obelisk, clearly

unconscious of the fact that twenty paces behind her an enthusiastic

artist was upon her track, never losing sight of her for an instant.

And, indeed, it was a rare refreshment to the eye to look upon this

beautiful figure as it passed along. If one may talk of a "silent music

of form," here everything was _legato_, while the little artist was in

a perpetual _staccato_ movement. The stranger moved as though she

stepped on an elastic ground, and seemed not to mind the walk in the

least, in spite of the oppressive mid-day heat. She looked neither to

the right nor left; in her hands, on which she wore half-gloves of

black net, she held a large green fan, which she opened now and then to

protect her face against the sun.

Her worshiper grew more enthusiastic with every moment, and gave

utterance to her feelings in muttered monologue, sprinkled, according

to her fashion, with Italian interjections.

At length she saw the subject of her admiration turn to the left, and

go into a neat house on the Briennerstrasse. Here, she knew, there were

furnished rooms to let; so the stranger must have arranged for a

considerable stay in Munich. But how to get at her? To ring at every

bell in the two stories, and ask if a beautiful woman in yellow silk

lived there, did not seem very practicable. And did she live here,

after all? Might she not be only making a visit?

The painter was just debating whether she should walk up and down

before the house like a sentry, when a window opened in the corner-room

on the ground-floor, before which lay a little garden with its tall

shrubs looking dry and dusty in the mid-day sun, and the beauty leaned

out to shut the blind. She had taken off her hat, and her hair was a

little disordered, which wonderfully added to her beauty. Without

hesitating a moment, Angelica marched through the little path past the

garden, and entered the vestibule.

Her ring was answered by a very old servant with a white,

soldierly-looking mustache, and dressed in a long, silver-buttoned

livery-coat that reached to his knees. He eyed the visitor

suspiciously, took her card, on which there was nothing but "Minna

Engelken," and came back at once, indicating by a silent nod that his

mistress would receive her.

As Angelica entered the stranger was standing in the middle of the

room, in the midst of the warm, greenish light that came through the

closed blinds. She had hastily put up her hair again, but without

special care; and now she greeted her visitor somewhat coldly, with a

scarcely perceptible nod of her exquisite head.

"First of all, I must introduce myself a little more fully than the

very obscure name on my card can have done," began the artist, without

the slightest trace of embarrassment. (She had begun immediately upon

her entrance to study the head, as though at a regular sitting.) "I am

a painter; that is the sole excuse I have for my intrusion upon you. I

met you a short time ago at the Pinakothek. It can hardly be a novelty

to you to have people stop when you go by, or even follow you. But that

a person should intrude into your very house does seem a little too

much. My honored Fraeulein, or should I call you Madame?" (the stranger

shook her head slightly) "I do not know whether you, too, have a

prejudice against women-artists? If you have, I shall certainly appear

to you in a very bad light. And it is true, I must say that this

meddling with brushes and colors doesn't particularly become many of my

colleagues. Although the nine Muses are women, our sex easily get by

association with them an unwomanly touch that is not by any means to

their advantage.--Oh, please keep that position just an instant; the

three-quarters face is especially effective in this light! Yes, it is

true, Fraeulein, I myself know women-artists who think it is prosaic to

put on a clean collar or darn a stocking. And yet--"

"If you would only be kind enough to tell me the motive of your

visit--"

"I was just coming to that. I had really a double motive. First, to beg

your pardon if I drove you away from the gallery by my persistent

staring. You see, my dear Fraeulein--oh, please bend your head a

little--so! If you could only see how capital that is--that _chiar'

oscuro_--and what glorious hair you have! I see you think I am fairly

crazy, treating you like a model in the first ten minutes! But so much

the better; you will know at once what we are coming to. I am really,

you must know, not quite responsible for my actions when I see anything

that greatly delights me; and however lacking my talents may be in the

power to produce anything beautiful from mere imagination, I have

attained a real mastery in the discovery, the enjoyment, and admiration

of true living beauty. The moment I saw you afar off--no, you must not

turn away, dear Fraeulein. How can you help it, and what sin is it, if

an honest artist-soul--of your own sex, too--expresses its delight in

and admiration for your beauty? It seems petty to me, the way that many

people keep such a gift of God hidden--or pretend to. There are some

little doll-like faces, it is true, whose chief charm lies in the fact

that they always seem to be ashamed of their own prettiness. But you,

Fraeulein--such a classic head--please turn for once fully round toward

the light--a pure Palma Vecchio, I tell you--"

The Fraeulein could not help smiling, and, although she blushed,

permitting this singular, unrestrained, formless admiration. "I

confess," she said, "that I have been such a recluse for years, only

busied with the care of an invalid, that I have quite fallen out of

practice in listening to such flatteries and wearing the fitting

expression when I hear them. And besides, in spite of hard and sad

experience, I am still young and foolish enough not to take offense at

the pleasure you seem to take in my personal appearance. But if you

would only tell me--you spoke of a _double_ motive."

"Thank you a thousand times, dear, dear Fraeulein!" cried the painter,

excitedly. "Every word you say confirms me in the opinion I formed at

the first glance--that you would be as good and amiable in character as

you were beautiful in face and figure. And you give me courage to come

out at once with my other petition: I should be the happiest person

under the sun, if I might paint your portrait.--Please don't be

alarmed," she added, hurriedly. "The agony is brief--I am no torturer.

If you have not more time to spare, I will paint you _alla prima_--at

most three or four sittings--you shall not be able to complain of me.

Of course I can't ask that you will let me have the picture; but you

will allow me to have a little sketch for a study and a souvenir?--The

great picture--"

"A large portrait, then?"

"Only a three-quarters length, but of course life-size. It would be a

sin and a shame to put such a head and such a figure on a canvas the

size of a tea-tray. But my dear, best Fraeulein, tell me you will have

the heavenly goodness to visit my studio--the street and number are on

my card--and look at my things, and sit to me only if--if you yourself

take pleasure in them; for I would not for anything have you think you

were making a sacrifice for the benefit of a mere dauber."

"My dear Fraeulein, I really do not know what--"

"Perhaps you haven't time at this moment? Perhaps you are an artist

yourself? The careful way in which you studied the pictures in the

Pinakothek--"

"Unfortunately I have not the smallest natural talent," answered the

Fraeulein, smiling; "but only a little taste and a strong yearning

toward everything beautiful and artistic; and this is the reason why I

have come to Munich--as I am quite alone in the world. It is still

uncertain how long I shall stay here. But if I can really give you

pleasure by doing so--I rely upon it, of course, that it shall be

entirely a matter between ourselves if I sit to you. And in return, you

shall initiate me into the secrets of your art, which to a lay observer

must always remain closed, no matter of how good intentions he may be,

unless he is given the right introduction."

"_Brava! bravissima!_" cried the delighted painter. "Heaven reward you a

thousand times for your great kindness; and I will see to it that you

shall not repent it. My dear, dear Fraeulein, when you know me a little

more intimately you will see that you have to do with an honest woman

who has a grateful heart, and against whom no one of her friends can

utter a reproach."

In the wildest delight she took her leave of the beautiful

face--which, in spite of all this worship, had preserved a rather cool

expression--and, as though she feared the promise might possibly be

retracted on further reflection, she hurried from the room.

When she reached the street, she stood still for a moment, fairly out

of breath, tied her loosened hat-strings more firmly under her chin,

and gleefully rubbed her hands. "What eyes they'll make!" she said to

herself. "How they will envy me! But then what makes them such shy,

silly Philistines? It's true, to make such a conquest in a moment, one

must not be a man, but just such an utterly harmless old maid as I!"

CHAPTER VII.

The friends turned their steps toward a beer-garden on the Dultplatz,

where, at this time of day--between two and three o'clock--it was

pretty quiet in spite of its being Sunday. The noonday guests had

finished with their dinners long ago, and the afternoon concert had not

yet begun. Instead of it three sleepy fiddlers, an elderly harp-player,

and a jovial clarinet were playing on a platform in the middle of the

garden. Of these musicians the clarinet-player alone still defied the

drowsy influences of the siesta hour, attempting, by wild and desperate

runs, to rouse the nodding quartette. On the benches in the shade of

the tall ash-trees there sat a very mixed company, for in Munich the

differences between the classes is far less marked than in any of the

other large German cities; and among the rest, at the smallest tables,

were numerous pairs of lovers who, lulled into a state of dreamy

comfort by plentiful eating and drinking, rested their heads on one

another's shoulders, held each other's hands and abandoned themselves

freely to their feelings. Yet no one seemed to take offense at this; on

the contrary, it seemed to belong to the place as much as the gnats

that swarmed in the air. The three late arrivals seated themselves in

one of the most secluded corners and proceeded to do justice to the

viands which the waitress, who treated Jansen with conspicuous respect,

had put aside for them. It was anything but a sumptuous meal, but the

taste for the pleasures of the table seemed to be so little developed

in the sculptor that it never occurred to him to celebrate the reunion

with his friend by a bottle of wine. Felix knew this and overlooked it.

Still, he had hoped to find him more animated and communicative after

their long separation; and now he could not help noticing how he sat at

his side, preoccupied and speaking only in monosyllables, intent only

upon feeding Homo, who swallowed the big mouthfuls that were given him

with grave decorum.

In the mean time, there joined the group a fourth person, for whom the

battle-painter seemed to have looked from the beginning. He was a slim

young man, pale and with curly black hair, whose manner at once

announced him to be an actor. He wore, over one eye, a black silk

shade, that made his paleness still more conspicuous, and the sharp

lines above his expressive mouth gave evidence of some hardly

suppressed suffering. Rosenbusch introduced him as his neighbor, Herr

Elfinger, formerly a member of the ---- court-theatre, now a clerk in

one of the Munich banking-houses. The manner in which Jansen also

welcomed him showed that he was one of the intimates of this circle. He

bore himself with such easy cheerfulness and enlivened the conversation

in such an agreeable way that Felix felt very much drawn toward him,

and even Jansen brightened up and took part in the lively chat.

But suddenly the sculptor stood up, looked at his watch, cast a glance

over the picket fence that separated the garden from the sunny square,

and said, coloring slightly: "I must leave you now, old boy. My friends

here will bear me witness that nothing is to be done with me on Sunday

afternoons. At such times I have to go my own ways and to fulfill

certain duties, which, to-day in particular, I could only escape with

the greatest difficulty. I hope you will excuse me."

"He has to turn back into a sea monster one day in seven, like

Melusine," laughed Rosenbusch. "We are used to that."

Felix looked up in surprise. "Don't let me disturb you, old boy," he

said. "Besides, I still have to find a lodging. Where are you

quartered? Perhaps I could find a place in your neighborhood--"

"I am not going home now and I should hardly recommend the neighborhood

where I live," the sculptor interrupted, with such a frown that it put

an end to all further questioning. "You will find me in my studio again

tomorrow. Good-by for to-day and good luck to you. Come, Homo!"

He nodded to his friends without giving them his hand, pulled his hat

down over his eyes, and left the garden with his faithful dog.

They saw him stride with rapid steps across the square and approach a

two-horse _fiacre_ that stood on the other side, not far from the gate,

apparently waiting for him on the shady side of the street. Then, as he

stepped in they could plainly see that there was some one sitting

inside; there was a glimpse of a woman's bright-colored dress, and a

child's little hand thrust a sunshade out the window. Except this, all

the windows were shut, notwithstanding the great heat; and, as the

mysterious vehicle rolled rapidly away, the friends who had been

looking after it turned to one another with wonder in their eyes.

"He appears to have a family," said Felix. "Why doesn't he say anything

to anybody about it? Even to me, his oldest friend, he has never

uttered a word about his projected or perhaps actual marriage, about

which there was a rumor some six years ago. I thought the whole matter

had either fallen through or else turned out unhappily. But now he

seems, after all, not to be alone. Do you know anything about his

private circumstances?"

"Nothing whatever," answered the painter. "None of us have ever set

foot across his threshold; and, the moment any one asks where he

lodges, he grows as snappish as a bear, just as you saw him a few

minutes ago. As for women, he will have nothing to do with them, that

can be seen plainly enough from all he does. Whether, in spite of all

this, he has a household of his own, can't be discovered. He once cut

dead a prying fellow who followed him one night to see where he kept

himself."

"I think," said Elfinger, "that the pleasure we get from his society

six days in the week is so great that we might at least leave him to

himself on the seventh. But now let us help the Baron look for rooms,

and debate how we can best show him the city this evening."

When, toward midnight, Felix left the beer-cellar, where he had been

for several hours enjoying the evening air, and returned to his

lodgings--a suite of pleasant rooms overlooking flower-gardens and the

quiet streets beyond--a singular feeling of depression suddenly came

over him. He had now attained what he cared more for than for anything

else. No one could enjoy more perfect freedom than he. No one could

begin life afresh more untrammeled by social forms. Then, too, the

cheerful, lively city, with its gay life, the free and easy artists'

society into which he had entered--all this had corresponded with his

wish and expectations, and promised him compensation for many a ruined

hope. It was the only atmosphere that seemed suited to him, the only

surroundings among which he could find again, even in the Old World,

something of that unrestrained freedom that he had enjoyed so much

beyond the ocean. And when, notwithstanding all this, he went to bed

with a heavy sigh and waited long for sleep in vain--why was it?

CHAPTER VIII.

On the following morning, Felix brought a whole armful of his

sketch-books to Jansen. The latter seemed to look through them with

interest, and listened patiently to the accounts of the adventures, of

which many of them were hasty illustrations, but he did not utter a

single word in regard to any artistic worth which the sketches might

possess.

When the last page had been turned, and Jansen, with a quiet "hm!" had

begun to pile up the books and tablets in a little tower, Felix was

forced to ask whether he had not made some progress after all.

"Progress? Why, that depends upon the way you look at it."

"And how do you look at it, old fellow?"

"I?--Hm! I look at it from a geographical point of view."

"You are very good. I understand perfectly."

"Don't be angry, my dear fellow, but understand me rightly. I mean, on

the path of dilettantism, on which you have been wandering up to this

date, all progress must necessarily be deceptive, even though,

outwardly, you have circumnavigated the world; for, after all, all your

efforts move in a circle. I am very sorry for it, though."

"For what?"

"That you really want to take up art in earnest. You might have

remained such an enviable dilettante, for you have all the necessary

qualifications to an uncommon degree."

"And they are?"

"Self-confidence, time, and money. No, don't be angry. I am truly

serious when I say this to you, and of course it would be needless for

me to assure you that I mean well when I say it. Seriously: these

traveling sketches of yours are done so skillfully that any of the

illustrated papers might consider themselves lucky if they had such

special artists. And yet I wish, since you are determined to be an

artist, that they were not half so skillful."

"If it is nothing more than that, a remedy can easily be found. You

will soon see how much talent I have for unskillfulness, when you give

me something to model."

The sculptor shook his head gently. "It is not the hands," he said. "It

is the mind that has already attained a very respectable maturity and

facility in you; only, unfortunately, in a wrong direction. For the

truth is, my dear fellow, the very things that please you best, and

have probably most impressed unprofessional persons, the dash and

readiness, the so-called artist's touch, those are the very things that

stand most in the way of your getting back into the right track. It is

just as if, instead of learning to write in the ordinary way, one

should begin with stenography. He never in all his life will have a

good handwriting. For the spirit of dilettantism, take it for all in

all, is, like that of stenography, in the art of abbreviation; in

substituting a symbol for the _form_, just as in the other case

we substitute one for the letter, so that in the course of time

all real feelings--yes, the very want of and appreciation of the

rightly-developed natural form--are hopelessly lost. Why is it then

that the dilettanti attain their end so much more quickly than the true

artists? Because, with this system of abbreviation, they steer straight

for those results which seem to them of the most importance:

resemblance, spirit, elegance of execution. For that reason they are

often marvelously skillful in mastering the proportions of a face, for

instance, and setting it off by a few dots and strokes so that

everybody cries: 'Oh! how like! how speaking! and how quickly done!'

The true artist knows that the length of time spent in the production

is by no means a measure of excellence; and as he has not only a

general sense of proportion, but also a feeling for the true form

itself, he does not rest until he has done it full justice--until, so

to speak, he has worked outward from the very core of that the exterior

of which his eyes have already taken in and fully comprehended.

However," he went on after a short pause, during which he unwound the

wet cloths from his Bacchante, "you are at liberty to believe that all

this is merely my personal opinion and nothing more than exaggerated

estimate of what constitutes true art. In ordinary life the artist is

distinguished from the dilettante only by the fact that the former

follows the thing as a calling, and the latter only for his own

amusement. According to this, you would be an artist from the moment

you cast aside the baron, the statesman or jurist, the _homme

d'action_, that you have in you, and regularly devoted a certain number

of hours of the day to dirtying your fingers with clay. If you stick to

it persistently, it would be very hard lines indeed if, in the course

of several years, you should not possess the necessary mechanical skill

just as well as any one else. Even to become an academic professor need

not be an unattainable aim of your ambition. And if, in spite of all

that, I should still continue, in my heart, to look upon you as a born

dilettante, you could smile down upon me graciously, and heap coals of

fire upon my head by proposing me as an honorary member of your

academy. Ah! my dear boy, I tell you, if you should make a close

examination of many of our most famous great men, you would bring to

light little else than a disguised and beautiful dilettantism, made up

of humbug, elegant trappings, and perhaps a few so-called ideas. I know

painters who dash off a hand or a foot, a horse's head or an oak-tree,

with as unerring an audacity as--well, as a thorough stenographer will

bring a two hours' speech into the compass of an octavo page. But Lord

have mercy upon them, for they have long since ceased to know what they

do; and as the dear public has an even coarser sense, a still blunter

natural feeling, and even more respect for appearances--why, it's all

just as it should be, and no one can complain that he has been

cheated."

For some time after this speech silence reigned in the studio. There

were heard only the fluttering of the sparrows, the heavy breathing of

Homo, for the old fellow was already enjoying his morning nap again,

and, in the saint-factory near by, the clatter and scraping and picking

of seven or eight chisels in the hands of the assistants who were hard

at work.

"Thank you, Daedalus," said Felix, at last. "Upon the whole you are

perfectly right, and I think it very kind of you to try and scare me

off so thoroughly. But, with your permission, I intend to hold to my

intentions until I have been made wise by my own experience. If, a year

from this time, you preach me the same sermon, you shall see how

penitently I will beat my breast and become converted from all my

sins. But now, first give me something to sin with. Look here, my

coat is already off, and I have nothing more to do but to roll up my

shirt-sleeves."

"So be it, then!" replied Jansen, with a good-natured smile. "Not as

God wills, but as you wish--here!"

He went to the large closet and took out a skull, which he laid

on a little table near the window. At the same time he wheeled a

modeling-bench out of the corner, placed it before the table, and

pointed, without speaking, to a big lump of clay that lay moist and

shiny in a tub.

"Are we to study phrenology?" laughed Felix, rather nervously, for a

suspicion began to dawn upon him.

"No, my dear fellow, but we must take pains to make as exact a copy as

possible of this round mass of bones.... We shall have plenty of time

for the flesh when we have first mastered the skeleton."

"I am to model a whole skeleton?"

"Bone for bone, down to the big toe. In this way we combine an

anatomical course with practice in modeling forms. Yes, my dear

fellow," he smilingly continued, as he perceived the horrified

expression of his pupil; "if you thought to begin your apprenticeship

with the soft, white flesh of a woman, you have greatly deceived

yourself. However, since you have already done quite enough preparatory

studying in this field--"

He suddenly broke off. On the landing, outside, they heard a pleasant

feminine voice say:

"Is this the way to Fraeulein Minna Engelken's studio?"

"If you will kindly give yourself the trouble to mount a flight

higher," responded the hoarse bass of the janitor. "The door to the

right--the name is on the sign. The Fraeulein has been there for the

last two hours."

"Thanks."

At the first sound of the voice Jansen had hurried to the door; he now

opened it a little and peeped out. Then he came back to Felix, and,

with his face slightly flushed, went silently to work.

"Who was the lady?" asked Felix, though he felt no particular curiosity

on the subject.

"The stranger we saw yesterday. Strange! when I heard that unknown

voice her face suddenly came up before my eyes again."

Felix said nothing. He had gone up to the modeling-bench, had begun to

work at a great ball of clay about as large as the skull, and appeared

to be completely absorbed in his task.

But they had scarcely been working on in this way, side by side and in

silence, for more than a quarter of an hour when some one knocked

softly on the door and Rosenbusch entered, looking excited, merry, and

full of mischief.

He nodded to the friends, stepped close up to them and said, with an

air of mysterious importance: "Do you know who is up-stairs? The

lady of the Pinakothek! Angelica is painting her picture--she has

succeeded--an incredibly resolute woman that! And can keep a secret

like the devil! Now just conceive of it; I discovered her early this

morning clearing up her studio, as though the queen had given notice of

a visit. For that matter it always does look damned elegant and neat up

there--flowers in whichever direction you turn, and a hothouse

fragrance that makes you sick. But, to-day, it is a positive show-room!

'What the devil is this, Angelica?' said I; 'is to-day your birthday,

or are you going to get engaged, or are you painting a Russian

princess?'--for I had long forgotten all about the affair of yesterday.

But she, turning round the old yellow-silk cushion on the armchair so

as to present the side which had the fewest spots--she scarcely looked

at me, and said: 'Go and get to work, Herr von Rosebud'--that is what

she always calls me when she is cross--'I am not at home to you,

to-day!' In this way she morally turned me out of doors without farther

ceremony, and, I must confess, I rather like it in her; energy,

fearlessness, the courage of one's opinions, are always fine, even in a

woman. So I withdrew, wondering, and was already at work laying on my

colors when I heard some one coming up the stairs. Yes, I was right,

she was going to Angelica; and as the wall between us is not very

thick, and they did not at first take the precaution to lower their

voices, I discovered the whole mystery--that it is our beauty of

yesterday, that she is going to have her picture painted, and that her

first name is Julie. And now I appeal to you, friends and companions in

art, are we men or cowardly poltroons? Are we to suffer this vixen to

carry away such a prize from under our very noses, and to withhold such

a paragon of beauty from us under our own roof? Or shall we rush up as

one man, and, in the name of art, lay siege to the door of this

obdurate sister, and compel her, by force or persuasion, to open to

us?"

"I would advise you, Rosenbusch, to go quietly upstairs again and wreak

your martial ardor on the battle of Luetzen," Jansen answered, without

the slightest approach to a smile. "But, if your excitement will not

let you work, convey your homage to the lady through the wall by means

of your flute. Perhaps they will invite you to come round and declaim

some of your verses."

"Wretched scoffer!" cried the battle-painter. "I thought to render you

a service by bringing you this news. But you are of the earth, earthy,

and are incapable of soaring to any height of enthusiasm. Well, God be

with you! I see that I am not understood down here!"

He rushed out of the door, and, sure enough, they soon afterward heard

the flute pouring out its most melting passages.

This language, however, did not seem to be understood in the next room.

Angelica's room remained tight shut, and when it was opened, a few

hours after, soft steps came down the stairs, and the listeners below

were led to conclude that the sitting was over.

In the mean while dinner-time had come, and the assistants in

the adjoining room had stopped work and left the studio. Jansen,

too--although, as a rule, he seldom made a pause before two

o'clock--now laid down his modeling-tool.

"Come," he said, "you must make your calls of ceremony upon our

fellow-lodgers."

They mounted the stairs, and went first into Rosenbusch's studio. As no

notice had been taken of his flute-playing, he had seated himself at

his easel again, and had set himself zealously to work to paint away

his anger. His room certainly presented a most remarkable appearance;

the walls shone, almost like those of an armory, with old arms,

halberds, muskets, and swords, relieved here and there by enormous

boots with wheel-spurs, leather collars, saddles, and singular

stirrups. An immense old kettle-drum stood on a rickety stand in front

of a worm-eaten arm-chair, and served as a table on which to pile all

sorts of odds and ends. Some cactus-plants, with great red blossoms,

stood in full bloom in the window, and among them was a delicate little

wire-cage, containing two white mice, who ran restlessly up and down,

squeaking and looking shyly at the new faces out of their little red

eyes.

The battle of Luetzen stood on the easel; it was quite a vigorous work,

and Felix could praise it with a good conscience. The horses,

especially, reared and plunged, full of life and spirits; and the young

baron could hardly believe it when the painter confessed that he had

never mounted a horse in his life. After they had joked and laughed

about this for a while, and Rosenbusch had delivered an earnest speech

in defense of the romantic school, he threw off the old, much-patched

Swedish trooper's jacket in which he always painted, in order, as he

said, to have the true historical inspiration, and dressed himself, in

spite of the heat, in a violet-colored velvet coat, so that he might

accompany the friends in their visit to the adjoining room.

Their knock on Angelica's door was answered by a cordial "Come in!"

Rosenbusch had not exaggerated: the studio did, in truth, resemble a

hot-house decked out for a festival, to which the sketches, and

studies, and half-finished pictures of flowers merely served as

decorations. The painter had had a window cut through the wall on the

east side at her own expense, in order that she might give her plants,

which she tended with scientific knowledge, plenty of sun whenever the

nature of her work did not require a pure north light. The plants were

truly grateful, and twined and throve so luxuriantly that the slender

stems of the palms and figs reached almost to the ceiling.

Angelica stood before her easel in an antiquated painting-jacket, her

straw hat perched on one side, her cheeks glowing from her work, and

was so busily occupied in "toning down" the background that she merely

nodded to her friends as they entered, without interrupting her work.

"She has gone!" she cried to them, "otherwise I could not have let you

in, no matter how much I had wanted to. My children, you have no

conception of what a charming person she is! If I were a man, I would

marry her or blow my brains out!"

"You are indulging in very reckless assertions," Rosenbusch interposed,

raising himself a little on his toes, and stroking his thick beard.

"Just let's see if she really is so dangerous."

Angelica stepped back from the easel.

"Gentlemen," she said, "I hope you will praise me. Either I understand

as much about painting as a roast goose, or this will be my best

picture, and a real work of art. But just look at these curves! All

large, simple, noble, such as never grow under our native heaven. My

first idea was to paint the picture _alla prima_; but in the nick of

time it occurred to me that I should be very foolish to do so. For the

longer I can study this heavenly face, the happier I shall be. Just see

this figure, Jansen. Have you often come across anything like it?"

"The lady has style," remarked Rosenbusch, assuming as cool an air as

possible. "However, she doesn't seem to be particularly young, or else

your dead coloring gives her ten years too many."

"You are a strange mortal, Herr von Rosebud," answered the painter,

angrily. "In art you rave over nothing but old leather, but in life no

school-girl's complexion is rosy and satiny enough to suit you. It is

true, my beauty here told me herself that she was already--but I won't

be such a fool as to tell a girl's secret to gentlemen. But of this I

can assure you: that twenty years from now, when certain pretty little

dolls' faces have long grown old and faded, that woman there will still

be so beautiful that people will stand still in the streets to look

after her."

"And may we be permitted to ask of what nationality she is?" inquired

Felix.

"Why not? She makes no secret of the fact that she is from Saxony,

although you would never detect it from her accent; nor that her name

is Julie S., nor that she lost her old mother a year or so ago, and now

stands quite alone in the world. However, we haven't been having a mere

family gossip, but the most profound conversation on art-matters. She

is more intelligent in such things, let me tell you, than many of our

colleagues. And now you must excuse me, gentlemen, if I don't let you

interrupt me in my work, but go on and finish this background to-day,

before the colors dry in."

Up to this time Jansen had not spoken a syllable. Now he stepped up to

Angelica, gave her his hand, and said:

"If you don't spoil this, my dear friend, you will make something out

of it that will do you great honor. Adieu!"

He turned quickly away, and strode out of the studio without casting a

glance to right or left.

CHAPTER IX.

When his friends overtook him in the street he remained silent and

serious; while Rosenbusch praised, in the most extravagant language,

the beauty of the picture.

"If my heart were not already in such firm hands," he said, with a

sigh, "who knows what might happen! But constancy is no empty dream.

Besides, Angelica would scratch any one's eyes out who tried to play

the Romeo to her Juliet. But where are you dragging us to, Jansen?"

"We are going to see 'Fat Rossel.'"

"Then I prefer to withdraw at once to my feeding-place and to await you

there. I have made a solemn vow never again to visit that accursed

Sybarite just before meal-time. It smells so devilishly of ambergris,

_pati de foie gras_ and East-Indian birds'-nests, so that after coming

away a man feels like a thorough vagabond over his wretched dumplings.

The devil take these lazy voluptuaries! Long live energy and

_sauerkraut_!"

After this fierce outburst he nodded smilingly to the two others,

slouched his big hat over his left ear, and turned, whistling, into a

side street.

"Who is this 'Fat Rossel' against whom our friend Rosebud displays all

his thorns?" asked Felix.

"He isn't really so fierce as he tries to make himself out. The two are

good comrades, and would go through fire and water for one another in

case of need. This so-called 'Fat Rossel'--one Edward Rossel--is a very

rich man who isn't obliged to earn his living by painting--and for that

reason lets his great talent lie fallow. However, he has reduced his

intellectual laziness and amateur enjoyment of art to a system, and

concerning this system Rosenbusch invariably falls foul of him; for he

himself, in spite of all his 'energy,' has never produced anything of

much account. Here we are at the house."

They passed through the pretty little front garden, before which they

had halted the day previous while on their way to the Pinakothek,

entered the door of a villa-like house, and mounted a staircase covered

with soft carpets. The hall shone with polished marbles, bronze

candelabra, and beautiful flowering plants in porcelain pots, that

perfumed the whole vestibule.

When they entered the high-studded room above, that served as a

studio, but looked more like a museum of choice objects and works of

art than it did like a regular artist's workshop, there rose from a low

divan, covered with a leopard's skin, a singular figure. On a portly

but by no means clumsy body rested a stately head, in which sparkled a

pair of exceedingly bright black eyes. The face was of a very white

complexion, the beautiful hands were daintily cared for. The cut of the

features, with the close cropped silky hair, and the long black beard,

recalled the beautiful, dignified type of the high-bred Orientals. This

impression was still further heightened by a little red fez, shoved

back on the head, and a variegated Persian dressing-gown with slippers

to match, into which his bare feet were thrust, while the dressing-gown

apparently served in lieu of any other clothing.

Slowly, but with great cordiality, the painter advanced to meet his

friends, shook hands with them, and said: "I made your acquaintance

yesterday from a distance, Herr Baron--through the blinds, when that

sly dog Rosebud was trying to entice me out into the noonday heat with

his flute. But that kind of thing is against my principles. It may be

all very meritorious to eat one's bread in the sweat of one's brow. But

as for enjoying art when reeking with perspiration--never! Excuse the

costume in which I receive you. I have just been taking a douche bath

and afterward resting a quarter of an hour. In five minutes I shall be

in a condition to present my material part with propriety."

He disappeared into a side chamber, that was only separated by a

magnificent piece of Gobelin tapestry from his studio, and went on

talking with his friends while completing his toilet.

"Just take a look at my Boecklin, that I bought the day before

yesterday--over there by the window on the little easel--I am quite

happy over the possession. Well, what do you say to it, Jansen? Isn't

that something to console one's self with for a while, in the midst of

this universal poverty of art?"

It was a little forest picture, that stood in the most favorable light,

near the window; it represented a dense wood of lofty oaks and laurel

bushes, through a little cleft of which could be seen a slender strip

of the distant horizon, and in one corner a patch of blue sky. At the

feet of the shady trees a brook rippled through the luxuriant grass, on

the banks of which reclined a sleeping nymph, with her nursling at her

side, its blunt little nose pressed close against the full maternal

breast, from which it seemed to be feeding quietly. In the centre of

the picture, leaning against a luxuriant tree, stood the young father,

a slim, well-built faun, looking down well pleased upon his family, and

holding in his hand the shepherd's flute with which he had just played

his wife to sleep.

Felix and Jansen were still absorbed in the contemplation of this

charming work when Rossel again appeared.

"Such a thing is refreshing, isn't it?" he said. "It is a comfort to

know that there are still men who have such beautiful dreams, and the

courage to tell them to others, no matter if advanced and sensible

humanity, which now, thank God, has outgrown its baby shoes, and every

day sets its foot down more squarely on the broad sole of realism, does

shake its head and talk about having gotten beyond such standpoints.

This man is one of the few who interest me. You have undoubtedly seen

his splendid pictures in the Schack Gallery? No? Well, since you have

only been two days in Munich, I will forgive your ignorance. I will

take you there; it will afford me the greatest pleasure to recruit a

quiet list of worshipers for my few idols."

"First of all," said Felix, smiling, "you would do me a greater favor

if you would show me something by one Edward Rossel, to whose

acquaintance my friends have led me to look forward with great

curiosity."

"My own immortal works!" cried the painter, threatening Jansen with his

finger. "I know who is behind all this. I know the sly cabals of my

much-esteemed friends, who seize every opportunity to parade my

unproductiveness before my eyes. I know that they mean no harm, and

give me credit for some talent; I ought to be ashamed of myself for not

sharing this good opinion and at last rousing myself to action. But it

all glances aside from the armor of my own self-knowledge. I don't deny

that I have all sorts of good qualifications for an artist, sense and

brains and some insight into the true aims of art. Unfortunately, there

is only one little thing lacking--the disposition to really produce

something. I should have been just the man to have been born a Raphael

without hands, and would have borne this fate with the greatest

complacency. But won't you light a cigar, or do you prefer a chibouque?

By the way, a little refreshment wouldn't be out of place, considering

this tropical temperature."

Without waiting for an answer, he rang a beautifully chased silver

bell.

A young servant-girl, of pretty figure and graceful manner, entered;

the painter whispered a word in her ear, whereupon the girl disappeared

and returned, five minutes after, with a silver waiter, on which stood

a wicker-work bottle and some glasses.

"I brought this wine myself from Samos," said Rossel; "You must at

least taste it and drink to our good friendship!"

"Then let me immediately sin against that friendship and ask a somewhat

indiscreet question: how is it possible for you to bury, like a dead

treasure, a talent which you yourself admit you have?"

"My dear fellow," replied the artist, coolly, "the matter is much

simpler than you suppose. My object is, like that of all men--let them

prate as much as they like about duty, virtue, or self-sacrifice--to be

as happy as possible. But happiness consists, as I believe, in nothing

else than in creating for one's self a certain state, a manner of life

or pursuit, in which one finds himself at the height of his

individuality, in the full enjoyment of his peculiar powers and gifts.

Therefore, every man has a happiness of his own; and nothing can be

more foolish than for one person to object to another's way of enjoying

himself, or to persuade or advise others to exchange their way for his.

The more any one makes himself feel, by his manner of life, that he is

a particular individual, the more Nature has attained her end in making

him, and the more contented he can be with himself and his situation.

All unhappiness arises from the fact that men try to do things for

which they are not fitted. If you give a million to a man born with a

genius for begging, you will make him an unhappy millionaire. He can no

longer exercise his talent. A virtuoso in suffering, a Stylites, or a

sister of charity, for whom you should suddenly provide a healthy and

comfortable life, would at once lose all individuality and so all

happiness. For it is undeniable that there are men who are only

conscious of their individuality when they are torturing themselves, in

the coarser or finer sense of the expression. To such, a state of

repose is an abasement, and to this class belong all truly productive

artists. To work, to produce something which shall afterward stand as a

monument of their power, appears to them the highest happiness; and

this happiness ought to be accorded to them all the more readily, from

the fact that most of them cannot live without it. Only they ought to

be just enough to look at the matter also from the opposite point of

view, where an individual only feels conscious of his powers and gifts

when in the free enjoyment of an apparently fruitless repose. When I

lie on my back and make pictures in the smoke of my cigar, or gaze upon

the works which great creative beings have produced in times gone by,

am I not, in my way, putting to good use that buried treasure within me

in which you were so good as to believe? and making of this individual,

whom his friends accuse of culpable laziness, the very thing for which

he was really fitted and intended--a perfectly harmonious and happy

man? Once in a while, indeed, the vulgar prejudice seizes even me, and

I suddenly grow tremendously active. But after the paroxysm has lasted

a week, at the longest, I suddenly see the folly of the proceeding and

throw the unfinished daub into some dark closet, among other embryos

of immortal works. Ah! my dear friend, there is so much struggling, and

pushing, and producing going on, that a quiet, inoffensive art-lover of

my disposition might well be tolerated as a salutary antidote to this

epidemic of activity."

"We will let this old apple of discord drop for to-day," interrupted

Jansen, smiling. "I won't yet give up my old bet that some fine day you

will cease to take comfort in this bed that you have stuffed with

sophisms, and will begin to seek your happiness in some other way. But

in the meanwhile you might certainly show yourself at my place again. I

should like to know what you would say to my dancing girl; and besides,

I have done all sorts of other things since you were there."

"I will come, Hans. You know how I delight to take to heart the

frightful example of industry that I see in your saint-factory. By the

way--isn't next Saturday 'Paradise?'"

"Certainly. The last before the autumn. Most of the fellows have

already begun to make their preparations for the summer vacation, and

in fourteen days we three shall probably be almost the only ones who

still hold out in the city."

They left the studio, the painter accompanying them as far as the gate

of the front yard, and taking leave of Felix with great cordiality and

the hope that he should see him often.

"What is this about 'Paradise?'" inquired the latter, when they were

alone in the street again.

"You shall soon see for yourself. We come together once a month and

attempt to delude ourselves into the idea that it is possible in the

midst of this world to throw off the hypocrisy of society, and return

once more to a state of innocence. And for a few years past we have

really been fairly successful. A little group of good fellows has been

brought together, who are all equally impressed with the worthlessness

of our social state. But, after all, the German is not a social

creature; that which constitutes the charm of such societies among the

Latins and Slavs--the delight in talking for talking's sake, a certain

delicacy in lying, and, moreover, an early-acquired and really humane

tact and consideration for one's neighbors--all this we may possibly

gain in time in some of our large cities. But for the time being it is

certainly foreign to the genius of our nation, and it is only feebly

developed. The consequence is that in this city of art, where of all

the arts that of sociability is most behindhand, one has to choose

between two evils: the conventional society entertainments, which are

chiefly devoted to eating and drinking, and where one is seldom

compensated for the constraint of cultivated _ennui_; or else

Philistinism over the beer-table. For this reason we have adopted

another plan, which, to be sure, can only be successful when all those

who take part in it are united by the same longing for freedom, and the

same respect for the freedom of their neighbors. For, when no one wraps

a cloak about him, but shows himself unrestrainedly just as he is, no

one, on the other hand, has a right to pounce maliciously on the weak

spots which his neighbor may possibly expose--and each must, upon the

whole, be so constituted that he can show himself in his true character

without being disagreeable."

CHAPTER X.

In the first days of his wanderings through the quaint old streets--for

he avoided, as far as possible, the new and deserted quarters of the

town--Felix felt to the full the charm of South German life; that

robust, unrestrained power of enjoyment, that perpetual holiday-mood,

whose motto is "You may do what you choose." That this cheerful state

also has its dark sides; that it is not possible, without the sacrifice

of some higher benefits, to establish an average of character and

education which makes all classes mingle easily; that the lack of a

proletariat brings with it the lack of a rich and powerful intellectual

aristocracy--all such political and social speculations never entered

our friend's head, in spite of the fact that his travels about the

world had given him a keen insight into the civilization of different

countries. In a spirit of quiet defiance, he took delight in doing here

the very things which would have been most severely frowned on in that

native town from which he had fled. He visited the dingiest restaurants

and the most modest beer-gardens, ate from an uncovered table, and

drank from the mug which he had himself washed under the water-pipe;

and it seemed as if the only thing wanting to make his happiness

complete was, that the highly aristocratic society with which he had

quarreled should happen by and see, in silent horror, how happy the

fugitive was in his self-imposed exile.

And yet, since everything inspired by pique carries with it a secret

feeling of dissatisfaction, he was after all not quite contented. Jolly

as it looked to wander about again at his own sweet will, it was, after

all, very different from what it had been years before when he first

spread his wings. In short, in his moments of reflection, when he

neither cared to forget nor to deceive himself, he was forced to admit,

with a kind of shame, that he was no longer young enough to goon

looking upon life as a brilliant adventure amid shifting scenes, and

that, in riper years, more depended upon the piece and the _role_ which

one played in it than upon the scenes and the spectators who sit before

the footlights.

True, he had from the first devoted himself zealously to his new

apprenticeship. But his conscience was too delicate to forget what

Jansen had said in regard to his fitness for art. Had his friend

congratulated him upon his decision, who knows but what, in spite of

all that was wanting to his happiness, he might have felt as contented

as it is possible for any man to feel in this imperfect world? But his

proud heart told him that the people who were now to be his associates

did not, in their hearts, consider him quite genuine, but looked upon

him as a singular being, who, from mere whim, had taken up with art

instead of with some other noble passion more suitable to his rank.

This unfortunate feeling was still further heightened by the fact that

his relation to the only old friend he had here, for whose society he

had passionately yearned, did not, in spite of their daily intercourse,

ripen again into the old intimacy.

When, years before, they had become acquainted with one another in

Kiel, where Felix first began the study of the law, they had soon

become inseparable. The lonely artist stood in special need of a friend

with quick perceptions, who, in those early days when his talent was

cautiously working its way to the front, could fan his courage by

taking a lively interest in his work; and Felix soon saw enough of the

senseless and tasteless life led by his fellow-students to make him

long for other society. The hours that he stole from his beer-club and

his fencing-school, in order to work with Jansen at all sorts of noble

arts, sometimes making an attempt himself with a piece of clay, and

then again spending the evening in his friend's simple little room in

confidential talk over a very frugal supper and some modest wine, were

looked back upon as the happiest of his whole youth. Even then Jansen

struck people as a very original, reserved, strong, and forceful man,

who had no needs but those which he was able to supply by his own

unaided powers. It was known that he sprang from a peasant family,

that, impelled by accidental incentives only and without any

encouragement from teachers or patrons, he had made himself an artist

by the force of his iron will. How he also succeeded in attaining, in

other fields, such an education that it was not easy for any one to

detect the want of a regular course of schooling, was scarcely less

incomprehensible. Gradually his talent began to attract some attention,

and a few orders straggled in, which enabled him to earn a scanty

living. But as he scorned to let himself be lionized in society, to be

petted by ladies and engaged for aesthetic tea parties, the first

feeling of interest soon grew cold; and with a shrug of the shoulders

people left this eccentric individual, who placed himself in such sharp

antagonism to the modern tendency of art, to himself again, and to his

pictures of naked gods and his undisguised contempt for social

traditions.

It was thus that Felix found him then, and he found him but little

different now, after all these years of separation--averse to all

intercourse with men who did not stand in some relation or other to his

art, and inaccessible, so far as his inner life was concerned, even to

his few intimate acquaintances. But still the years had not passed

without leaving some traces. They had so estranged him, even from that

one person to whom he had then loved to unbosom himself, that, after

the first outburst of his old tenderness, a steady medium temperature

had set in in the relations of the two old friends, that was scarcely a

degree warmer than that between Jansen and the other members of the

little circle. During the long hours that the pupil spent working at

his master's side, there were hundreds of opportunities to talk

over old times. But the sculptor seemed to avoid all recollections

of the past. Then, they had made no secret to one another of their

love-affairs; and now Felix made several attempts to return to the

subject of his late betrothal. But, when he did this, it was as if some

dark spectre rose up before Jansen. He sought to give the conversation

a general direction with some bitter sarcasm or forced jest, and soon

relapsed into more sullen silence than before.

Felix felt how heavily this cool reserve weighed on his spirits, which

would have been none too light even without it. After the shipwreck of

his happy love, he had tried to fall back upon this friendship; and

now, though he had indeed found firm ground, it was no longer the green

island of his youth, but bare and inhospitable; and the soil, which was

then so yielding, had turned to rugged rock.

One evening, as he was walking down the Briennerstrasse, alone, and not

in the most cheerful spirits, he met the beautiful stranger, who now

visited Angelica daily, but who was jealously guarded by the latter

from all other eyes. She appeared to be returning home from a walk, and

her old servant walked a few steps behind her, carrying her shawl.

Felix bowed to her, and she distantly returned his salute. She

evidently had not recognized him. Then he saw her enter the house, and

soon afterward the corner-room on the ground-floor was lit up by the

light of a lamp. It would have been easy for him to watch her

proceedings through the low window. But he did not care at all to do

so, though he admired her beauty. For no beautiful, no charming face

could cross his path without carrying his thoughts back to his lost

love, and plunging him in a melancholy reverie.

And so it was to-day. And suddenly it struck him as so absurd and

idiotic for him to be wandering about alone in this utterly strange

city, among people who cared nothing for him, separated from her who

was his only love, that he could not help bursting out into a laugh,

only to sigh all the more sadly the next minute.

He felt the impossibility, in his present mood, of joining his friends,

who were waiting for him at a beer-cellar. Jansen was generally one of

the party. But, even if everything between them had remained just as it

was in the old times, Felix would have avoided him to-day.

When he found himself in such a mood that he could not endure his

fellow-men, he generally found that he nowhere felt so well as upon

horseback.

He went to a stable in the neighborhood, and was soon cantering across

the Obeliskenplatz on a powerful horse. He rode down the beautiful

broad street, through the marble gate of the Propylaea, and outside, in

the shady avenue that leads to the Nymphenburger Villa, he gave his

horse full rein. But even here, where a fresher air blew across the

quiet fields, it was so sultry that the animal soon dropped into a

quieter gait of his own accord.

The street was not very lively. Only a few workmen were strolling home

from the town, and some soldiers came singing arm-in-arm out of a

tavern. They were walking behind a girl who was hastening to get back

to town before it grew quite dark. She was neatly dressed, of a very

pretty figure, and, according to the fashion then in vogue, wore her

hair falling loose over her shoulders. This seemed to incite the

fellows to strike up an acquaintance with her, and the short, snappish

way in which she repelled their advances only fanned their impudence

the higher. One seized her by her fluttering hair, another laughingly

attempted to get possession of her arm; and, as it chanced that the

foot-path behind the trees was quite deserted, she would have tried in

vain to shake off her tormentors had not Felix happened to gallop up

just at that moment. He shouted to the fellows in a loud voice to

instantly let the girl alone, and go to the devil. Whether they took

him for an officer in _mufti_, or were frightened by his commanding

manner, they obeyed at once, and started across the fields to the

barracks, whose massive structure towered from afar across the dark

meadow.

The deliverer now took a closer look at the girl. There could be no

doubt he had seen this little nose, these white teeth, and that red

hair, once before, on that first morning in Jansen's studio. And now he

recalled her name.

"Good-evening, Fraeulein Zenz," he said. "What lonely and dangerous

walks you take!"

"Dangerous!" she returned, laughing, for she had immediately recognized

him. "What is there dangerous about it? They wouldn't have eaten me. I

can take care of myself."

"But if I hadn't by good luck come up--"

"Do you suppose I couldn't have got away from those two without your

help? I can run like the wind. You couldn't catch me even on

horseback."

"Well see about that, you little witch! If you don't look out--"

He bent over and began, in his turn, to try and seize hold of her hair.

But her slim little figure instantly spun round on its heels, so that

her long locks slipped out of his hand again, and then she sprang like

lightning over the narrow ditch by the side of the road, and, before he

could collect himself, was away across the broad field, where she

suddenly vanished from his sight as if by miracle.

His horse had shied at the girl's quick movement, and, for a moment,

gave his master enough to do in looking after him. Now, when he had

quieted him again, and, half laughing, half provoked, had dashed into

the meadow in pursuit of the fugitive, he could find no trace of her.

He called her name, spoke to her persuasively, and promised not to

touch her any more if she would only show herself again. It was only

after he had given up the search, and had angrily wheeled his horse

round in order to ride back into the avenue, that he heard, from behind

a heap of stones close at his side, which he had overlooked in his

zeal, a shrill giggling; and suddenly the girl sprang from the ground

and coolly marched up to him.

"Now you see that you couldn't have caught me, if I had not wanted you

to," she cried. "Now just ride quietly home; I can find my way well

enough."

"You are a regular witch--that's what you are!" he cried, laughingly.

"I see that people have more reason to be afraid of you than you of

them. But listen, Zenz, since we have chanced to meet in this way, tell

me now why you won't come to Herr Jansen's any more?"

The question seemed to be disagreeable to her. She turned sharply on

her heel, and said, defiantly, beginning to put her dishevelled hair in

order: "What is that to you? What do you know about me, anyway? I can

do as I like, I suppose."

"To be sure, Zenz. But it would be very nice of you if you would listen

to reason, and show yourself again. I am an artist, too, and would like

very much to make a sketch of you. Or, if you don't want to come to the

big studio any more, I have a very quiet lodging, and not a soul would

find it out if you came to me; you may be sure no one would do you any

harm, and I would give you a good reward--and you should choose what

you would have."

While he was speaking she had never left off shaking her head. What her

expression was he could not see, for she had sank her chin on her

breast. Now she suddenly looked up at him and said, with a little laugh

that became her charmingly, while she twisted her streaming hair into a

thick knot: "I would just like to sit on horseback once, and ride round

real fast in a circle."

"If it's nothing more than that," he laughed, "come! Don't be afraid,

but put your foot in the stirrup."

He bent down over her again, grasped her under the arm that she reached

out to him, and swung up the light little figure as if it had been a

feather; then he let her down on the saddle before him and seized the

bridle. She instantly clasped her arms tight round his body, and clung

so close to him that for a moment she almost took his breath away, "Do

you sit firmly?" he called to her. She nodded, and laughed softly to

herself. Then he set his horse in motion and began to ride round in a

circle, at first slowly, then faster and faster, and she sat before him

on the saddle without moving, and pressed her head close against his

breast.

"Is that what you like?" he cried; "or shall I stop?"

She did not answer.

"How would it be," he said, "if now I should trot back to town with

you, and not draw rein until I came to my house? You would have to come

with me, then, whether you wanted to or not, and do what I asked you.

Aren't you quite in my power now?"

He reined in the horse for a moment, as though to give her opportunity

to settle herself for a longer ride. But suddenly he felt how her arms

unclasped, and in the next instant she had slid down from the saddle,

and stood before him in the dusk, out of breath and rearranging her

light dress.

"I thank you very much." she said. "It was very jolly; but, now, that's

enough. And all the rest is nonsense, and so, good-night! If you can

catch me again you may keep me!"

In a second she had sprung away and disappeared behind the nearest

houses. Even if he had been seriously inclined to follow her, he would

never have been able to find her trail again among the gardens and

hedges that bordered the field.

A few passers-by had watched this singular performance from the avenue.

He heard all sort of jokes that he did not understand. "Thank God!" he

said to himself, "if I had allowed myself to do such a thing in my own

dear home, the whole town would be talking of nothing else to-morrow,

besides adding all sorts of exaggerations. But here--'Hier bin ich

Mensch, hier darf ich's sein!' Long live golden liberty!"

He rode back to town in merry mood. He imagined that he could still

feel the arms of the girl about his breast, and her warm breath on his

face. His blood had not been cooled by his ride, as he had hoped, and

the sharp trot to which he spurred on his horse did not help him. He

gave up the reeking horse at the riding-school, and then turned into

the Briennerstrasse, in order to sit awhile in the Court Garden, and

eat an ice and nurse his dreams.

When he came back to the house where Julie lived, he checked himself

suddenly. Who was that standing motionless by the garden fence, with

his eyes fixed on the bright parterre window? Jansen?

Felix made a wide circuit to avoid him, and stood looking at him on the

other side of the street in the shadow of the houses. For a good half

hour he saw his friend opposite continue at his post. Then the window

was closed by a heavy curtain, and, immediately after, the watcher at

the gate tore himself away and departed slowly.

Felix did not follow him. He scorned to be a spy on the secret ways of

his friend. What chance had disclosed to him gave him enough to think

about for to-day, without being able to find a solution to the riddle.

_BOOK II_.

CHAPTER I.

It was unusually still in Angelica's studio, so still that one could

plainly hear, through the thin wall that separated her from her

neighbor, the cheerful squeak of his white mice. This was always a sign

that their master was, as he expressed it, on the rampage, wielding his

brush in the thick of the battle of Luetzen.

Angelica, too, was very busy. But although she usually liked to chat

over her work, to keep the people who sat to her from falling asleep,

to-day she rarely opened her lips. It was the last sitting; the last

touch, which, after all, is always a new beginning, was to be given to

the picture--every stroke of the brush decided the fate of a _nuance_,

the success or failure of an expression.

In order to work more surely, she had put on a pair of spectacles,

that can scarcely be said to have improved her appearance, and the

painting-jacket, on the left sleeve of which she was accustomed to wipe

her brush, had burst open in the ardor of her work, and, with her

lance-like maulstick and her shield-like palate, gave a certain

pugnacious aspect to her good, honest face, as if she were engaged in a

struggle for the release of the enchanted princess who sat in a chair

opposite her, and who was also unusually quiet. Whether Julie was

turning over in her mind some especially serious thought, or had, like

all people sitting to a painter, merely fallen under the influence of a

certain absent-minded melancholy, it was impossible to make out.

She was especially beautiful to-day. Instead of her raw-silk dress, she

wore a lighter stuff of transparent black, through which gleamed her

white neck. Angelica had planned this in order that all the light

might be concentrated on the face; and the arrangement of the hair,

which left the contour of the head fully visible and allowed a few

simply-braided locks to flow over the shoulders, was a special

invention of the artist. Now, in the steady light, the dead white of

her complexion, and the soft blond of her hair, shone out so gently

subdued and yet so clear, and the eyes, under the brown lashes, had,

with all their softness, such a fiery sparkle, that one could

appreciate Angelica's assertion that a thing of this sort could not be

painted--gold, pearls, and sapphires were the only materials with which

to rival this fusion of color.

It is true, the first bloom of youth was passed. A keen eye could

detect a wrinkle here and there, a certain sharpness of feature, and

the easy grace with which her noble figure moved left no doubt that she

had passed those years when a girl is always turning this way and that,

like a bird on a branch, as if always on the point of fluttering away

into the unknown, tempting, beautiful life outside, or else glancing

eagerly around to see whether a hunter or trapper is in sight.

For that matter it would have been hard to conceive that this still,

reserved, charming creature had ever committed the usual school-girl

follies. But as soon as she began to speak, and especially to laugh,

her expressive face beamed with youthful merriment, her eyes, which

were a little near-sighted, slightly closed and took on a mischievous

look, and only her firm mouth retained its expression of thoughtful

determination. "The rest of your face," said Angelica at the very

first sitting, "was given you by God; for your mouth you must thank

yourself."

She had intended by this remark to lead up to a conversation about

careers and experiences; but the only answer was a meaning, yet

reserved, smile from the mouth of which she spoke. Angelica was a girl

of delicate feeling; she was naturally burning with curiosity to learn

more of the past life of her admired conquest. But, after the repulse

of her first attempts, she was much too proud to beg for a confidence

that was not proffered. For this self-denial she was to-day to be

rewarded, for Julie suddenly opened her lips, and said with a sigh:

"You are one of the happiest human beings I ever knew, Angelica."

"Hm!" replied the artist. "And why do I seem so?"

"Because you are not only free, but know how to make some use of your

freedom."

"If it were only a good use! But do you really believe, dear Julie,

that my pictures of 'flower, fruit, and thorn pieces,' and my bungling

attempts to imitate God's likeness, have made me imagine that I am an

especially interesting example of my class? Dearest friend, what you

call happiness is really only the well-known 'German happiness'--a

happiness, because it is not a greater unhappiness--a happiness of

necessity."

"I can well understand," continued Julie, "that a moment never comes

when one feels perfectly contented; when one, so to speak, has reached

the summit of the mountain, and looks around and says: there is nothing

higher than this, unless one steps straight into the clouds. But yet

you love your art, and I think you can busy yourself all day, your

whole life long, with anything you love--"

"If I only knew whether it loved me in return! Don't you see, there

lies the rub; a most 'devilish' rub, Herr Rosebud would say. Are

you really consecrated to art--I mean consecrated by the grace of

God--when, if it hadn't been for the merest chance in the world, you

would never have touched a brush?"

"You would never have touched a brush!"

"Certainly; but instead of it a common kitchen-spoon and similar

household utensils. Why do you look at me incredulously? Do you think I

have been all my life a plain old maid? I, too, was once seventeen

years old, and by no means ill-looking--naturally not to be compared to

what is now sitting opposite me--not a regular feature in my whole

pretty face, no form, no style, merely the ordinary _beaute du diable_.

But, if one may trust certain evidences--though my archives of sonnets,

ball-favors, and other delicate offerings of the sort are burned, to be

sure--I was as neat and attractive a young person as thousands of

others. I had plenty of mother wit, you could read in my eyes that I

had a good heart, and, besides, I was by no means poor. Why should I

have lacked suitors? No, my dear, I even had a choice; and although I

do not now understand why I preferred one particular mortal to all

others, I must have known well enough at the time. I dimly remember how

wonderfully happy, joyous, and in love I was! If all had gone on in the

beaten track, I should probably have always been as happy and as much

in love--constancy is my chief fault--even if no longer so joyous. But

this was not to be. My betrothed was drowned while bathing--just think

of it, what an absurd misfortune! I was driven into a brain fever by

the shock and grief; when I got up from it my little _beaute du diable_

had gone to the _diable_. The next few years were spent as a widowed

bride, in tears; and, when these gradually ceased to flow, I was a

plain, prematurely-faded person, with a heart to be sure that had never

yet fairly blossomed out, but about which no one troubled himself

particularly. It was at that time also that we lost our little

property, and I was obliged to take up with some pursuit or other; then

it turned out to be good luck that even as a child at school I had

wasted much time on drawing and painting. Do you believe, dear friend,

that a virtue which one makes in this way out of a necessity--no matter

how deserving it may be--can ever make a mortal thoroughly happy at

heart?"

"Why not, when all kinds of happiness come with it, as has been the

case with you? You visited Italy with that kind old lady about whom you

told me such nice stories the other day; you can work at your art here

in perfect freedom, without anxiety, thanks to the legacy of your

motherly friend; you live in this beautiful city, in the society of

friends and colleagues in art by whom you are respected--is all that

nothing?"

"True, it is a great deal, and yet--I will whisper something in your

ear--let it be entirely between ourselves, and if I did not love you so

unreasonably that you might ask anything of me I would sooner bite off

my tongue than confess it to any living mortal--if I should become, in

the course of time, as celebrated as my namesake (whose pictures, it

must be confessed, always appear to me to be very stupid), or even

should in so far succeed as to become contented with myself as an

artist, I would give up all this exceptional good fortune for an

ordinary, humdrum happiness; a good husband, who need not even be a

remarkable combination of excellences, and a few pretty children, who,

for all I care, might be a little bit boisterous and naughty. There,

now you know all about it, and you will laugh at me because I so

naively confessed to you what we women generally hide like a sin."

"You would certainly have made a splendid housewife," said Julie,

musingly. "You are so good, so warmhearted, so unselfish; you might

have made a husband very happy. I--when I compare myself with you--but

why shouldn't we call each other '_du_?' I have had all sorts of

unpleasant experiences with women friends with whom I have used that

familiar form, and that is the reason I have been so slow about it with

you--. Stop, stop, you must leave my head on my shoulders!--you are

squeezing me to death--if I had only known it sooner! And who knows but

what if you learn to know me better--."

The artist had thrown away palette and maulstick, and had, after her

enthusiastic fashion, rushed upon the adored friend who had at last

made this return for her worship.

"If I should know you a hundred years, I'll take care to love you a

hundred times more dearly!" she cried, as, kneeling down before Julie,

she folded her hands in her lap with a droll vivacity, and gazed

reverentially through her spectacles at the beautiful face.

"No," said her friend earnestly, "you do not really know me yet. Have

you any suspicion that by my own fault I have thrown away that

happiness for which you long, because, even as my best friends said, I

was heartless?"

"Nonsense!" cried Angelica. "You heartless? Then I am a crocodile and

live on human flesh!"

Julie smiled.

"Were they right? Perhaps. I don't believe it myself. But you know it

is such a universal fashion to show one's self 'full of heart,' to

express feeling, sympathy, tenderness, even when one remains perfectly

cold, that the Cordelias will always be at a disadvantage. Even when

very young, and perhaps by inheritance from my father, who was a

strict, and on the surface a severe, old soldier, not much given to

demonstrations--even when a school-girl I felt a disgust for sweetness

and suavity, for affected sentimentality and humility--for all that

conventional amiability behind which the most cruel envy, the most icy

egotism, lurk concealed. I could never take kindly to sentimental

bosom-friendship, to compacts of the heart for life and death, that

were suddenly broken up by a ball-room rivalry, an honest reproof, or

even by pure _ennui_. My first experience in this respect was my

last. And how much sincere liking, and fidelity, and unappreciated

self-sacrifice I wasted on this child's play! From that time forth I

knew how to take better care of myself. And, in truth, it was not

difficult for me to keep guard over my heart. I lived with my old

parents, who both appeared, on the surface, dry and pedantic; but who

understood the art of making for themselves and me a rich, warm, and

beautiful life, that gave my thoughts and feelings ample nourishment. I

modeled myself after them, and spoke much the same language. I must

indeed have borne myself rather strangely, when, in the society of

young people, I expressed myself with regard to certain conventional

feelings in scornful terms which might have been pardoned to an old

soldier, but which did not become his daughter. I meant no harm with it

all. On many occasions, when others were moved to tears or enthusiasm,

I really experienced no sensation whatever, unless it were a feeling of

discomfort. But as often as anything really touched me--beautiful

music, a poem or some solemn impression of Nature, I became perfectly

dumb, and could not join in the enthusiastic prattle that went on in

the circle about me. Out of pure contempt for phrases, I assumed, in

defiance of my real feelings, to be cool and critical, and had to bear

being told that there was no getting on with me, that these secret joys

must always remain closed to me, a girl without a heart. I smiled at

this, and my smile confirmed these fine-strung souls in their belief in

my lack of feeling. As it so happened that I found none of them all

amiable enough to love in spite of these bad practices, I didn't care

in the least for my isolation. I had fared thus with my own sex, and

soon I was to find that I did not succeed much better with young men. I

was not long in observing that the stronger sex merely had other, and

by no means more amiable, weaknesses than we; above all, that they were

much vainer, and so care most for those of us who are willing to do

homage to their manly superiority. What is generally called maidenly

modesty, womanly tenderness, and virginal feeling--is it not, in ninety

cases out of a hundred, a craftily-planned artificial stratagem for

making fools of these mighty lords of creation? Here they find what

they want. Do they not meet in this pliant, yielding, dependent being

the best supplement to their dominant natures, the most touching

submission to their higher will, an accurately-toned echo of all their

most excellent wishes and thoughts? Afterward, when the purpose of the

pretty comedy has been attained, the mask is laid aside quickly enough;

we good lambs show that we, too, have a will and a mind and a power of

our own, and the beautiful delusion is rudely dissipated. As soon as I

had come to clearly recognize this, I felt the bitterest disgust for

it. Soon, however, I was forced to laugh, and to say to myself, this

farce is as old as the world! If, notwithstanding this, the proud lords

of creation still permit themselves to be deceived, they must, in one

way or another, find some advantage in it. But I could not even then

bring myself to join in the game, as I saw all the rest do. I cared

nothing for the object which made these petty means holy to all the

others. Merely to please the men in general? To do this I had no need

to exert myself especially, for I resembled my mother, who had passed

for a beauty. And to have won the _love_ of a man it would have been

necessary for him to have first taken _my_ fancy, for him to have first

become dangerous to _me_. But it never came to that. Really, I often

thought, have you a heart, or have you none, since it feels nothing at

all in the society of these gay officers, students, and artists, who

are such good dancers, have such a triumphant mien, and such faultless

white cravats, and who, with the most condescending superiority, allow

themselves to be enticed into the share by all these timid, blushing,

demure, sweet creatures, who are all the while secretly laughing in

their sleeves."

Julie paused for a while with downcast eyes. "It is strange," said she,

with a sigh, "how we happened to come upon these old stories! You must

know, my dear, they are _really_ very old--older than you think. I

shall soon be thirty-one years old! When I first began to make these

observations I was eighteen--now you can subtract for yourself. If I

had married then, I might now have had a daughter twelve years old.

Instead of that I am a well-preserved old maid, and my only admirer is

a silly painter, who has fallen in love with me merely out of a whim

for color."

"No," said Angelica, who, in the mean time, had zealously gone on with

her painting, "I won't be put aside in that way. I always did consider

the men pretty stupid, because, as you very rightly said, they allow

themselves to be caught by such clumsy tricks and artifices. But that

they should not have recognized your worth, that they should not have

cut each others' throats about you--as they did before Troy for that

Grecian witch--that is really incomprehensible to me! They cannot all

be so conceited and foolish; and, after all, there must be a few--I,

myself, have known one or two--. But please lower your chin just a

trifle."

"Yes, it is true," continued Julie, "there are a few. I have even come

across one for whose sake I myself might finally have been induced to

take part in the comedy, had not all talent for that kind of thing been

denied me. What his name was, how he came to know me, cannot matter to

you. He long ago married another, and has probably forgotten all of me

but my name--if not that. I--one of us never forgets such an

experience, even when it lies dead and buried in some corner of our

hearts; for that I had a heart, as well as other people, I discovered

at that time only too plainly--I pleased him exceedingly--he took care

to let me see this on every occasion--and then he really was better by

far, and much less infected by conceit and selfishness than most of the

others; and my straight-forward way of showing myself just as I was,

without affecting any coquettish sensibility, seemed to be attractive

to him because of its very rarity. As he was rich, and my parents were

well off, there was, on the other hand, no outward hinderance in our

way. And so, although no binding words had been exchanged, we were

tacitly looked upon as a match--I think the men relinquished me to him

much more honestly than my female friends gave up this much-sought man

to me. To be sure I myself was, even in this case, at least outwardly

much cooler and more reserved than happy lovers generally. I was, at

heart, deeply attached to the man of my choice; but there was always

mixed with it a silent fear, a sort of lack of sympathy--perhaps a

prophetic impulse of my heart that warned me not to give myself up

absolutely and entirely to this love. And, one day, during a

conversation about an accident in a Brazilian mine, where fifty men had

suddenly been killed by an explosion of fire-damp, the storm burst upon

me, and I had to suffer with those distant victims. All were deeply

lamenting over the occurrence, as is the fashion. I remained silent;

and when my betrothed asked me whether the terrible accident had

absolutely petrified me, I said I could not help it, but it affected me

very little more than if I had read in some history that in some

battle, a thousand years ago, ten thousand men had perished. The misery

of this world was so near us daily and hourly, and we were, for the

most part, so culpably indifferent to it, that I could not understand

why I should all of a sudden be expected to feel so much sympathy for a

misfortune which only attracted attention because it was in the latest

newspaper; and which was, moreover, a very common one and not even

accompanied by especially horrible circumstances. I had scarcely said

this when they all fell upon me--at first, of course, in a joking way,

and my old nickname--'the heartless girl'--was raked up again; but, as

I kept quiet and rather sharply repelled the accusations of these

delicate souls, their tempers became more and more aroused, and the

most zealous sermons on philanthropy were launched at me by the very

ones who would not have given a drink of water to a sick dog, and who

would only succor a poor man if it didn't make them too much trouble.

My friend, too, had grown silent, after having at first attempted to

take my part. But, like a thorough man--for such he always remained--he

could not conceal from himself the frightful truth that I was by no

means sufficiently soft and womanly in my feelings. My combative spirit

began to trouble him more and more--I could see this clearly--but now

all my pride was enlisted against any smoothing over or suppression of

my true nature. Although I was very near bursting into tears, I kept up

my bravery, fought out my case, and had the miserable satisfaction of

appearing to bear off the victory. A dearly-purchased victory! From

this evening my lover perceptibly began to draw back, my 'best friend'

took it upon herself to enlighten him more and more concerning my

character; and since she herself possessed those very traits which were

lacking in me, and which alone, it is said, can guarantee the happiness

of marriage, nothing could be more natural than that before three weeks

were up he should become engaged to this sympathetic being, who for

thirteen years now has--. But I will say nothing bad of her. She has

certainly done _me_ a great service, for, perhaps, I might not have

made this man much happier. And, at the time, she spared me a hard

spiritual struggle. Had I been actually engaged, I might, perhaps, have

hesitated to fulfill the duties that my poor mother had a right to

demand of me. For you must know that my father died very suddenly, and

then it appeared that the mother of the heartless girl--who also passed

for a cold character--concealed a much more passionate love under an

austere exterior than most old women are accustomed to retain beyond

their silver-wedding. The death of her old husband first threw my

mother into a serious illness, and then into a half-wandering state, in

which she lived on for many years, to her torture and to mine!"

She paused; then she suddenly stood up and stepped to the artist's side

behind the easel.

"Pardon me, dear," she said, "but I think you ought to stop. Every

additional stroke of the brush that tones down or paints away anything

will make it look less like me. Look at me more carefully--am I really

that blooming creature that beams upon the world from out that canvas?

Twelve years of denial, loneliness, and living entombment, have they

left no trace upon my face? That is the way I might have looked,

perhaps, had I known happiness. They say, you know, happiness preserves

youth. But I--I am horribly old! And yet, in reality, I have not begun

to live!"

She turned hastily away and walked to the window.

Angelica laid aside her palette, went softly up to her, and threw her

arm about her agitated friend.

"Julie," said she, "when _you_ speak that way--you, who by a mere smile

could tame wild animals and drive tame men mad!"

She turned to her comforter, and the tears stood in her eyes.

"Oh, my dear," she said, "what nonsense you are talking! How often I

have envied a young peasant girl, with an ugly, stupid face, who

brought us eggs and milk, simply because she could come and go as she

liked, and moved among living beings! But I--can you conceive what it

means to have constantly at your side a being whom you cannot but love,

and yet whom you are forced to look upon as one dead, as a living

ghost; to hear the voice that once caressed you utter senseless

sounds, to see the eye that once beamed on you so warmly, strange and

dimmed--the eye, the voice, of your own mother? And this, year in and

year out--and this half-dead being only waked into anxiety and

agitation whenever I made an attempt to leave her. For, truly, when I

had borne it a year, I thought I was being crushed by it, without

feeling the satisfaction that the sacrifice of my life could be of any

possible service to this most miserable being. Yet as often as she

missed me for a longer time than the few hours daily to which she had

become accustomed, she lapsed into the most violent uneasiness, and

only became quiet again when she saw me once more. I had to reconcile

myself to the idea that I was necessary to her existence--to an

existence that I could by no possibility make happy, or enliven, or

even lighten. For so long as I was at her side she scarcely noticed me;

indeed, she often appeared not even to recognize me. And still she

could not exist without me; and in the asylum, to which she was once

carried for the sake of an experiment, she lapsed into a state so

pitiable that even 'a girl without a heart' could not but be moved by

it."

"Horrible! And you lived with her in this way for twelve long years?"

"For twelve long years! Does it still seem to you so incomprehensible,

so 'stupid' of the men that they did not positively force themselves

upon a girl who would have brought, with a little bit of beauty and

property, this face into their house? No, dear, the men are not so

stupid, after all. Even if I had been engaged, and had loved my lover

with my whole heart, I could never have expected him to join his life

to that of a woman who was chained fast to so horrible a lot."

"But now, since you have become free--"

"Free! A fine freedom to be allowed to dance when the ball is over, to

console myself with artificial or painted flowers for the rosy time

that was neglected. I once read somewhere that happiness is like wine;

if one does not drink up the entire cask at once, but pours some of it

into bottles, some time one will have the good of it. It will have time

to ripen and become nobler, if it is of the right sort. There may be

some truth in this; but, no matter how noble it may be, the old wine

has lost its bouquet. The happiness that one hasn't enjoyed when young

has a bitter taste; and, for that matter, who guarantees that I shall

ever slake my thirst again? Many thousands never moisten their lips,

and live soberly on. Why should I fare better? Because I have more

beauty than many! That would be fine, indeed! Fate is not in the least

gallant, and draws up its decrees without regard to persons. Now, when

I stand before the glass, I always see the same well-known face that

has lost its youth. I seem to myself like a silk dress that has hung in

the closet for twelve years. When one takes it out it is still silk,

but the color has faded, the folds tear when it is touched, and when it

is shaken out fly the moths! But I have let enough of them fly out of

my head to-day. There is no use in going over old experiences. Come! we

will paint a little more, and then go and take a drive--for what is our

glorious liberty for?"

CHAPTER II.

In Jansen's studio, too, there was more talking than working going on

this morning.

Edward Rossel had, at last, in spite of the heat, summoned up

sufficient energy to undertake the short walk thither. A gigantic

Panama hat, over which he also held a sunshade, protected his head;

besides this he wore a summer suit of snow-white pique, and light shoes

of yellow leather.

He was in a very good humor, praised Felix for the assiduity with which

he continued to study his skeleton, and then stepped up to the Dancing

Girl, to which Jansen had just put the finishing touches.

He stood silently before it for some time, then he drew up a chair near

it and begged Jansen to turn the stand so that he would be able to view

the work from all sides.

His friends declared that it was a pleasure to see him look at

anything. His glances seemed to fairly fasten upon the form, or rather

to take it all in; all the muscles of his face became animated, and an

intellectual tension curved his somewhat languid mouth.

"Well," asked Jansen, at last, "how does it strike you? You know I can

bear anything."

"_Est, est, est!_ What is there to be said about it, especially?

Naturally, it has gained and lost, as is always the case. The innocent

audacity, the Pompeian _abandon_, that charmed me in the little sketch

has, as a whole, suffered in the execution. You might do better,

perhaps, to disguise your respect for Nature a little more. And,

by-the-way--with all respect for this Nature--what sort of a model did

you have? Of course it is very strongly idealized?"

"Not in the least. A pure _facsimile_."

"What? This neck and breast, these shoulders, arms--"

"A conscientious copy, without any additions."

Fat Rossel stood up.

"I should have to see that to believe it," he said. "Look here,

compared with this the conventionalities of Canova are mere wretched

sugar-work. And that is what I was just going to say to you--the

Grecian element that was in the sketch is gone. In its place there are

a grace, an _esprit_, an elegance of form--and that, too, of a

spontaneous sort. Don't you find it so, my dear baron? You are a lucky

man, Hans, to have such a being run into your hands. In what garden did

this little slip grow?"

Jansen shrugged his shoulders.

"Come, out with it, old Jealousy! You need not lend her to me for any

length of time--only for one forenoon. I happen to have a composition

in mind, for which this little one--"

"You will have to run after luck more persistently than the law of your

laziness permits," added Jansen, quietly. "I myself didn't catch it by

the forelock this time without some trouble; and, although this

forelock is very thick, and shone before me in the most beautiful

red--"

"Red hair? Now no dodges will help you, Jansen, you must hand her over

to me. Something of this sort has floated before my fancy for weeks

past--something of the wood-nymph, water-nymph nature."

"Hand her over! But it isn't in my power. Friend Felix happened to drop

in, the second time she was with me. She took this so to heart that,

since then, she has disappeared, leaving no traces behind her."

"Is there virtue under this beautiful exterior? So much the better.

Nature will enjoy her natural bounds all the longer, and so virtue will

also tend to the benefit of art. Tell me where she lives--the rest

shall be my care."

He noted down the address, which was written in charcoal on the wall

near the window, and then advanced toward the large, veiled group in

the middle of the studio.

"How far have you got with the Eve?"

"Unfortunately, I can't show her to you to-day," replied Jansen,

quickly. "She is just at a stage--"

"What the devil!" laughed Fat Rossel; "this looks very dangerous! How

long is it since you have fastened your cloths down with safety pins?

Don't you want the priests to snuff around here when they wander in

from the saint-factory?"

A knock on the door relieved Jansen from the evident embarrassment of

answering. The door opened, and Angelica, in her painting-jacket and

with her brush behind her ear, just as she had come from her easel,

appeared on the threshold.

"Good-day, Herr Jansen," she said. "Ah! I am disturbing you. You have

company. I will come again later--I merely had a favor to ask."

"And you hesitate to give utterance to this request before a colleague

and old admirer?" cried Rossel, going up to the artist and gallantly

kissing her hand. "If you only knew, Fraeulein Angelica how this

undeserved slight hurt my tender heart!"

"Herr Rossel," continued the artist, "you are a scoffer, and, as a

punishment for boasting of a tender heart, which you do not possess,

you shall not be given a chance to see something beautiful. I simply

wished to request Herr Jansen to come and look at my picture, for I

have just had my last sitting, and my friend has given me permission.

She knows how important his judgment is to me."

"But if I vow to be very good, and not to open my mouth--"

"You have such a deprecating way of screwing up the corners--"

"I will hold my hat before my face--only my eyes shall peep over the

rim."

"For Heaven's sake, come then! although I don't place much confidence

in your most solemn vows. I place myself under Herr Jansen's

protection; and if the Herr Baron would perhaps like to come too?"

Jansen had not spoken a word, but, with conspicuous haste had exchanged

his frock for a coat and had washed the dust from his hands.

When they entered the studio above, they found Rosenbusch already

engaged in the most enthusiastic admiration of the picture, while, at

the same time, he endeavored in his chivalrous way, to bestow at least

half of his enthusiasm upon the original.

Julie had risen and gone toward his chair. When she saw Angelica return

with a triple escort, instead of the one she expected, she seemed

slightly confused. But the next moment she greeted the gentlemen, whom

Angelica introduced to her, with easy grace.

A pause followed. Jansen had stepped before the picture, and, with the

great authority which he enjoyed in this circle, not even Edward

himself dared to say a word before he had expressed his opinion. It was

Jansen's way not to reduce his impression immediately to words. But, on

this occasion, he remained silent unusually long.

"Tell me frankly, dear friend," Angelica began at last, "that I have

once more undertaken something that deserves the palm for no other

reason than for its audacity. If you only knew what contemptuous

epithets I have heaped upon myself while I was painting! I have made

myself out so bad, have so run myself down, that Homo would not take a

piece of bread from me if he had heard me. And yet, in the midst of my

dejection, I still took such unheard-of pleasure in my daubery that, do

what I would, I could not let my courage sink. If my friend were not

present, I should be able to explain to you the reason for this. As it

is, it would seem in very bad taste if I should forthwith make her a

declaration of love in the presence of witnesses."

The sculptor still remained silent. At last he said, dryly,

"You may set your mind at rest, Angelica. Don't you know very well that

this is not only your best picture, but, moreover, a most excellent

performance, such as one only too seldom meets with nowadays?"

A deep blush of joyful embarrassment suffused the good-natured, round

face of the painter.

"Is that your candid opinion?" cried she. "Oh, my dear Jansen! if it

only is not meant as a salve for the goadings of my own conscience--"

Jansen did not answer. He was once more deeply absorbed in the

contemplation of the picture. Now and then he cast a critical glance at

the original, who stood quietly by and appeared to be thinking of other

things.

In the mean while Edward labored zealously to efface the bad opinion

that Angelica had formed of his love for critical mockery. He praised

the work highly in detail--the drawing, the arrangement, the successful

coloring, and the simple light effects, and what he found to criticise

in the details of the technique only served to heighten the worth of

his commendation as a whole.

"But, do you know," he said, enthusiastically, "this is only one way to

do it, a very skillful and talented way, but by no means the only one.

What do you say, for instance, to dark-red velvet, a light golden chain

around the neck, a dark carnation in the hair--_a la Paris Bordone_? or

a gold brocade--I happen to have a magnificent genuine costume at home,

that was sent to me last week from Venice? or shall we have simply the

hair disheveled, a dark dress, behind it a laurel-bush--"

"And so on, with graces _in infinitum_!" laughed the painter. "You must

know, Julie, this gentleman has already painted thousands of the most

magnificent pictures--unfortunately nearly all in imagination. No, my

dear Rossel, we are obliged to you. We are only too glad to have

accomplished it in this very modest way, and to have received so

favorable a criticism. My dear friend, although she is an angel of

patience, has had quite enough to do with the fine arts for some time

to come."

"O, Angelica!" sighed Rossel with comical pathos, "you are merely

jealous: you will vouchsafe to no other person the good fortune that

has been accorded to you. Now, what if I had always been waiting for

just such a task, so that I, too, might produce something immortal?"

"You?--your laziness is all that is immortal about you!" replied the

painter.

They continued for a while to chaff and plague one another, Rosenbusch

and Felix also contributing their share. Jansen alone did not jest, and

Julie, too, took advantage of her slight acquaintance to take no

further part in the conversation than common politeness demanded.

After the men had gone, a long silence followed between the two

friends. The artist had taken up her palette again, in order that she

might, after all, make use of Rossel's hints. Suddenly she said:

"Well, how did he please you?"

"Who?"

"Why, of course, there can be only one in question: the one who exerted

himself least to please anybody, not even you."

"Jansen? Why, I scarcely know him!"

"One knows such men in the first quarter of an hour, when one is as old

as we two are. It is just that which distinguishes the great men and

the thorough artists from the petty and the half-way ones--one knows

the lion by his claws. Just one look, and you will believe him capable

of the most incredible and superhuman things."

"I really believe, my dear, you are in--"

"Love with him! No. I am, at all events, sensible enough not to let

anything so nonsensical as that enter my head. But, if he were to say

to me: 'I should take it as a favor, Angelica, if you would just eat

this bladder-full of flake-white for your breakfast,' or, 'if you would

try to paint with your foot, it would afford me a personal pleasure,' I

believe I should not hesitate a moment. I should think he must

undoubtedly have his reasons for it, and that I was only too stupid to

comprehend them. Don't you see, such is my immovable faith in this

unprecedented man, so impossible does it seem to me that he could do

anything small, foolish, or even commonplace. Something horrible--yes,

something monstrous and insane--I could believe him capable of, and who

knows whether he has not really done something of the sort? He has

something about him like a little Vesuvius, that stands there in the

sun peacefully enough, and yet everybody knows what is boiling inside.

His friends say of Jansen that, if the Berserker once breaks out in

him, he is a bad man to deal with. I felt this from the first, with an

unerring instinct, and I hardly dared to sneeze in his presence. Then I

chanced to meet him in the garden, near the fountain, where he was

combing his Homo, and showing himself pretty awkward at it. He struck

me then as being so helpless that I could not help laughing and

offering myself as a lady's maid for the dog, at which he showed great

delight. That broke the ice between us, and, since then, I take the

most inconceivable liberties with him, although my heart still

continues to thump if he chances to look at me in his quiet, steady

way, for a minute at a time."

Julie was silent. After some time she said, suddenly:

"It is true he has eyes such as I have never before seen in a man. One

can read in those eyes that he is not happy; all his genius cannot make

him glad. Don't you find it so, too? Wonderfully lonely eyes! Like

a man who has lived long, years in a desert, and has seen no living

soul--nothing but earth and sun. Do you know anything of his life?"

"No. He himself never speaks of it. Nor do any of the others know

what he may not have gone through before he came to Munich. That was

about five years ago. But now, if you will just sit still a moment

longer--so!--it's only for the reflection in the left eye, and the

retouching about the mouth."

Then the painting went on for another hour in silence.

CHAPTER III.

On the outskirts of the "English Garden" there lies, among other

pleasure-resorts of its class, the so-called "Garden of Paradise." In

the midst of a grove stands a large, stately building, at the laying of

whose corner-stone no one would have ventured to predict that it would

some day become a place of refuge for so mixed a company. Here, on

summer days, merry and thirsty folk are wont to gather round the tables

and benches, while a band plays from a covered platform. But the large

hall on the ground floor of the house is generally used for dancing,

while the lower side-wings are opened for spectators and for couples

that are resting from the waltz.

It was eleven o'clock at night, A thunderstorm, that had gathered

toward evening, had prevented the advertised garden-concert from taking

place. When the storm had scattered again after a few harmless

thunderclaps, the seats filled up very slowly; and the beer-drawer at

the open booth among the trees had plenty of time to doze between the

stray mugs that were handed in to him to be filled. For this reason the

garden had been closed earlier than usual; and when it struck eleven

the house lay as still and deserted as though there were not a living

being within.

And yet the long hall in the left wing, which was reached from the

garden by a few steps, was, if not actually as light as day, at all

events sufficiently illuminated by a dozen lamps along the wall. In the

rear, where at this time scarcely any one passed through the deserted

street, the upper, semicircular part of the windows was left open for

the sake of ventilation, while the lower part remained tightly closed.

Dark figures approached along the street, singly, or in groups of two

or three just as they chanced to come together, and entered the house

by the back door. On the side toward the English Garden everything

remained as dark and lifeless as was ever an old wall behind which

counterfeiters ply their trade in dimly-lighted cellars.

The interior of the hall was, when seen by daylight, not altogether

unornamented. The inspired hand of some house-painter had covered the

wall spaces between the windows with bold landscape conceptions _al

fresco_, where were to be seen, amid fabulous castles, cities,

river-gorges, and wooded ravines, blue wanderers strolling about in

green hats, and horsemen careering on chargers of very questionable

anatomy, followed by dogs that belonged to no known race. In the

dazzling blue sky above these outgrowths of a cheery decorator's

fantasy, sometimes through a tree-top or the slanting pinnacle of a

robber-castle, a society of carpenters' apprentices, which met here

once a week, had driven large nails that they might hang up

symmetrically their various diplomas, decorated with pictures and

mottoes, and dotted with little balls.

But, on the night of which we speak, all this splendor had disappeared

behind a thick veil of growing plants. Tall evergreen bushes stood

between the windows, and stretched their slender branches to the roof,

so that the squalid walls seemed transformed into a tropical garden. A

long, narrow table, with green, big-bellied flagons, occupied the

middle of the room, and in a corner was a cask, about the polished tap

of which hung a wreath of roses, while on a little table near by stood

baskets with white rolls and a few plates of fruit.

Only a few dozen chairs surrounded the table, and these were not more

than half occupied, when Jansen and Felix entered the room. Through the

light haze of lamplight and tobacco-smoke they could discern the pale

face of Elfinger beside the battle-painter's blooming countenance; the

fez-covered head of Edward Rossel, comfortably reclining in an American

rocking-chair and smoking a chibouque; then one and another of the

artists who had occasionally shown themselves in Jansen's studio.

Nothing like a servant was anywhere to be seen; and each, as soon as he

had emptied his glass, went himself to the cask and filled it. Some

strolled, chatting, along the green hedge up and down the hall; others

sat, absent and expectant, in their places, as though in a theatre

before the beginning of the play; and only Fat Rossel, who alone

rejoiced in a comfortable seat, seemed to blow clouds of smoke up to

the ceiling as if already in a true paradisaic frame of mind.

As Felix approached him, there arose at his side a tall, thin figure in

a hunting-blouse, with high riding-boots, and a short French pipe

between his lips. Once before, while walking in the street, Felix had

caught a hasty glimpse of this singularly-shaped face, with its

choleric complexion and its close-cropped hair, its coal-black

imperial, and a broad scar across the right temple; its owner had been

mounted on a handsome English horse, which had attracted his attention

more than the rider. This man managed his lank limbs awkwardly and

clumsily, as if he had lost his natural balance the moment that he

ceased to feel his horse between his legs. Besides, he had a way of

either continually pulling at his goatee, or of twitching the lobe of

his right ear. Felix noticed that he wore a little gold ring in his

left ear. The right one was disfigured; the earring, that had once been

worn there, seemed to have been torn out by force at some time or

other.

"I take the liberty of introducing myself," said the lank individual,

bowing to Felix with soldierly formality. "My name is Aloys von

Schnetz, a first-lieutenant on the retired list; as a friend of the

seven liberal arts, I am allowed the honor of entering this Paradise.

Inasmuch as amphibious creatures undoubtedly existed even in the garden

of God, therefore a being like myself, who occupies a middle place, at

once an aristocrat and a proletarian, no longer a soldier, for good

reasons, and also not an artist--unfortunately for still better

reasons--may be said not to be out of place among good people, of whom

each has some pretty definite aims and powers. You, too, as Fat Rossel

has just confided to me, belong, to a certain extent, to my class,

although I hope and trust that you represent a somewhat more edifying

species. Come, take a seat here by my side. There are people who

declare that I put them out of humor. I am accused of giving myself

great pains to see the world as it is, and to call things by their

right names; sensitive natures call that cynicism, and find it

unpleasant. But you shall see it is not so bad, and here in Paradise I

try to forget, as far as possible, that we pick sour apples from the

tree of knowledge. However, I ought, like a true amphibian, to conduct

you, after so dry an introduction, into a moist element."

He set his long, Don-Quixote legs in motion toward the cask, filled two

bumpers and brought them back to Felix.

"We have become converted to wine," he said, growling it out in a half

ironical, half bitter tone; "although, strictly speaking, it is an

anachronism, as it is well known that wine was given to mankind as a

compensation for a lost Paradise. Beer, on the other hand, is entirely

an invention of the darker middle ages, to make men mere idle slaves to

the priests, and it has never yet occurred to any one to seek truth

anywhere but in wine. So, then, here's to your health, and hoping that

you may succeed better than I have in becoming one of these primitive

men!"

Felix knocked glasses with his queer new friend, and then proceeded to

observe the unknown persons who had in the mean while strolled in.

Schnetz gave him their names. Most of them had passed their first

youth. Only one boyish face, of a foreign cast, gazed dreamily with

big, black eyes into the cloud of smoke that circled up from his

cigarette. It was, Schnetz told his neighbor, that of a young Greek

painter, twenty-two years old, who was, in spite of his delicate,

almost girl-like appearance, a dangerous lady-killer. He was not really

intimately acquainted with any of them, and only Rossel's intercession

in his favor and his talent, which was by no means slight, had procured

him the entrance into this circle.

A little, bent old man, with delicate features and snow-white hair, was

the last to enter. He hung his hat and cloak on a nail, and took his

seat in the only unoccupied chair at the upper end of the table near

Jansen, who gave him a kindly welcome.

Felix was surprised at the presence of an old man amid this rising

generation. To be sure, Schnetz, too, was no longer a youth--he might

well be over forty. But in every muscle of his sinewy figure throbbed a

suppressed energy, while it was evident that the quiet, white-haired

old man, who sat at the upper end of the table, had long since left

behind him the storms and struggles of life.

"I see that you are puzzling your head about our 'creator,'" said

Schnetz, twisting his goatee. "For that matter I don't know much more

about his intimate affairs than I do about the personal experiences of

the real Deity. That he is an artist, or rather that he was once--of

that there can be no doubt. Every word that he utters, when the

conversation turns upon art, proves this. He undoubtedly belongs,

however, to a geological stratum whose fauna has died out. Nor has any

one of us ever seen one of his works, or known how or where or from

what he lives. His name is Schoepf; and when, three years ago, while

our Paradise was still in its infancy, he was introduced here by

Jansen--whom he had visited in his studio, and whose interest he had

speedily known how to enlist--we permitted ourselves the cheap joke of

twisting Schoepf into Schoepfer,[2] and at the same time of appointing

him host and chief steward of the Paradise. At that time we still

reveled in buffoonery of that sort, each of us bearing some kind of

appropriate nickname; and we continued to keep this up until at last

the cheap joke was run into the ground. But we had grown to like and

respect the old man, who showed himself such a quiet and friendly

providence that the first man could hardly have boasted of a better

one. He looks after all our business affairs, takes charge of the

society's treasury, selects our wine, and keeps an eye on the gardener

who decorates our hall. With all this we see him but once a month.

During the intervening period he vanishes. When we hold our masked

ball, at which the _daughters_ of Eve are also allowed to appear, he

makes himself useful until the first stroke of the fiddle is given, and

then he creeps off home again."

"It is hardly probable that he can be a native here, if he can play the

_role_ of a mysterious personage so easily."

"Don't you believe it. Here in Munich there are a large number of such

subterranean existences, whose strange ways and dodges escape

attention--ay, even common gossip--for the reason that here there is no

society, in the true sense of the word. In every other city of equal,

or even of greater size, one knows pretty well what his dear fellow-men

are about; at least this is the case in regard to the notable ones who

rise above the common level--one knows what they have to pay their

tailor with, or how much they are owing him. But this place swarms with

amphibious beings of both sexes who, when they are no longer able to

keep above water, dive down into a more or less turbid element, where

they become invisible. I myself have already had the honor of

introducing myself to you as such a dual being; not that the ground is

unsteady under my feet--I quitted the service of my own accord from

personal motives--but the dryness up there on the surface became

unbearable for me; I am one of the malcontents, of whom you see so many

here, who have slammed the door in the face of so-called good society,

partly because it is insipid, partly because it is base, and who now,

in paradisaic freedom, are trying to find their world in their friends.

But your glass is still full! Come! You must do our Jordan more honor."

"A Jordan in Paradise? My geography does not go so far as that, or

perhaps new discoveries have--"

Schnetz had just began to explain to him that this noble wine came from

the vineyard of Herr Jordan at Deidesheim, and that for this reason

they had agreed to transfer the river of the promised land into India

on their maps, when Elfinger rose and informed them that it was "his

turn" to-night, and that he had prepared something, but that first some

sketches would be exhibited.

Upon this a number of studies were passed around the table, landscape

sketches, and plans and designs of all kinds--among others the drawings

of a young architect for the building of a special hall for the

Paradise Club, which excited great applause, and called forth the most

amusing propositions as to the manner in which funds should be raised

to cover the cost of this most timely work.

In the mean while an insignificant-looking, lean man, with an

awkward manner, and wearing a threadbare coat that was buttoned

tight to conceal the absence of a waistcoat, had taken a large gray

sheet of paper from a portfolio, had fastened it with tacks to the

window-shutter, so that the lamps on the wall threw a pretty strong

light upon it, and had then stepped back in order to invite an

inspection of his work. It was a pen and ink sketch, full of figures,

the lights touched up with white, but done with so complete a disregard

of effect that the composition appeared, at the first glance, to be a

strangely-confused swarm, in which it was impossible to make out either

the details or the plan as a whole.

"Our Cornelian, Philip Emanuel Kohle!" growled Schnetz. "Another of

those unlucky erratic bowlders in the midst of the flat common of our

modern art, torn from the summit of some heaven-aspiring mountain, and

then rolled, a strange intruder, into the fertile plain of mediocrity,

where no one knows what to do with it. Let us go nearer. These outline

fanatics scorn to produce an effect at a distance."

"I have taken for my subject," explained the artist, "a poem of

Hoelderlin's--you undoubtedly all know it--Hyperion's song of fate--or,

if it has escaped your recollection--I have brought the text with me."

Upon this he drew from his pocket a very dog'seared little book and

read the verses, although he knew them by heart. As he proceeded his

cheeks flushed, his eyes sparkled, and his whole meagre figure appeared

to grow in height; and when he finished there was silence for a while

in the group that was examining the drawing.

The artist still seemed to have an explanation to make, but he did not

utter it: as if, after such words of genius, any prosaic paraphrase

would be a desecration. And, indeed, the singular composition now

sufficiently explained itself.

A mountain, whose base covered the whole lower breadth of the large

sheet, rose up in jagged tiers like a tower, and ended in a smooth

plateau, on which were seen reclining, veiled in a light cloud, the

figures of gods assembled about a banquet table, while others, with

winged feet, either strolled about singly or arm-in-arm, or amused

themselves with dance and song. All seemed a dreamy, floating whirl of

forms, heightened here and there by abrupt foreshortenings of the long

limbs and by angular effects of drapery. Among these Olympian figures,

but separated by an impassable barrier of cloud and storm, could be

seen the races of mankind, in the most various and spirited groups,

suffering all the woes of mortals. Nearest the gods, and hallowed as it

were by their proximity, children were playing and lovers were

whispering; but the paths that branched off soon led to scenes of

suffering and misery, and certain symbolical figures, which were

scattered in among the human forms at the principal passes of the

mountain, made manifest the intention of the designer to represent both

the effects and power of vice and passion, while the division into

seven stages pointed to the seven deadly sins. A solemn, unbending

earnestness, and a certain loftiness in their submission to this

downfall--

"Through long years into the uncertain depths below"--

gave to this somewhat unwieldy composition a great depth of feeling

which animated even what was grotesque, and impressed upon the stronger

parts the unmistakable stamp of a great mind.

The mere number of the figures occupied the attention for a long time;

then followed all sorts of criticism, which the designer bore without

contradiction--no one knew whether from defenselessness or secret

obstinacy. For Jansen's opinion only did he watch with eagerness, who,

after his usual fashion, allowed the others to talk, while he merely

pointed now and then with an eloquent finger to some defective spot.

The only one who had remained quietly seated, and who had looked at the

sheet across the table and down the whole length of the hall, through a

little ivory opera-glass, was Edward.

At length Rosenbusch, whose high tenor had rung out in enthusiastic

expressions of praise above all the confusion of voices, turned to him.

"What!" he cried, in a hearty tone of challenge, "will not the blessed

gods rouse themselves this once from their reclining-place, and cast a

gracious look upon this work of a mortal?"

"Pardon me, my dear Rosebud," replied Fat Rossel, lowering his voice so

that he should not be heard by Kohle; "you know I like to have what is

beautiful come to me, instead of having to run painfully after it; and

the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel made the most profound impression

upon me, because a man can only enjoy it thoroughly lying on his back.

Concerning this last heaven-towering monument of thought, that my

godfather has set up"--for so he had persisted in calling him

ever since he had aptly, though ironically, christened one of his

unnamed, thoughtful drawings, and Kohle had accepted the title in sober

earnest--"concerning this I am not gymnast enough to follow his motives

up seven stories high without growing giddy. However, when you have all

finished, I will draw up a chair in front of it and go to work; or, to

tell the truth, I should prefer to do it tomorrow alone with him."

"I should be very glad, Rossel, if I might bring you the sketch

to-morrow," stammered the pale man, who had probably overheard the

scoffing words, and had blushed deeply.

"Would you really like it, godfather?" said Edward, with a shake of the

head. "No, my good friend, if my heresies have reached your ears after

all, let us come to an honorable understanding; and here in Paradise,

at all events, let us wear no cloaks. You know that all paintings that

represent thought make my head ache; that, to my mind, a single

thoughtless Venus of Titian outweighs a whole Olympus full of spiritual

motives, such as swarm about like ants over your big pound-cake of an

allegorical mountain. Yes, we are old antipodes, my dear godfather;

which fact, by-the-way, does not lessen our friendship. On the

contrary, when I see how you and your creations are losing flesh

through pure intellect, I feel a hearty compassion mingled with my

esteem. You should try a milk-cure, my good godfather, at the full

breasts of our old mother Nature; you should follow the flesh for a

year or so, instead of high ideas--"

"It is not every tree that has its bark full grown," interposed Kohle,

meekly.

"True. But a tree that has no bark at all!--and, you see, that's just

how your whole style appears to me, you mighty disciple of Cornelius!

We see the complicated structure of your thoughts, we see how the sap

of your ideas circulates through it; all of which is very remarkable

and edifying, but anything rather than artistic. For ought not true art

to work upon us like a higher Nature, without putting forth much

ingenuity and subtilty, without all that complication of poetical

affinities and philosophical _finesse_? No, it should be simple and

plain, but purified by the flame of genius from all weakness, all

defects, and every kind of wretchedness. For instance, in the

contemplation of a beautiful woman, lying there so quietly, or of a

stately senator, or of an 'Adoration of the Kings,' how much does one

think about the ingenuity of the thing? Either it conveys no meaning,

or an incomprehensible one, or even an unprofitable one. And yet it

charms us, even across the whole width of the hall, merely by its

_silhouette_, or its wealth of color, or its simple and majestic

sensuous beauty, such as we seldom or never find in Nature without some

vulgar adjunct. On the other hand, take a poem in picture like the one

before us--I invariably find myself searching at the foot of the frame

to see whether the draughtsman has not added some notes that may serve

to explain the text. A printed paper answers the whole purpose quite as

well, something entitled 'The picture and its description;' and the

dear Philistine who talks about the 'arts of culture'--because he

thinks it is with his own special culture that they have to do--is only

too happy if he can imagine that he is going through some connected

process of thought while he looks at it. But _I_ say, long live the art

that leaves no room for thought! And, now, give me something to drink!"

Schnetz filled his glass for him, which he drained at one draught as if

he were exhausted by his long oration. A painful silence had ensued;

the depreciatory tone in which the words had been spoken had depressed

even those who were of Rossel's way of thinking. At length a mild and

somewhat husky voice was heard proceeding from the upper end of the

table, and they saw that old Schoepf had taken upon himself to defend

the cause of the party attacked.

"You are undoubtedly right in the main, Herr Rossel," said he. "In

the great epochs of art--among the Greeks, and the Italians of the

_cinque-cento_--mind and Nature were inseparably united. But,

unfortunately, they have quarreled since then, and it is quite as rare

to find a painter of the so-called fleshly school who knows how to give

soul to his form as it is to find a poet among draughtsmen who succeeds

perfectly in incorporating his conceptions. In fact it is a period of

extremes, of specialties, and of strife. But is not strife the father

of things? Shall we not hope that from this chaos a new and beautiful

world will crystallize? And, until then, should we not give every one a

chance who fights with honest weapons and open visor? What if there are

artists who have more to say than can be shown? Who cannot look upon

their inner life in such a spirit of tranquil beauty, but see in it a

tragedy which must work itself out in discords? And, indeed, the life

of man, as it is to-day, has passed out of the idyllic stage; on every

side we see intellect leading the van, and enjoyment and pleasure

limping after. An art that shows no traces of this, would that still be

_our_ art?"

"Let it be whatever it liked," cried Fat Rossel, leisurely rising; "it

would be my art at all events. But, naturally, that need matter little

to you. And by the way--I have not once shaken hands with you this

evening, my lord and creator. I do so now, and at the same time I thank

you for so bravely dragging my excellent godfather Kohle from out the

fray. He himself likes to keep his best thoughts in his own breast,

unless he has a chance to sketch them on a sheet of paper. And here in

Paradise no one ought to fall upon his fellow-man in the murderous

fashion that I just did. Kohle, I esteem you. You are a character, and

have the courage of your convictions, in defiance of all the lusts of

the flesh. I thank you, especially, for that poem of Hoelderlin's, that

I confess I did not know, and that is very fine; how does it go?..."

He seated himself with the greatest good-nature by the side of his

"godfather," and began to go thoroughly over the sketch, and to make a

number of keen criticisms of its details. In the mean time the young

Greek had placed in position a large sketch in colors, dashed off in

bold, strong lines; and now this took its turn of criticism.

It had for its subject, as the artist explained in broken German, in a

soft, musical voice, a scene from Goethe's "Bride of Corinth." The

youth had sunk back upon his couch, and his ghostly bride had thrown

herself vampire-like upon him, "eagerly drinking in the flame of his

lips," while the mother, standing outside the door, seemed to be

listening to the suppressed voices, just ready to burst in and disturb

the pair.

Over this work also criticism held its breath for a time, though for a

very different reason. The whole picture breathed such a stifling

spirit of sultry passion that even the members of the Paradise Club,

who most certainly were not prudish, seem to feel that the bounds of

what was permissible had been overstepped.

Once more Rosenbusch was the first to speak.

"There he sits over yonder in the realm of pure spirit," he cried to

Fat Rossel, who was still studying Kohle's work, "while we here are

dealing with pure flesh. Holla! You man of the silhouette and the

beautiful decorative form, come over here and exorcise this demon!"

Edward nodded without looking round; he seemed to know the work

already, and to have no desire to express himself concerning it.

As none of the others uttered a single word, the artist finally

appealed directly to Jansen, and begged for his judgment.

"Hm!" growled the sculptor, "the work is full of talent. Only you have

christened it wrongly--or have forgotten the two veils."

"Christened it wrongly?"

"In the name of Goethe; Saint Priapus stood godfather to it."

"But--the two veils!" stammered the youth, who had cast down his eyes.

"Beauty and horror. Only read the poem. You will see how artistically

everything immodest in it is veiled by these two. And yet--a decidedly

talented work. It will find admirers fast enough."

He turned away and went quietly back to his seat. At the same instant

the young man tore the picture from the wall, and, without saying a

word, held the gilt frame in which it was enclosed over the nearest

lamp.

Perhaps he had expected that some one would seize him by the arm; but

no one stirred. The flame seized eagerly upon the canvas. When a part

was consumed, the young man swung himself upon the window-sill and

hurled the burning picture through the upper part of the window, which

was open, into the dark garden below, where it fell hissing on the damp

gravel.

Upon springing down again he was greeted with general applause, which

he received with a gloomy brow and compressed lips. His hasty act had

evidently given him no inward relief. Nor could even Jansen's kind

greeting succeed immediately in banishing his sinister mood. It was his

innermost nature that he had consigned to this fiery death.

Felix, upon whom this curious incident had made a deep impression, was

just on the point of going up to the youth, whom he saw standing apart

from the others and enveloping himself in a dense cloud of tobacco

smoke, when a clock in one of the church steeples near by announced,

with its twelve slow strokes, that the hour of midnight had arrived.

On the instant all conversation was hushed, the chairs were drawn up in

line; and it then occurred to Felix, for the first time, that Elfinger,

whose "turn" it was this evening, had left the hall some little time

before, in company with Rosenbusch.

The folding-doors that led into the central hall flew open, and

disclosed on the threshold, illuminated by lamps at the sides, and

standing on a framework draped in red, a puppet-theatre that occupied

almost the entire width of the space. The table was quickly pushed to

one side, and the chairs for the spectators were arranged in rows.

After everybody had taken his place, a short prelude was played

upon a flute behind the scenes; and then the curtain in front

of the little stage rose, and a puppet in a dress-coat and black

knee-breeches, carrying his hat in his hand--with the air of a director

who has an official communication to make, or of a dramatic poet who

has held himself in readiness behind the wings, to respond in case he

should possibly be called before the footlights--delivered a rhymed

prologue. In this he greeted the associates, and, after lamenting in

half-satirical, half-serious stanzas, the decline of art and of the

love of the beautiful, introduced his troop of players, of whom he

especially boasted that no modern strifes or heartburnings ever invaded

their temple, or kept them from a pure and lofty devotion to the Muses.

His speech concluded, the little man made a dignified obeisance, and

the curtain fell, to be again drawn up after a few moments, upon the

little drama that had been prepared for the amusement of the company.

It bore the title of "The Wicked Brothers," and was in reality but the

introduction to a longer play, designed to be produced upon some

future evening. In rhyming verses it set forth the history of a

musician, an artist, and a poet--three brothers who had been left at

the foundling-asylum of a little village, and had grown up to become

the curse of the region with their pranks; a very demon of evil-doing

appearing to possess them, and their parentage remaining an

impenetrable mystery to the quiet village folk. To them, after some of

the worst of their misdeeds, and just as the villagers were about to

wreak their vengeance on them, appeared no less a personage than the

devil himself, revealing to them that he was their father, and that he

had called them into being that they might work the ruin of the human

race. This said, he summoned them away with him to undertake their

mission in a larger field than this of their apprenticeship. And here

the action left them; the fantastic little piece closing at last with a

short epilogue by the same puppet who had introduced the play, his

final verses promising the Paradise associates that on some other night

they should enjoy a view of the results of this deep plot against their

kind, but hinting, nevertheless, that they should see how, in the end,

the true and beautiful should triumph, and the fell scheming of the

brothers and their father should be brought to naught.

CHAPTER IV.

The play came to an end amid great applause. The quaintness of the

composition, the easy flow of the words, and that mixture of gaiety and

melancholy which is always effective, excited such enthusiasm among the

spectators that the clapping would have no end, and the little puppet

who recited the epilogue was obliged to come forward again and again to

return thanks in the name of the poet.

Felix, especially, found much to admire in the little comedy, that had

apparently lost the charm of novelty for the others; especially the

extraordinary life-likeness of the little figures, scarcely two spans

high, which were carved, painted, and dressed in the most careful

manner, each in accordance with his character; the astonishing

dexterity with which they moved upon the stage, and, finally, and above

all else, the masterly art of the delivery.

The voices changed so rapidly and distinctly, the keynote to each

_role_ was so happily struck, and in the long speeches of the devil the

speaker developed so brilliant a power that there was probably not one

person among the audience who could repress a feeling of creeping

horror, such as one has when ghost stories are told in the dark.

When the rows had broken up again, and everybody was standing about

talking and laughing noisily, Felix took occasion to express to Schnetz

his amazement that a person of such great rhetorical talent should have

turned his back forever upon his art, and have settled down at a

clerk's desk.

"He will have all or nothing!" remarked the lieutenant. "Since he lost

one of his eyes, and deluded himself into the belief that with a glass

eye he would not be fit for the stage, he is far too proud to step down

from the high horse of the tragedian to the donkey of the public

reader. Every one knows whether he is acting to his own disadvantage

when he plays the malcontent. It is true, though, some one really ought

to prevail upon him to become the manager of a puppet-theatre. And

then, besides, it would offer a good employment for Rosenbusch, who

makes his puppets for him, and lends him a helping hand at the

exhibition. Although, to be sure, anything of that sort only affords

pleasure to a person of his stamp so long as it is an art which earns

him no bread. He has been puttering away over this farce for three

weeks at least, and letting everything else slide in consequence of it.

If it were exhibited for an entrance fee, he would soon be tired of

it."

Elfinger now entered again, and was obliged to submit to the applause

showered upon him in his proper person, and to acknowledge the toasts

drunk in his honor. He modestly refused, however, to accept the

applause, since the thanks of the audience belonged more properly to

the author, who was not himself, but a poet known to them all, who

cherished a wish to be admitted to Paradise. It was merely with this

end in view that he had written the text for the puppets, in the hope

of introducing himself in this way to the society, and of winning their

good opinion.

His admission was immediately agreed upon by acclamation, without the

usual formalities. Kohle begged the loan of the manuscript, as he

wished to illustrate it in a series of sketches. Rossel began, after

his usual fashion, to make criticisms upon different parts, censuring

especially the imitation of Immermann's "Merlin." Elfinger defended the

poem, and the dispute had begun to run in danger of becoming heated,

when the door was thrown open and Rosenbusch rushed in in a state of

great excitement.

"Treachery!" he cried; "black, villainous treachery! Hell sends forth

its spies to ferret out the secrets of Paradise! The veil of night is

no longer sacred; profane curiosity is plucking at the curtain of our

mysteries--and, by-the-way, give me something to drink!"

All pressed around the breathless speaker, who had thrown himself into

a chair, refusing, however, in spite of the confusion of questions and

suggestions that went on about him, to give any explanation whatever

until he had moistened his thirsty throat. Not until he had done this

to the most liberal extent did he begin to relate his adventure.

After his assistance behind the scenes was no longer needed, he had

swung himself out of one of the windows of the central hall into the

cool garden, in order to refresh himself a little in the night air. So

he strolled comfortably up and down under the trees, studying the

clouds and occasionally playing a few snatches on his flute, until he

at last experienced a most remarkable thirst. As he was slowly walking

around the house, with the intention of rejoining the company by way of

the back-door, he suddenly beheld two suspicious-looking figures,

women, in long dark cloaks and with hoods or veils over their heads,

who stood at one of the windows intently peering in through a crack in

the shutters. He tried to surprise them, and catch them _in flagrante

delicto_. But, stealthily as he crept upon them, the crunching of the

gravel had betrayed him. They both immediately rushed away from the

window and fled in the direction of the gate, he after them like

lightning, all the more eagerly because he saw a carriage waiting

outside in the street. And sure enough, he succeeded in catching one of

them by the sleeve, just as she reached the lattice-gate--the stouter

one, who carried something under her cloak which hindered her in

running. The prisoner besought him, in a frightened but evidently

disguised voice, to let her go--she had done no harm, a mere chance,

and other excuses of a like sort. He, on his part, excited by anger and

indignation, and not a little by curiosity, would not let go, but

insisted upon learning their names; the cloak, that he held firmly, had

already begun to rip in a suspicious way, as if it were on the point of

tearing and remaining alone in his hands, like the affair of Joseph

reversed, when the other woman, who had in the mean while reached the

carriage, turned round again and said, in a deep voice:

"Don't be afraid, my dear, the gentleman is much too chivalrous to make

an attack on two unprotected ladies. _Venez, ma chere!_"

"These words," he continued, springing up, "made--I confess it to my

shame--so strong an impression upon me that I, ass that I was, let go

of the cloak and the woman for the purpose of taking off my hat and

making a very polite bow to the second of the wretches. They were both,

however, too much frightened to laugh at my devilish absurdity, and

spoke not another word, but slipped away from me into the carriage, and

drove off the devil knows where."

"And I stood there and could have knocked my brains out; for it

occurred to me in a second what a wonderful figure I must have cut in

the affair. But the best is still to come. What did the woman have

under her cloak? In struggling with her I had several times struck

against it, and noticed that it must be something four-cornered,

something like a picture-frame. And suddenly, as I was very sulkily

sneaking back again toward the house, it occurred to me, 'what if it

were the Bride of Corinth! Now, supposing I go and see what really

became of it.' I knew perfectly well out of which window Stephanopulos

had sent it flying. So I searched and searched--but, grope about as I

would, no trace of it could be discovered, and inasmuch as the ground

all around the place is still full of little puddles, and the flame

must undoubtedly have been immediately extinguished, you may bet ten to

one that these spying night-rovers saw it burning--perhaps indeed were

first led by it to slink into the garden; and that now they have borne

away their booty to a place of safety."

A great tumult followed upon this communication. Some of the youngest,

excited by wine, wanted to rush out on the track of the flying women,

in order that they might recover the stolen property. The wildest

proposals were heard as to how they should take revenge for this

outrage, and how they should prevent such a desecration of their mystic

rites in the future. All these noisy ones were silenced when Jansen

suddenly took up the matter, and admonished them to listen to reason.

What was done here had no cause to shun the light. The only one who was

personally affected by the matter was Stephanopulos. Since he did not

appear to be much troubled, the others might rest content.

So said, so done; and the festive feeling once more burst forth in all

its glory. The wine loosened even the heaviest tongues; every one

sought out the neighbor he liked best; and even the young Greek thawed

out so thoroughly from his ill-humor that he condescended to sing some

of the popular airs of his native land, which earned him great

applause. In the mean while Philip Emanuel Kohle went up and down the

hall, like one of the gracious genii, with head high in air and beaming

look, bearing his goblet in his hand, and drinking toasts with

everybody--to the ideal--to resignation and the gods of Greece--and

declaiming, in the intervals, verses of Hoelderlin.

Schnetz also seemed to be in admirable spirits. He had seated himself

astride of the little cask in the corner, had a few sprigs of

wild-grape vine above his close-cropped head, and was delivering an

oration that no one heard.

When it struck three o'clock, Elfinger was dancing a fandango with the

architect who had recently returned from Spain, Rosenbusch playing an

accompaniment on the flute; and Fat Rossel had placed three empty

glasses before him, on which he beat time with a lead pencil. Felix,

who had also learned the dance in Mexico, relieved Elfinger after a

time, and gradually the excitement seized upon the others. Jansen alone

remained quiet, but his eyes sparkled joyously. He had erected a sort

of throne for old Schoepf upon the table, and had placed a number of

green plants around it. And there the white-haired old man sat, above

all the noise, until the wine warmed him too, and he rose, and with

charming dignity gave vent to all sorts of odd sayings and wise saws.

At four o'clock the wine in the cask ran dry. Schnetz announced this

sorrowful discovery to the dancers, singers, and speakers, with a

funereal mien and pathetic earnestness, and summoned them to pay the

last honors to the deceased. A solemn procession was formed; each

person bore a candle, a blazing piece of kindling wood or anything that

would pass for a torch; and, standing in a semicircle about the cask,

they sang a requiem, at the close of which all the lights were suddenly

extinguished.

And now the pale light of dawn penetrated through the windows, and

Jansen announced that the time had come for the dissolving of the

meeting, which took place according to unvarying usage--all leaving at

the same time. The abundant wine had robbed none of them of their

senses, though a few were not perfectly firm on their legs. As they

passed out, a fresh morning breeze was just springing up on the still

meadows of the English Garden. The trees shivered in the falling dew.

Arm-in-arm the friends sauntered along in the gray morning air, that

cooled their feverish foreheads, humming to themselves snatches of song

and fragments of the fandango; and last of all came Jansen and Felix,

arm-in-arm, now and then pressing closer to one another, both lost in

thought that found no words.

CHAPTER V.

Angelica threw down her brush. "It is strange," she said, "that

everything I do to-day is so absurd. At all events the proverb is false

to the core; the beginning is always easy, and only the completion has

its wretched trials. And then, besides, when no one else is working in

the whole house, one appears to one's self to be perfectly crazy with

diligence. Naturally, the saint-factory downstairs stands still on

Sunday. But then the others too! In Rosenbusch's room the mice are

squealing from pure hunger or _ennui_; and I have not heard Jansen's

door squeak once this morning. It is natural that they should be lazy

or have a headache after their night's revel; and they will certainly

miss the Sunday mass in the Pinakothek. Yesterday they were in

Paradise."

"Paradise?"

"That is the name they give to their secret society that meets every

four weeks. There must be wild goings on there; at least Rosenbusch,

who, as a general thing, cannot easily keep a secret from me, assumes a

face like the holy Vehm if I ever begin to speak about it. Oh, these

men, Julie, these men! This Maximilian Rosenbusch--I must say that I

really think he is by nature good; indeed, between ourselves, my

dearest, he would be more interesting to me if he looked a little

_less_ moral, did not play on the flute, and were really the terrible

scapegrace that he sometimes makes himself out. But there, one infects

the other, and the very name of 'Paradise!' One can easily conceive

that a pretty antediluvian tone must prevail there, somewhat highly

spiced and free and easy."

"Do they keep to themselves, or are 'ladies' also present?"

"I don't know. As a rule, they appear to amuse themselves in quite a

moral manner; but now and then, especially at carnival time, when, for

that matter, every one here in Munich carries the freedom of the mask

pretty far--"

"Does Jansen also belong to the society?"

"Of course, he cannot help doing so. But he is said to be one of the

quietest among them, according to Rosenbusch. Upon my life, I would

just like to peep through the keyhole once! 'Oh, had I a jacket and

trousers and hat!'"

"Why, Angelica, you have the true woman's-rights ideas!"

The painter drew a deep sigh.

"Julie," she said, with comical solemnity, "that is just the misfortune

of my life, that two souls dwell in this breast--a timid, old-maidish,

conservative girl's soul by the side of a very bold, dare-devil,

Bohemian artist's temperament. Tell me, did you never in your life

experience a strong desire to cut loose for once from propriety--to do

something thoroughly reckless, improper, unpermissible? Of course I

mean when one was entirely among boon companions, and no one could

reprove the other, because all were possessed of the same demon. The

men fare well in this respect. When they steal back again into the lost

Paradise, they call it a sign of genius. An unfortunate woman, though

she were ten times an artist, and as such perpetually inclined not to

be a Philistine, must never let it be seen in her manner of life that

she can do more than darn stockings!--It is true," she continued,

thoughtfully, "as for women in a body, a whole swarm of talented

women--no matter how much capacity some among them might have for such

a thing--I myself would decline such a Paradise with thanks. Now, why

is that? Does it really amount to this, that we cannot exist by

ourselves alone; that we can neither plan nor bring about anything

successful?"

"Perhaps it merely arises from the fact that true friendship, real

thorough companionship, is so rare among our sex," answered Julie,

musingly. "We are just as loath to permit another to shine among

ourselves as before the men. But something has just occurred to me;

might not we take advantage of the occasion, and, as you recently

proposed, take a look at Jansen's studio?"

"And why not rather when he is there himself? He would undoubtedly be

very happy--"

"No, no!" interposed Julie, hastily, "I will not do that. I have

invariably played such a silly part in studios--because it is

impossible for me to bring myself to pay a trivial compliment--that I

have sworn never again to visit an artist surrounded by his works. You

know it is my Cordelia-like character--whenever my heart is full my

mouth refuses to overflow."

"Foolish woman!" laughed the artist, hastily wiping her brush and

preparing herself to go out. "You of the public always imagine that we

want to hear eulogies. When you lose the power of speech from

admiration, and make the most foolish and enraptured faces, I like you

a thousand times better."

Angelica called the janitor, who was busily engaged in the yard

brushing away the moths from an old piece of Gobelin tapestry that

Rosenbusch had recently bought. While he went off to fetch the key to

the studio, she whispered to her friend:

"We will not go first into the saint-factory, but pass at once into

the holy of holies! It is always painful to see how even such an

artist--one of the few great ones--must use his art to gain bread. It

is true, no human being can imagine why he really has to do it. He

needs almost nothing for himself. And, since he stands quite alone in

the world--to be sure, though, that needs yet to be proved--his saints

must bring him in a great deal of money. What he does with it, whether

he buries it as the wages of sin, walls it up, or speculates with it on

the Bourse-- But here comes our old factotum with the key. Thank you,

Fridolin. Here is something for your trouble. Drink a measure to the

health of this beautiful lady. What, she pleases you too? To be sure

you have had an opportunity to cultivate your taste, living as you do

among artists."

The flattered old man grinned, attempted to stammer a compliment, and

opened the studio door. Angelica immediately ran up to the "Dancing

Girl" and began to free her from the damp cloths wrapped about her.

"Now, place yourself here!" she cried, when the figure was entirely

exposed. "To be sure she is divine seen from any side, but viewed in

half-profile--taking in just a little of the back and the outline

standing out so clearly against the bright sky--is it not ravishing?

Does not one feel as if it were just going to spring from its pedestal

and rush through the room, dragging one with it in its mad whirl? I can

never look at this work without my old love for dancing coming back to

me in my old age, and vibrating through every limb! It is a pity that I

am such an ungraceful person, otherwise you would have to tuck up your

dress and dance a reel with me."

And she did indeed make a few very lively movements, which were

grotesque enough.

"I entreat you, Angelica, be sensible! You are, to be sure, thoroughly

at home here. But it takes away my breath! Everything is so strange to

me--"

"Isn't it so--one doesn't see anything of this sort every day? How

every part lives and breathes! One might actually believe that the

blooming young flesh must yield when one touches it; and, with all

that, so pure and magnificent and full of style, that one never thinks

of the model when looking at it."

"Is it modeled after life?"

"Do you think that this kind of thing is imagined out of thin air?"

"And girls can actually be found who allow themselves to be made use of

for--"

"More than enough, you darling innocent. To be sure--of a sort that one

of us would not touch with gloves. But Rosenbusch says that, for all

that, they are better than their reputation. He has found very

respectable creatures among them--one, indeed, who had a regular

husband and a number of children, and who went to the studios as

soberly as others go to the seamstress or the milliner. Yes, yes, my

dearest, we good children of good families have no conception of all

this. Look," she continued, turning to Felix's modeling-board, "there

is where the young baron works. He has copied the foot of the

anatomical model, and now, as a reward, he is permitted to recruit

himself over the foot of an AEginite. Not bad!--by no means without

talent! An uncommonly handsome and agreeable man, too, whom I like very

much. But--remember what I tell you--he will always remain a cavalier,

and will never in all his life become a true artist!"

She accented the word "cavalier," in the contemptuous manner in which a

sailor talks about a landsman. Then she stepped up to the large central

group of the Adam and Eve, and began cautiously to undo the covering.

"How is this?" said she. "Why he has actually fastened the group with

clothes-pins since I last saw it, a fortnight ago. Well, I think I may

be allowed to unfasten it somewhat, and, after all, he will never

notice it. What eyes you will make at it, Giulietta! _E una magia_, as

the Italians say. It is much grander, more imposing and unprecedented

than the 'Dancing Girl' over there. There! Now, just let me unwind this

towel very carefully indeed--the head of the Eve has only just been

modeled--"

The damp linen cloth, that enveloped the figure of the kneeling woman,

now slipped off; at the same instant Angelica, who stood behind the

group and was carefully removing the last folds from the clay figure,

heard a half-suppressed cry from the lips of her friend.

"Now, don't you see that I was right?" she cried. "It is beautiful

enough to shriek over. No respectable person can see such a thing

without uttering a few inarticulate sounds. But, for Heaven's sake!"

she cried, interrupting herself and rushing to Julie, whom she saw turn

suddenly pale and step backward, "what is the matter with you, my own

love? You are so very--speak--what has so--gracious Heaven! That!

I never would have believed it myself! Such a surprise--such an

unheard-of piece of treachery and meanness! And, with all that, so

extraordinarily well carried out! Oh, this Jansen! So that accounts for

the pins--that accounts for his not wishing to show the group to any

one for the last fortnight!"

Julie had retreated to the window and stood there, undecided what to

do, her head sunk upon her heaving breast. But the painter, in whom

enthusiasm had banished all alarm about her agitated friend, stood with

folded hands, as if absorbed in worship, before the work that was so

well known to her, and upon which, nevertheless, she gazed in utter

surprise. For since she saw it last the head of Eve, that was

then in the first rough stage of development, had assumed a firm,

carefully-executed form, and the face, sweetly bowed forward, with

which she gazed at the man just awakening from sleep, resembled,

feature for feature, the beautiful girl who now, sinking down into her

chair in an indescribable state of confusion, shame, and anger, looked

up at her own image.

And then it would have been most edifying for a third person to have

overheard how the painter, as soon as she had overcome the first shock,

now strove to enter into the spirit of her friend and storm over the

robbery of her beauty; now strove to make it clear to her that there

was nothing wrong or improper in the whole matter. Then, when she had

run on for a while in the most enraptured terms about this magnificent

work, the majesty and the charm of these forms, she suddenly became

woman enough again to find the undeniable resemblance of the features

of this beautiful Eve, in her paradisaical innocence, a very serious

thing after all. To be sure, she strove to defend the artist; no one

could help his inspirations, and the more than life-size scale removed

the work from all realistic consideration. But her burning cheeks told

her better than anything else that she was not made to be a good

devil's-advocate; and when she had played her trump card, always

keeping her back turned to the silent girl, and had declared that no

one ought to think herself too good to be so immortalized--that this

was entirely different from the case of the sister of Napoleon, whom

Canova had portrayed in marble, or that of the so-called "Venus" of

Titian, whose lover was playing the lute by her side--she suddenly

turned to Julie, threw her arms round her neck and besought her with

humble appeals and caresses not to be angry with her, that she was as

innocent of this evil deed as Rosebud's white mice; and that if she had

a suspicion that this wicked Jansen would have dared to do such a

thing, she would certainly never have invited him to her studio at the

last sitting. And, as a proof of this, she would at once hunt him up

and firmly insist--though what a pity it would be for the wonderful

work's sake--that every trace of resemblance, even the most remote, in

this airily-clad Eve to her deeply offended descendant should be

removed.

"Do so--I shall rely upon it!" said Julie, suddenly, with great

earnestness, as she rose in all her dignity and womanly majesty. "That

I must never be thrown in contact with him again, that I can never

enter this house again, you will easily understand!" And as she said

this, turning toward the door, she cast a last angry look at her

counterfeit.

She understood it perfectly, replied the painter, meekly. She would not

have it otherwise; Jansen had acted altogether too inconsiderately, and

toward her, too, who as an old fellow-inmate of the same house was, to

a certain extent, responsible for the good behavior of the rest. But of

one thing Julie might be sure: Jansen had not been guilty of any bad

intention, or of one of those pieces of presumption that artists often

indulge in, but merely of thoughtlessness and indiscretion, and he

would undoubtedly take it very much to heart; and if she should really

remain firm in the intention of never seeing him again, a punishment

which, it is true, he had richly deserved--

While these speeches were being poured out, to all of which Julie

listened with an expression of face that it was not easy to understand,

the two friends--for Julie helped, too, with trembling hands--had

carefully wrapped up the group again, and had added to the pins from

their own stock. When they went out into the yard after having done

this, they earnestly cautioned the janitor not to open the studio

again for any one, until Herr Jansen himself had gone in again. Then

they left the house, not, as on the day before, walking familiarly

arm-in-arm, but silent and dejected, and taking leave of one another at

the very first street-corner.

Angelica determined to make an attempt to see if she could not meet the

offender in the Pinakothek, in spite of the festival of the preceding

day. Julie, who had lowered her veil as if, after this experience, she

no longer dared to look any one in the face, hastened by the shortest

way toward home, where she could, in complete solitude, collect herself

and compose her excited mind.

CHAPTER VI.

Buy scarcely was she alone when the excitement within her, although not

at once stilled, lost, singularly enough, all that it had had of pain

and bitterness, and such an unmistakable feeling of pleasure and

happiness filled her soul that she herself, as she was forced to admit,

felt frightened at it.

Do what she would, she could no longer feel as angry at the secret

insult that had been offered to her maiden dignity as she ought

properly to have felt. It seemed indeed as if, the moment the witness

of the misdeed was removed from her sight, all the bad aspect had

disappeared from the matter, which, after all, had only become wrong

and unpardonable when strange eyes had spied into the well-guarded

secret of a pure artist-soul. Now, when she thought about the work, how

it stood there in the deserted studio, carefully wrapped, with only the

sparrows flying about it, and guarded from every betraying ray of

light, what was there so sinful in the fact that the head of this

beautiful kneeling woman bore her own features?

This figure constantly floated before her, no matter how hard she might

try to turn her attention upon other things. And although in the work

of the artist nothing was finished but the head, her fancy saw the

finished statue, and, for the first time in her life, she looked upon

her own beauty, in her thoughts, with other eyes than her own, which

could find nothing new or especial in it. The cruel lot that had held

her apart from life in her girlish years, and the early experiences

that had given her a contemptuous, if not a hostile opinion of men, had

kept her mind isolated from all those feelings that usually agitate a

girl's soul in its spring-time. It had never occurred to her to look at

herself, as it were, through the eyes of a man, for she had never known

one for whose sake she would have thought it worth while to give

herself so much trouble. When she observed her face in the mirror, and

could not help finding it beautiful, it afforded her just as little

pleasure as if--like a female Robinson Crusoe on some island in the

ocean--she had seen her reflection in clear water, and had known by it

that she was queen of the wilderness. In the next room sat the poor

madwoman, in her arm-chair, and nodded at the beautiful daughter, whom

she was robbing of life, with an idiotic smile. Of what avail was her

beauty against this inexorable fate?

Sometimes indeed, in the spring nights, between dreaming and waking, or

when she read some beautiful moving story, it seemed to her as if the

frost that had settled about her heart were bursting, as if a secret

longing for something sweet and precious swelled her bosom, a trembling

desire for some unknown, unattainable happiness. But this feeling never

took the shape of a being who should strive to gain her love, and whom

she might love in return. At such times she dreamed of nothing better

than to have the liberty of belonging to herself, of being freed from

that horrible duty which, to be sure, had grown less hard through

custom, and which no longer awakened even a shudder, but which held her

a prisoner daily and hourly. If these chains only fell from her--would

she then be so unwise as to voluntarily submit herself to a new form of

restraint?

But by this time she had enjoyed her freedom long enough to have been

sometimes forced to admit, with a quiet sigh, that the longed-for

happiness was not so overpowering that it relieved the soul of all

other desires. What she really did want she did not know. She fancied

that, if she only had a talent of some sort, it would fill this

yearning emptiness within her. Since she believed it to be too late for

her to take up music or drawing, she hit upon the idea of writing down

her thoughts and moods in free rhythmic forms of her own invention.

These were by no means the usual imitations of well-known lyric poets,

in the conventional and occasionally much-abused metres and stanzas.

What she wrote in her secret diary bore about the same relation to this

conventional poetry that the play of the wind upon an AEolian harp does

to a sonnet. But for all that it was an unspeakable comfort to her,

when she felt that she was striking melodious chords within her lonely

soul, to listen to the rise and fall of this melody of thoughts, and to

transcribe it as well as she was able. The secrecy with which she

pursued this art lent it an additional charm; and many a lonely evening

hour was thus whiled away, as quickly and happily as if it had been

spent in the company of an intimate friend, to whom she could have

poured out her innermost heart.

But now, when she had reached her home, and had hurriedly closed the

blinds that she might brood in absolute silence and solitude over what

had happened, she felt a sudden shock pass through her heart as she

reflected that during the past week her thoughts had more than once

been busy with the audacious man who had dared this theft of her

beauty--ay, that he had even entered more than once into her secret

poems. She had not given much more thought to this than to the other

subjects she had touched on in her diary: merely that she had made one

more acquaintance, and that of a man who could scarcely be said to have

an everyday face, and to whom all the others in his circle conceded the

first rank without a moment's jealousy. But was it not a singular

coincidence that, at the very time when she was attempting to describe

the impression that he had made upon her, he should be engaged in

moulding the image of her own features?

She rose thoughtfully to go to her writing-desk. She was obliged to

pass by the glass, and she stood before it for a while earnestly

contemplating her reflection, with the same sort of curiosity she would

have shown had she never seen herself before, but had just had her

attention drawn to herself by some third person. But, at the moment,

she was not at all pleased with her appearance. The face of the Eve

seemed to her fancy a thousand times more beautiful; he himself would

be forced to admit this if he should see her and compare her, face to

face, with his work. "Ten years ago," she said to herself, with a shake

of the head, "I may, perhaps, have looked like that. Oh, for the

beautiful lost years!"

For all this she began to arrange her hair in the same way that he had

arranged it in the statue, and she found this style of coiffure, in a

plain knot, charmingly becoming to her. She blushed at this, and turned

away. And now her heart beat still louder, as she drew forth from the

desk the book containing her confessions, and read over the last pages.

"I really believe I was in a fair way of falling in love with him," she

said aloud, when she had reached the end. "And he--he looked upon me as

he would upon any good model that chanced to fall in his way; studied

my face, so that he might steal it from me, and ruthlessly insulted

every womanly feeling I have. If I had been anything more to him, if he

had even taken a deep interest in me, he would never have had the heart

to make such a display of me, he would never have subjected me to such

ideas!--Oh, it is shameful! I will never, never forgive him that!"

A passionate feeling of pain, like the anger and indignation that had

overwhelmed her in the first moment of the discovery, once more flamed

within her. She threw the book into the drawer and hastily locked it

up. Then she paced up and down through her entire suite of rooms, and

struggled to calm her mood again.

But it was not so easy as she had expected. For the first time she

failed to understand the voices that were speaking in her heart, nor

could she silence them. A feeling had come over this mature, firm

nature, such as seldom takes possession of any but the young in the

time of their earliest development; that oppressing sense of delight

that is almost akin to pain, that threatens to burst the heart, and

that makes the thought of dying and passing quietly away so grateful as

if death were nothing but a gentle sinking into some unfelt deep that

is brimming over with flowers.

Her anger had suddenly passed away. She tried hard, as soon as she was

conscious of this, to picture to herself her insulter in the most

repulsive shape. Not succeeding in that, she made an attempt to be

angry with herself, to reproach herself for her womanish weakness, in

being frivolous enough to feel flattered by this robbery. But she

succeeded little better than before; one thing only stood before her

mind, that he and she were in the world together, and that they had

both thought of one another at the same moment.

The door opened softly; the old servant stepped in and announced that

Mr. Jansen wished to pay his respects.

CHAPTER VII.

Of course he had come to apologize. Angelica must have urged the

necessity of his doing so very strongly indeed: must have depicted to

him in pretty glowing colors the anger of her deeply insulted friend,

to judge from the fact of his knocking at her door but two hours after.

Her first thought was to refuse to see him. But then, what if he should

be disposed to treat the matter altogether too lightly; what if he

thought to appease her by some jesting or even gallant apology? Well,

she would soon let him know with whom he had to deal, and that he could

not escape so easily. Had she not been called "the girl without a

heart," and was she not at this moment without friend or protector,

forced to rely entirely upon her native dignity, which had just been so

audaciously insulted?

"If the gentleman would have the goodness--I should be very glad to see

him--very glad!"

She stood in the middle of the room as he entered. Her beautiful face

had struggled hard to assume its coldest and haughtiest expression. But

with the first look that she cast upon the visitor, the armor of ice

that she had fastened about her bosom melted away.

For, in fact, a very different man from the one she had expected stood

before her. Where was the confident smile that sought to make the

matter appear in the light of a jest, or even of an act of homage?

Where the confidence with which the famous master reckons upon

absolution for the sin of having made an unknown beauty immortal?

It was true, he did not appear quite like a penitent malefactor. Erect,

and with a scarcely perceptible inclination of the head, he saluted

her, and his eyes did not avoid hers; on the contrary, they even dwelt

upon her features with so gloomy a fire that she involuntarily lowered

her eyelids, and asked herself in secret whether she was not the guilty

one after all, since this man appeared before her so sad and

melancholy.

"Gnaediges Fraeulein," he said, "I have given you reason to be very

angry with me. I merely come to inform you that the cause of your

displeasure is already removed. If you were willing to visit my

_atelier_ again--which, unfortunately, I must doubt--you would see in

the place where your own features confronted you this morning nothing

but a shapeless mass."

"You have--you really ought to have--"

"I have done at once what I owed to you, in order that you might not

form a wrong opinion of me. Sooner or later I should have had to do it

in any case--even though no one had urged me to it. I wish sincerely

that you would believe me when I say this--though I scarcely dare to

hope so, since you do not know me--and are perhaps still too angry with

me not to--not to believe me capable of any piece of discourtesy."

"I?--I confess--I have until now thought neither well nor ill of--"

She did not complete the sentence--she felt that she blushed, as she

tried to assure him of her complete indifference--three steps from the

drawer where her confessions were lying.

"I know it," continued he; and his dark glance wandered over the

dimly-lighted room. "I am so perfectly indifferent to you, that it

must, after all, be very easy for you to pardon something that cannot

have awakened any very strong personal feeling in your mind. One who is

entirely unknown to us cannot insult us. When he has taken back again

that with which he has wounded us, it is as if nothing had happened.

And so I might perhaps take my leave of you, gnaediges Fraeulein, with

the renewed assurance of my sincere regret that I have unconsciously

offended you."

She made a scarcely perceptible motion toward the sofa, as if she would

invite him to be seated. He was much too occupied with his own thoughts

to pay any attention to it.

"Perhaps it is folly," continued he, after a pause--"perhaps more than

that--wrong, if I intrude any longer, and give you an explanation for

which you have no desire, and which will perhaps strike you

disagreeably, since it turns upon something that cannot but be a matter

of perfect indifference to you: not much more interesting than if you

should hear there had been a thunderstorm at a place forty miles away,

and that the lightning had struck a tree. Still--now that I have

acknowledged my wrong and have done all in my power to make it good

again--I owe it to myself not to permit you to take a worse view of me

than I have really deserved. When, before a court of justice, one can

put forth the plea of mental irresponsibility, it is considered the

most important of all mitigating circumstances. Now this is just the

case in which I find myself placed in regard to you. I can plead, as an

excuse for the insane thought of giving your features to my Eve, the

fact that since I first saw you I have actually been insane; that

waking or dreaming no other face floated before me except yours; that I

have gone about as if in a fever, and that I knew no better way of

dealing with my hopeless passion than by striving, shut up alone in my

workshop, to reproduce your face--and wretchedly enough did I succeed!"

He made a movement as though he were about to leave her; but once again

he remained where he was, and appeared to be struggling painfully for

words.

"You are silent, Fraeulein," he continued. "I know you think it very

strange that I should endeavor to atone for a great and almost

unpardonable act of audacity, by committing a still greater one.

Perhaps you will not believe me, or will consider me a raving madman

for betraying to you, after so short an acquaintance, a passion that

has carried me beyond all bounds of propriety and decorum. But you

would judge differently, if you knew in what dreariness and isolation

of heart I have passed the five years since I came to Munich; that not

an hour's happiness has been vouchsafed to me; that no womanly being

capable of awakening a single deeper thought has come near me. It is

true I have not thought it worth my while to seek for such

companionship. I have deluded myself with the idea that I missed

nothing, that my heart and feelings did not hunger and thirst--until

you suddenly crossed my path--and then this sudden vision of beauty and

grace, coming as it did after long loneliness, brought about an

intoxication that has completely robbed me of my senses.

"I doubt whether this explanation will be clear to you. I know nothing

more of you than your enthusiastic friend, our good Angelica, has told

us. Perhaps you may never have had any experience yourself that would

lead you to believe that a passion which bursts so suddenly upon

reasonable men could be found anywhere but in a fairy tale. Enough, I

thought I owed it to myself to tell you of this fact, merely as a

singular instance that need trouble you no farther. And now, permit me

to take my leave. I--I should really have nothing more to tell you, and

as for you--I find it no more than right that you should prefer to

reply only by silence to such singular and extraordinary disclosures."

"No," she cried suddenly, as he already had his hand upon the

door-knob; "it is not so right as you think, for one to tell all that

he has upon his heart, while the other only accepts it all, and gives

no confidence in return. To be sure, I know very well--I must attribute

much of what you have confided to me to the easily-excited fantasy of

an artist. Nevertheless, I am not so vain as not to imagine that in the

course of five years you have never encountered a face fairer and more

blooming than this of mine, that I have now borne about with me for

full thirty-one. And for that reason I am almost forced to believe that

there really is a secret bond of fate that quickly draws two human

beings together in an altogether inexplicable way. For see--" she

continued, covered with a confusion that only made her more beautiful,

as she opened the drawer of her writing-desk and drew forth her

diary--"I, too, although I perhaps knew less of you than you of me--I,

too, have often had you with me in my thoughts--and since you have

destroyed again the image that you took from me without my knowledge,

ought not I also to destroy those pages in which you are spoken of--"

She made a gesture as if she were about to tear out the pages. In an

instant he had sprung to her side and had seized firm hold of her hand.

"Julie!" he cried, as if beside himself; "is it true--is it possible?

Your thoughts were with me?--and in these pages--I beseech you, let me

have but one look--only let me see one line, so that I shall not think

that you have invented all this in order to give me comfort, and to

relieve me from my shame--"

"Shame!" she whispered. "But cannot you see that in spite of my

thirty-one years I am trembling like a child detected in some

naughtiness? Must I really read aloud to you out of this book what

you--what you might long ago have guessed from my silence--if you had

not been trembling so yourself?"

The last words died away on her lips. The book slipped from her hands

and fell on the carpet, where it lay without his bending to pick it up.

A kind of stupor had come over him. He seized both her hands and

clasped them so tightly that it pained her; but the pain did her good.

His face was so near hers that she could see every muscle in it quiver;

his eyes gleamed with a wild fire, like the gaze of a somnambulist. And

yet she had no horror of him. She would gladly have stood so forever,

and have felt her hands in his, and have encountered the power of his

fixed gaze.

It was only when she felt that her eyes were on the point of

overflowing, and feared that he might misunderstand it, that she said

softly, smilingly shaking her head: "Don't you believe me even yet?"

Then at last he released her hands, threw his arms about her yielding

figure, and pressed her wildly to his breast.

A noise was heard in the front room; the old servant apparently wished

to remind the visitor, by the rattling of plates and knives and forks,

that dinner-time was something that must be respected.

As if startled out of a dream, Jansen suddenly tore himself from

Julie's arms. "Unhappy wretch that I am!" cried he, hoarsely, covering

his face with his hands. "Oh, God! Where have I let myself be carried?"

"You have only followed where our hearts had already led!" said Julie,

with a happy smile, while her moist eyes sought his. "What is the

matter with you, best and dearest friend?" she continued, anxiously,

for he was about to seize his hat. "You are going--and now? What drives

you away from me? Who--who can part us? What have I done that you again

turn away from me? My best and dearest friend, I entreat you--"

He struggled hard to answer; a dark red flush overspread his pale face.

"Do not ask me now," he stammered; "this blessed hour--this

inconceivable happiness--no--it must--it cannot be!--Forgive--forget--"

At this moment the old servant opened the door; he cast a look at the

visitor that could hardly be interpreted as an invitation to stay

longer. Jansen stepped hastily up to the agitated and speechless girl.

"You shall hear from me soon, everything. Forgive--and may you be

forever blessed for this hour!"

He seized her hand and pressed it passionately to his lips. Then he

rushed from the room, followed by the old servant shaking his head,

while Julie gazed after him, lost in a maze of conflicting emotions.

It is true that the moment she was alone again the happiness of knowing

that her love was returned overpowered all feelings of doubt that had

been awakened within her. His mysterious behavior, his sudden flight,

his strange awakening from the sweetest realization of a hopeless

dream, ought that to make her distrust him, when it merely confirmed

what he had said of himself; that this intoxication had driven him out

of his senses? And was it not best upon the whole that this miracle

which had happened to them both should not be reduced all at once to an

affair of everyday life, but that they should part, bearing away with

them in their hearts their new-found treasure in all its fullness?

To-morrow--to-morrow he will come again, and all will be new and

wonderful once more, as it was to-day; and is that day lost which one

can spend in thoughts of one's great happiness, or that night in which

one can dream of it?

She threw back her head, as if in doing so she would shake from her the

last remaining doubts. Then she stepped to the mirror, and began to

rearrange her hair that her violent friend had completely disordered.

What would her old servant have thought had he found her in this state?

As she thought of this she smiled mysteriously at her own image, as if

it were a _confidante_ who alone knew of some great happiness that had

just fallen to her lot. Little as she ordinarily cared to look at her

own reflection, to-day she could not tear herself away from the glass;

"So, to please him, one must look as I do," she said to herself.

"I wonder whether he saw this wrinkle here, and that deep line, and all

those traces that these hateful, anxious years have left upon my face?

But it cannot be helped now; I have not cheated him, at all events, and

besides, he has eyes of his own--and such eyes!"

Then she sighed again and pressed her hand to her heart. "Who would

have dreamed it?" she said, once more walking up and down: "only

yesterday and I was so calm here--wearied and tired of life--and

to-day!--And not a soul besides us two knows anything of it! Angelica,

it is true--I wonder whether she suspects nothing?--the good soul!

Perhaps I ought to go and confess to her.--But would not that look as

if I wanted to boast to her of my happiness? And then I will wager that

she herself is secretly in love with him--who could live under the same

roof with him and resist it?--'Julie Jansen'--It sounds as though it

could never have been otherwise since the world began."

Suddenly the room felt so close and oppressive to her that she sent the

old servant to call her a droschke, that she might go out into the air

for a while. He was allowed to take a seat on the box, and in this way

they drove at a slow trot around the English Garden. The beautiful

weather, and the fact that it was Sunday, had filled all the avenues

and paths with people; all the beer-gardens were gay with music and

thronging crowds. Heretofore she had never felt at home among these

multitudes of merry people, for her solitary life with her unhappy

mother had made her unaccustomed to scenes of noise and confusion. But

to-day, she would like nothing better than to have joined the throng,

feeling that she really belonged there now; for had not she too found a

sweetheart, like all these other girls dressed in their Sunday clothes?

She ordered the carriage to stop in front of the Chinese tower, and sat

there for a long time, listening, and really moved by the music of a

band that would on any other day have provoked a smile. The people who

passed her wondered at the beautiful, solitary Fraeulein, who sat, lost

in thought, gazing up at the tree tops. They did not know that the

color of the sky, up there between the two tall silver poplars,

recalled certain eyes that were ever present to the lady in the

carriage.

It was already dusk when she reached home after her drive. A note was

lying on the table, that had been brought during her absence. She felt

a shock of alarm as she took it up. If it should be from him--if he had

written, instead of coming himself; and yet, although she had never

seen his handwriting, it was impossible that these lines could be his;

they were in a woman's hand. With a quieter heart she stepped to the

window, and read these words:

"A person unknown to you, whose name is of no consequence, feels it her

duty to warn you, honored Fraeulein, against a man whose attentions to

you can no longer be a secret, since he is regularly to be found every

evening before your window, and to-day even went so far as to pay you a

visit. This letter is to tell you that this man has a wife, and a child

six years of age; a fact, however, which he carefully conceals from all

his acquaintances. Leaving it to you to form your own opinion of this

conduct, the writer signs herself respectfully, N. N."

Half an hour after, the bell in Julie's room was rung. The old servant

found his mistress sitting at her writing-desk, with a calm face, but

with traces of tears still on her cheeks, that she had forgotten to

wipe away. She had just sealed a letter, which she now handed to the

old man.

"See that this letter is delivered to-day, Erich, and at the studio; I

do not know where Herr Jansen lodges. Tell the janitor to hand it to

him the first thing to-morrow morning. And now, bring me something to

eat. We were cheated out of our dinner. I--I shall die of exhaustion

unless I eat something."

The anonymous note was inclosed in the letter to Jansen. Julie had

added nothing but the words:

"I shall be at home all day to-morrow. Come and give me back my faith

in mankind and my own heart.

"Your Julie."

CHAPTER VIII.

On this very afternoon Felix had carried out a resolution that he had

long had in mind, and had sought out the two friends, Elfinger and

Rosenbusch, in their own quarters.

They occupied two rooms in the third story of a somewhat tumble-down

house, which, situated in one of the quaint old streets of the

city, concealed its little fantastically-framed windows under a

far-projecting roof, like purblind eyes under bushy eyebrows.

Felix had often passed without ever having persuaded himself to enter

the untidy-looking vestibule, and climb the dark stairs. To-day, since

the dissipation of the previous night and the fact of its being Sunday

condemned him to idleness, he determined to fulfill at length the duty

he owed to civility. Moreover, he had begun the day before to take a

great interest in Elfinger, and wished very much to have an hour's more

intimate talk with him.

Luckily he chanced, at his first attempt, to knock at the right door,

although, on account of the absolute darkness on the upper landing, it

was impossible to make out the names; and, upon entering, he saw

Elfinger jump up hastily from a chair, where he had been sitting

apparently entirely unoccupied.

As the street, which was not especially lively even on a weekday,

reposed to-day in the most profound Sunday quiet, Felix wondered

what it could have been that had held his attention there, especially

when he noticed that the actor, who was generally so ready and

self-possessed, showed evident signs of embarrassment as he hastened

forward to welcome him, and, as if to keep him away from the window,

forced him to take a seat upon the sofa.

But he soon recovered his easy bearing again.

"You are looking at the walls," said he, "and are wondering that I

still preserve these mementoes of my stage days, these pictures of

great actors and my pretty colleagues of the fair sex, and even the

obligatory laurel-wreath, with its satin ribbons, that is never lacking

in any true actor's domicile. If my present employer should ever by

chance condescend to visit his clerk, I should, it is true, have done

far better had I hung up a bulletin of the stock boards instead of the

lithograph of Seydelmann as _Mephistophiles_. But, as I am safe up here

from all _haute finance_, I think I may be allowed, without injury to

my reputation as a sound accountant, to surround myself with all those

relics that I hold sacred, even that all-too-flaming sword over there,

that drove me from my paradise of the footlights."

He pointed to a rapier that hung on the wall opposite the sofa,

arranged with a few pistols and fencing-gloves in the form of a trophy,

underneath which hung a picture in water colors representing Elfinger

in the costume of _Hamlet_.

"Yes," he continued, with a quiet smile; "if the point of that sword

had not slipped in the hands of an unskillful _Laertes_, and entered

the eye of the unfortunate _Hamlet_, I should hardly have had the

pleasure of seeing you in my chambers just at this particular moment. I

should probably have been sitting in my dressing-room at the theatre,

painting myself to fit the character of an _Alba_ or a _Richard III._,

for this evening's performance. Whether the public has lost much by it,

I can't say. At all events, there is no doubt that I have gained."

"I am amazed that you can speak so cold-bloodedly of something that any

other man would regard as the great misfortune of his life. After the

high opinion of your talents that I was led to form by your performance

of yesterday--"

"Do not allow yourself to be deceived by a little bit of coarse humor,

my excellent friend. A man, can rid himself of any other kind of

homesickness sooner or later; but no one who has once felt himself at

home behind the footlights can ever be free from homesickness for the

stage. I must confess that I felt a real pang of envy when I took my

little troupe of yesterday out of their box, and rigged them out for

the play. Now, does not that positively border on insanity? But reason

counts for nothing in such a case. I know that I, with my average

talent, could never have attained the highest point of eminence, and

that for that reason I ought to feel nothing but gratitude toward my

friend _Laertes_ for pushing me back into that obscurity where I can

plod comfortably along on the golden, path of mediocrity. And yet all

my philosophy oozes away the moment the conversation turns upon the

theatre."

"But should not this be so? and since you are justified in thinking

yourself a born actor, what reason have you for believing that the

highest distinction would have been denied you? Why should not your

fate strike you as a tragical one?"

"Because with all my good qualifications, especially for declamation, I

am not only a born actor but also a born German, which, I admit, sounds

like a very palpable paradox. But just consider our race a moment. In

spite of some rare exceptions, that stand out almost like miracles and

that merely prove the rule, it may be said to possess scarcely a single

qualification that would enable it to reach any decided greatness in

the art! Ought not the actor to be able to shed his own skin when he

slips into that of another? And when did a true German ever exist that

could put himself in another's place? When was he ever untrue to

himself?--when did he ever deny his personal virtues and faults? Don't

you see, the very thing that makes our people so respectable stands in

the way of our acting. We are not a people given to impersonation, to

posing, and to representation. We are sublime in our earnestness, and

silly in our trifling. We like best to sit still in our private corner

behind the stove, and we grow red and awkward if we have to pass

through a room where there are ten unknown men, or even as many ladies,

watching us. Only the highest problems of tragic poetry give us wings

to lift us over these chasms. When we attempt to walk with metrical

feet, which are shod with winged shoes, we get on very well. But on our

own flat every-day extremities, we stumble so wretchedly that an

ordinary Frenchman or Italian, who can neither read nor write, appears

like a prince of the blood beside us."

"I wish I were able to deny all this," said Felix. "Unfortunately we

have no real society; and where we have the germs of one, actors are as

a rule excluded from it. But though that part of your art that has to

do with the representation of human beings and a characteristic

imitation of life suffers from this, the higher branches still continue

to be our domain; and if you compare the art of tragedy among the

Italians or the French with our representations of Shakespeare and

Goethe--"

"That is all very true," interrupted the actor; "in what is spiritual

and belongs to an inner consciousness, we can always bear comparison

with our neighbors. But only wait ten years longer and you will see

that not a soul here in Germany will ever think of going to see a

tragedy, and our classical theatre will be then just such another

puppet-show as the Theatre Francais is now. Ought we to be surprised at

this? All tragedy is aristocratic. Why should the hero leave this world

with such sublimity and grandeur if it were not that he found it too

miserable for him to feel comfortable in? But he who finds the world a

wretched place insults all those to whom it appears most charming,

because, with their low desires, they are able to take comfort in it.

And inasmuch as the good of the masses will become more and more the

watchword, as time goes on, therefore he who towers above the masses

must not be disappointed if he finds that he cannot be of much use

either in real life or behind the footlights. Tragical heroes are only

possible where social differences exist; where the ordinary man looks

on with a certain respect while a _Coriolanus_ conquers and falls,

without thinking to himself: 'It served him right. Why did he insult us

common folk?' But with our excellent, humane, democratic way of looking

at things--"

"A depressing prospect, certainly! So the longer our nation goes on

freeing itself from prejudices and conforming to true ideas of

humanity, the less hope will there be that we shall ever be able to cut

a good figure on the stage?"

"On the contrary, I think then is the time when we shall really first

begin. Self-respect is one of the most important requisites even in the

acting of a comedy. When we have once taken our place among the nations

of Europe, when we have rid ourselves of our dullness and tactlessness

in our dealings with the outside world, when we cease to be such

wretched crawlers that we will go through any humiliation for our

daily-bread's sake, and cannot conduct ourselves like gentlemen, then

you will see how quickly we shall find the art of acting infused into

our blood--we who have been for so many centuries mere zealous animals.

To be sure, in regard to tragedy it is a question whether we shall ever

succeed, in our better days, in attaining sufficient earnestness and

reverence to enable us to keep in mind the fact that, as old Goethe

says, 'awe is mankind's best quality'--"

He seemed about to talk still further of his hopes and fears; and

Felix, to whom many of these ideas were new, and to whom the speaker,

with his unselfish warmth, grew more and more attractive as he went on,

would gladly have listened half through the night. But the door was

noisily thrown open, and Rosenbusch made his appearance on his friend's

threshold arrayed in a costume the comicality of which irresistibly

swept away all these serious considerations.

He had had his red beard shaved off, leaving only a diminutive mustache

and a pair of side whiskers; his flowing hair was elegantly arranged;

he wore an old-fashioned black coat, and a tall stove-pipe hat, brushed

smooth and shining.

"You may well laugh!" cried he, knitting his brows tragically at his

friends. "If you only knew how a man felt who was yesterday in

Paradise, and to-day is forced to get himself up in such a toilet as

this, as if he were going to his execution. The executioner's minion,

who cut my hair, has just left me. Whoever wishes to have a lock of

hair of the celebrated battle-painter Maximilian Rosenbusch will find

them lying about, like useless wool, on the floor of the adjoining

room. O Delila, for whom I have suffered this! O Nanny, for whose sake

I cut my noble hair!--for whom I dress myself in this Philistine

fashion!"

He stopped, and now revealed to Felix that he was on the point of

taking the most painful step of his life. In the opposite house lived

the object of his desire, the muse of his songs, the beautiful daughter

of a glovemaker, with whom he had been madly in love for the last six

months, so that he could positively hold out no longer. He had received

quite enough tokens to show him that his love was returned; indeed he

had an assurance, written on rose-colored paper and exhibiting one or

two orthographical liberties, that if the parents did not say no their

little daughter would certainly say yes. In order to have this question

decided, he had been obliged to assume his present masquerading

costume, notwithstanding the fact that the carnival was still far off.

For papa glovemaker had no very exalted opinion of artists of the

ordinary type.

"Therefore, my friends, drop a tear for the departed splendors of my

noble head, and pray for my poor soul, that it may soon be released

from this purgatory and admitted to the joys of the blessed. And,

by-the-way, how is it, Elfinger? Don't you want to slip on your best

coat and come with me? Then the whole thing would be finished at one

go."

Felix saw that the actor blushed, and cast a look of displeasure at his

loquacious friend.

"Ah! to be sure!" replied the latter, stepping in front of the glass

and winking at Felix as he passed, "you haven't slept off your headache

from last night. Hm! Another time, then. It seems to me, do you know, I

look devilish respectable, and the glovemaker's little daughter will

make no end of a good match in catching a person of my tone and style.

Look, there she sits over there at her post, the little witch, and at

the other window, completely absorbed in her work, is her pious sister.

_Sua cuique_-- Well, I won't quote any further, Elfinger, my boy! But

now, I must wend my way to the high tribunal. Will you accompany me,

friend baron? You must support me with spiritual comfort, in case I

should show signs of weakness by the way. To be sure, I have just been

working up my courage by three beautiful strophes; but a lyric of that

sort, strongly diluted with water, does not last long, and a more

spiritual elixir for the heart cannot be prepared off-hand. May Heaven

take me in its safe keeping! Amen! Well, Elfinger, you shall hear

before long how it turns out!"

Upon this he pressed his hat down firmly on his forehead, nodded to his

friend with a comical expression of misery and despair, and dragged

Felix with him from the room.

On the stairs he suddenly stood still and said, in a suppressed and

mysterious voice:

"Our friend up-stairs has the same trouble worse than I have. He is

smitten with the other one; but she is a little saint, as much of a

nun, thanks to her education with the English sisters, as my little

witch is a child of the world for the same reason. Now just conceive of

it, the more my little imp carries on--it will be hard work making a

sensible housewife of her--the more zealously does our good Fanny

confess and do penance and pray, and it really looks as if she were

seriously intent upon gaining a saint's halo. The fact is the girls

never associate with sensible people, and for that reason one of us

must sacrifice himself so that the ice will at last be broken, although

I confess it is pure madness on my part to think of marrying. You have

no idea, my dear friend, what extraordinary cobwebs gather in an old

Munich burgherhouse like this. Well, a few fresh fellows like us--I

imagine it would not take us long to bring new life into it, if we were

only once inside!"

He sighed, and appeared not to be in the most courageous mood,

notwithstanding his brave words. Felix accompanied him across the

street and saw him enter the narrow, arched door next to the glove

store, which was closed on account of its being Sunday--going in with

an assumed air of boldness, as if he were going to a dance.

Then he himself wandered aimlessly down the street. In what direction

should he turn his steps? In the whole city there was no one who would

be looking for him to-day, and the one to whom he felt most drawn was,

strangely enough, on Sunday afternoons farther out of his reach than at

any other time.

He was deliberating whether he should not hire a horse again and dash

away across the country, when companionship was unexpectedly thrown in

his way, of a kind that a man in his frame of mind could not but

welcome.

CHAPTER IX.

His way led him along the Dultplatz, past the beer-garden in which he

had sat with his friends on his first Sunday in Munich. The music was

playing as before, but the people sat about under the lanterns, that

had just been lighted, in rather a sleepy and listless way, for the day

showed as yet no sign of growing cooler.

Near the fence that separated the garden from the street, a Dachau

peasant-family had taken possession of one of the tables, leaving only

one end free. Their extraordinary, ugly costume attracted the attention

of Felix as he went wandering by. But his gaze soon turned from their

ridiculous dress and fixed on a slim girlish figure, closely wrapped in

a dark shawl, who sat at the other end of the table, with a full glass

and an empty plate before her, at which she seemed to have been staring

for some time, with her head resting on her hands and her elbows

planted on the table, as if utterly regardless of what was going on

about her. Nothing could be seen of the face, but a little, white,

short nose; her straw hat and a veil that hung half down over the

little hands threw the rest into shadow. But the little nose, and the

thick red hair, carelessly confined by a net, left not a moment's doubt

in Felix's mind that this picture of solitary melancholy was no other

than Red Zenz.

As he stepped softly up to her, touched her familiarly on the shoulder,

and pronounced her name, she looked up with a frightened start, and,

with eyes red from weeping, gazed into the face of the unexpected

comforter, as if she took him for a ghost. But the moment she

recognized him, she hastily wiped her eyes with the back of her little

round hand, and smiled upon him with undisguised pleasure. He asked

compassionately what it was that made her so heavy-hearted, and why she

sat here all alone; and, drawing up a chair, he seated himself between

one of the horrible young peasant-girls and the melancholy little

Bacchante. Then she told him what the trouble was. "Black Pepi," her

friend, the girl with whom she had been living, had suddenly "proved

false" to her, because her (Pepi's) lover, a young surgeon, had

declared red to be the most beautiful color. He afterward apologized

for it by saying that, of course, with his profession, it was only

natural that he should prefer the color of the blood to any other. But

it had for some time past appeared to Pepi that her faithless lover

paid rather more attention to her friend than was permissible in such a

case; and so, after a very violent scene, she had not only broken off

the friendship, but had given her notice that she could no longer share

her quarters with her. Furthermore, inasmuch as Zenz was still owing

rent for several months, she had seized upon the few things she had to

hold as security, and had then driven her from the house with only the

clothes she had on at the time.

"Only see," said the girl, lifting her dark shawl; "she did not even

leave me a respectable dress: if it had not been for the shawl that the

landlady lent me, I should have been ashamed to go across the street."

And it was really so; she wore a simple sack of striped cotton under

her black covering, that she carefully wrapped about her again. But now

it began to look as though she no longer troubled herself in the least

about the adventure that had so recently made her weep. The pale

little face that she turned toward her neighbor, brightly illuminated

by the lantern, had even lost its expression of anger at this

insulting treatment and betrayal of friendship, and beamed again with

light-heartedness and irrepressible enjoyment.

"And what are you going to do, Zenz?"

"I don't know yet. I shall manage to find some place to stay at. I

could go to the Rochus garden, or the Neusigl, where I lodged when I

first came here; but the waiters there have keys to the doors, and I

have found that it is not safe there. And anywhere else, where I am not

known, they might think that I would not be able to pay for the room,

and I really have no money but a few kreutzers. I should have to pawn

the ring that I have from my poor dead mother. Well, the day is not

over yet, and I can think the matter over again."

"To be sure," continued she, after a pause, during which Felix sat, as

if in a dream, gazing at her red lips and her white teeth, that one

could have counted when she spoke, "to be sure, I might fare well

enough if I only would! So well, that that false black cat Pepi would

envy me."

"If you only would, Zenz?"

"Yes, if I were willing to be wicked!" she added, in a low tone, and

for a moment her face grew serious. But in the next instant she laughed

merrily again, as if she would laugh away the flush that had suffused

her face.

"Do you know an artist named Rossel?"

"Certainly. Edward Rossel. What of him?"

"He came to see me about a week ago. He said he had seen the figure

that Herr Jansen modeled from me, and he said, if I would come to him

and stand as a model, he would pay me three times as well for it."

"And why haven't you gone to him?"

"Hm!--because I didn't like him. I will not hire myself out in that way

for the gentlemen, so that every one will know me and say: 'Aha! that

is Red Zenz!' I am sorry enough that I stood to please Herr Jansen,

although he is such a good gentleman. But now they know my address, and

they think that is as much as to say that I will go and be a model for

any one who wants me."

"Didn't you like Herr Rossel?"

"No. Not at all. He doesn't look in the least as if he were an artist,

and wanted to study from a model. He made such big eyes--No! I sent him

off with a flea in his ear. And then he went to Pepi to get her to

persuade me. But she knows me. She went to him herself, for she thought

he would just as soon have one as another. But he only gave her a

gulden and sent her away again, saying that he had no time just then,

and that he happened to particularly want red hair. Then she flew out

again about red. I have heard though that Herr Rossel lives like a

prince, and Pepi said that if I were not a fool--at that time she was

not so down on me--I might make my fortune."

"But are you going to continue such a fool all your life long, Zenz?"

"I don't know," replied she, frankly. "Nobody is sure of herself when

she is young and has plenty of time on her hands. But I think as long

as I have my five senses about me--"

She hesitated.

"Well, Zenz?" he asked, taking one of her little hands, with its

fingers' ends roughened by work, in one of his.

"So long," she said, quietly, "I will not do such a thing to please

anyone whom I do not love."

"And how must the man look whom you could love? Only like Herr Jansen?"

She laughed. "Oh! no. He is so much older than I. I only like him in

just the same way that I might have liked my father. He must be younger

and very nice, and--"

She stopped abruptly, looked askance at him, a little coquettishly, and

said: "But what nonsense we are talking! Won't you eat and drink

something, or has the scarecrow next you there taken away all your

appetite!"

She glanced disapprovingly at his neighbors, who looked, with their

nodding cap-borders and strait-laced Sunday suits, for all the world

like stuffed dolls, and did not understand a word of what had been said

by the other two.

"Zenz," said Felix, without answering her; "do you know you could stop

over night in my quarters just as well as not? I have two rooms: you

could bolt the door between them if you should feel any fear of me, and

each room has a separate entrance. What do you think about it?"

"You are only joking!" she hastily replied, without the slightest

embarrassment; "you would never think of encumbering yourself with such

a poor, ugly thing as I am."

"Ugly? I don't find you at all ugly, Zenz. And if you only cared to be

a model for me, as you do for Herr Jansen--Do you know, he has kept me

for weeks studying an old skeleton and a lay figure, and I am

forgetting over such work the very sight of a human being."

She shook her head, laughed, and then said, becoming serious again:

"That was only meant in joke, of course. I am not so simple as to let

myself be talked into believing that you are really a sculptor!"

"Well, just as you like, Zenz. I won't try to persuade you to do

anything you don't like. Come, take some beer; a new cask has just been

broached."

She drank eagerly out of his glass; and then a spirited overture was

played which interrupted their conversation for a time. Even after this

they talked entirely about other things. She told him about her former

life in Salzburg, how strict her mother had been with her, how often

she had known want, and how often of a Sunday she had sat quietly in

her chamber and had wished she might be allowed, just for once, to join

the merry, gayly-dressed throng outside, that she could only look at

from a distance. No doubt her mother had really cared for her, but for

all that she let her feel that her existence was an eternal reproach

and burden to her. Of course she cried when she lost her mother, but

her grief did not last long. The pleasure of feeling herself free soon

dried her tears. Now, to be sure--all alone as she was, without a soul

in all the wide world to trouble itself whether she lived or died--now,

she sometimes felt that she would give up everything if she could only

be back again at her mother's side.

"That is always the way," concluded she, with a nod of the head that

looked droll enough in its seriousness, "one never has what one wants;

and still, people say one ought to be contented. Sometimes I wish I

were dead. And then again I feel as if I would like to promenade up and

down the live-long summer through, wear beautiful dresses, live like a

princess, and--"

"And be made love to by a prince--isn't it so?"

"Of course. Alone, one can have no happiness. What would be the use of

my princess's dresses, unless I could drive some one perfectly crazy

with them?"

He gazed so steadfastly in her eyes, that she suddenly blushed and was

silent. The strange mixture of lightheartedness and melancholy in the

poor child, of enjoyment of life and reserve, of secret love and

introspective moralizing, attracted him more and more. Then, too, the

night, the subdued light of the lanterns, and the stirring music, and

his own loneliness of heart, and his seven-and-twenty years--

"Zenz," he whispered, bending over so near to her ear that his lips

almost touched her neck, "if you would only care just a little bit for

me, why shouldn't we fare just as well as if you really were a princess

and I a prince?"

She did not answer. Her lips were parted, she breathed quickly, and her

nostrils quivered, while her eyes were tightly shut, as if it were all

a dream from which she did not wish to wake.

"We could lead a life like that in Paradise," continued he, gently

stroking with his own the two little hands that she had laid side by

side on the table. "We are both of us two stray children for whom no

one cares. If we should stay at home a year and a day, and never let

ourselves be seen, who would inquire what had become of us? All about

us people live and love and think only about themselves! Why should not

we think only of ourselves, too?"

"Go away from me!" answered she, in a low voice. "You are not in

earnest. You think about me? Not even in your dreams. How can you care

for me? Such a red-haired little monkey, as Black Pepi called me

today!"

"Your hair is very pretty. I remember yet how pretty it made you look,

when you let it hang loose over your blue cloak that morning in Herr

Jansen's studio, when you ran away so fast. And now I will hold you

tight by it. Come! I thought we were going? It begins to be cool; at

least, I see that you are trembling."

"Not from cold!" she said, in a strange tone, as she stood up and

wrapped her shawl tightly about her.

Then, without waiting for him to ask her, she took his arm and they

left the garden.

CHAPTER X.

She did not ask where he was leading her, and indeed spoke very little

more, and scarcely betrayed by any sign whether she was listening to

what he said, or was entirely absorbed in her own thoughts. He had

begun by telling her, with a kind of forced liveliness, about all sorts

of things that he thought would interest her; about the women in the

countries on the other side of the ocean, their way of dressing, their

songs and dances, and their ideas about love and men. As she made no

reply to it all, he at last grew silent too. For a moment he felt a

keen pang of pain, when, by the light of a street lamp, he caught sight

of his own shadow and that of the girl swaying before them on the

ground. How came he to constitute himself the knight of this poor

creature, who clung so tightly to his arm that he realized well enough

it would not be easy to shake her off again?

Six weeks ago, in another city--it was a summer night, too--in what a

different mood had he returned home from a walk, and in what different

company! But that was passed forever. Should he wander about in the

desert all his life long in sackcloth and ashes, and turn his back upon

all the happiness of existence? Who would be benefited by his

sacrifice? And yet, why could he not suppress this obstinate pain, this

remembrance of past days that sought to fill him with disgust at the

lighthearted life of this "city of pleasure?"

He would not let his life be ruined by a spectre, he would carry his

head high and sneer away all attacks of sentimentality. Laughing

defiantly, to silence the low, far-off voice in his heart, he released

his arm from the girl's, only to put it still tighter and more tenderly

about her shoulder.

"Zenz," he said, "you are a darling little sweetheart. It would be a

sin if you should not know where to lay your head. Do you see that

house over there, with the lamp burning in front? That is where I live,

and no one has a key to all the doors. How would it be if we should

play hide-and-seek there for a time, with all this tiresome world?"

He merrily lifted her up from the ground, as if he would carry her over

the street into the house; but she suddenly released herself and

pointed anxiously to two riders, who were already so close upon them

that they were forced to run to get by them.

"You little goose!" he laughed, "surely you are not afraid of two

people on horseback, and they peaceful Sunday riders--"

The word died on his lips. As the light of the lantern fell on the

faces of the two horsemen, he recognized in the one the lean profile

and the black imperial of Lieutenant Schnetz, and in the other a little

mustached gentleman, with a straw hat and a light riding-jacket.

No; it must be a mistake! How came _he_ here? He had been deceived by a

resemblance. It was only because he had so recently been thinking about

past times, that their shadow had risen up before him. What could

possibly bring the uncle of his betrothed to Munich, and in the company

of the lieutenant--he who never left his niece?

And yet--as he looked he heard him say a word or two to Schnetz, and

then there was a merry laugh.

The two rode unsuspectingly by, and long after their voices had died

away, Felix stood gazing listlessly after them in the darkness without

rousing himself from his thoughts.

It was he--Irene's uncle. But how did he come here? True, he had

distant relatives in Munich; but it was years since he had left off all

intercourse with them. Did he know, perhaps, that Felix was here in the

city? Was that why he had come, and had he perhaps brought his ward

with him? And even if it were all an accident--even the acquaintance

with Schnetz--must not he inevitably learn from the latter that the

fugitive had hidden himself here under the disguise of a sculptor's

blouse?

"What is the matter?" asked the girl, at last growing impatient. "Do

you know these gentlemen?"

"Ah! Yes," he answered, suddenly recalling where he was and with whom

he was standing here in the street. With a deep sigh he brought himself

back to the _role_ of protector to this poor child. He stammered a

meaningless remark about the breed of the horses and about skill in

riding, and once more offered Zenz the arm he had withdrawn in his

momentary confusion.

He led her thus across the street and into the house.

When they had reached his rooms, where the windows stood open toward

the garden, he hastened to light a lamp. And then he forced himself, in

his character of host, to show the now somewhat silent and shy girl the

arrangement of his rooms, and all the curiosities that he had brought

back from his travels. On the table lay a little Damascus dagger, which

she took up and looked at curiously. He told her how a young Spanish

lady had given it to him in Mexico. And then he remembered a bottle of

sherry that was standing in his closet, and brought it and drew the

cork.

"This is all the hospitality I can offer you," said he, still very

absently, setting down a full glass before her.

She shook her head, and could not be prevailed upon even to taste the

wine. And in all that she did she had grown very shy and timid, like a

young swallow that has flown into an inhabited room, and keeps close

pressed into a corner, where you can see the frightened heart beating

under its feathered breast.

"Will you not look and see whether you can make yourself comfortable on

the sofa?"

She did not answer, and sat still in a chair by the window, her hat

still on her head, and her shawl wrapped closely about her.

"A beautiful night," she said softly, at last. "How far you can see

from here over the city! You are very happy to be able to live in such

a beautiful place."

"Well, you can share the happiness, then. Only make yourself quite at

home. Are you tired?"

"Oh, no! but please don't trouble yourself about me. If you want to go

to sleep, I will sit here and will not stir."

He came and stood beside her by the open window.

"Well, Zenz," he said, "you must not mind if I leave you alone now. The

day has been so hot, the wretched music of that band and all sorts of

other things have given me a furious headache, and I had better get to

sleep. Good-night, child! If you want anything to amuse you, here are

all manner of things--photographs and books of pictures. I will light

you another candle. And now, make yourself comfortable. You can bolt

the door from this side, and my housekeeper goes to market early in the

morning, so that you are quite safe from her. And so, good-night!"

He touched her cheek lightly. She raised her face toward him, quietly

and submissively, and looked at him half inquiringly, half afraid. Her

lips, with their white teeth, were parted--yet now without a laugh--and

her hands lay quietly folded in her lap. Yet, as he bent over her, he

only touched the hair upon her forehead lightly with his lips.

"Good-night!" he said again.

Then he went into the adjoining room, and closed the door behind him.

CHAPTER XI.

At the foot of his bed stood a cabinet in which he preserved all kinds

of relics, diaries, letters--mementos of his lost love. He thrust in

his hand at random, and drew out a portfolio containing all Irene's

letters, from the first unimportant notes, in which she sent him some

communication from her uncle--her uncle had an aversion to pen and ink,

and was very glad to make use of his niece as a secretary--to the

sheets on which the fate of his life stood written.

He lit a lamp and spread out before him this chronicle of the happiest

years of his youth. Thus he sat with his back to the door of the

sitting-room, now reading, and now mechanically taking up one sheet

after the other. What could they tell him that was new? And yet these

fine, slender letters reminded him of the hand that had written them.

He had never seen any other hand that had expressed so much character,

so much delicacy and firmness, so much flexibility and noble repose. He

had often teased Irene about this, by telling her that he would

undertake to decide from the appearance of her hands whether she was

glad or sad, laughing or crying. The handwriting, too, was a very

correct expression of her impulsive and self-controlled inner nature.

Now, as he picked out here and there some particular sheet and glanced

over it again, the whole past rose up so vividly before him that he

felt as if he must suffocate in the close, lonely, sad atmosphere that

surrounded him; as if he were lying in his grave, and a voice arose

from these pages and repeated to him the history of his own life, that

now lay ruined and shattered for ever more.

"Your dear, long letter from Mexico," she wrote, "I gave to uncle to

read. He is always teasing me, because I assert that the letters of two

lovers are written to be read by two pairs of eyes only. It was not

possible, he declared, that an epistle of sixteen closely-written

pages, like your last, could be a mere love-letter; no human being

could stand such a thing, and we no longer lived, thank God, in that

paradise of letter-writers--the time of Werther. So I showed him the

Mexican letter, and he gave it back to me with one of his most comical

faces. He declared he had never before come across such a lover; here

he was giving a detailed description of a charming young girl, passing

from one handsome woman to another, as if he could think of nothing

that would give greater pleasure to his far-off sweetheart. That was

certainly rather the opposite of a love-letter; but if I was content to

make the acquaintance of all these Paquitas, Chatitas, and Mariquitas,

he would not begrudge me the pleasure, and congratulated me upon my

slight disposition to jealousy, which, to be sure, was a very useful

trait for me to have in the case of a traveler of this sort.

"I laughed, and he went off to his club, shaking his head.

"But then I grew very serious, and looked into my own heart and tried

to make out why it was that I really did not feel the faintest spark of

jealousy. Perhaps because there is room for nothing in my heart but my

love for you; neither for conceit, nor fear, nor desires, nor doubt. I

have never stopped to consider _why_ it was that we two should have

loved one another. It _was_ so; I felt that even more strongly than I

did my own existence. And for that very reason it seems to me

inconceivable that it can ever be any different. For you do not love me

because I am the most beautiful, the wisest, the wittiest, or the most

lovable person that you have ever seen, but because I am _I_ the one

person, with all that I have and all that I lack, that you will never

find a second time. So, though you may find many beyond the sea who are

more charming, more attractive, more brilliant, you will never find me

again; and because I know that, I can, when evening comes, lay your

sixteen-page letter from over the ocean under my pillow, and very

quietly go to sleep and dream of you, without feeling any desire to

snatch you, with poison and dagger, from the attractions of some

olive-colored Creole.

"For I know, dearest love--vain as it may sound, and little store as I

set by my few talents and attractions--that I alone can make you happy

as no other can; not so happy that you will never have a wish

unfulfilled; that I shall appear to you at all times the crown and

jewel of all wives, and you the chosen favorite of fortune; but as

happy as it is possible for one human being to make another, so happy

will I make you and you make me; and because we can never comprehend

this, but ask ourselves each day why it should be so, therefore our

happiness shall have no end, and no phenomenon of beauty, grace, or

wit, that ever crosses your path, will be capable of disturbing this

happiness.

"My old Christel would raise her eyebrows very ominously at this point,

and would repeat 'unjustified, entirely unjustified!' But I cannot help

it; as a rule I am timid and skeptical about anything good that is

promised to me. But when I think of our love, I overflow with boldness

and confidence. What harm can fortune do us? Is not our love itself

fortune? What tricks of fate ought we to fear, when we hear this fate,

the most important and the greatest of all, within us?

"You will not feel tempted to translate this letter for the benefit of

your Spanish lady friends. They would only pity you for having a

sweetheart who would write you about such serious matters. Ah! and yet

my whole heart laughs when I think that they are so serious with us!"

In a later letter, that had been addressed to Paris, she wrote:

"Yesterday, I was at court again, and to-day I thank heaven that I

managed to bear it, and that the headache which was caused by its

tiresomeness is only a moderate one. This undoubtedly proceeds from the

fact that I sat at supper next to the embassador for ----, who has been

in India, and who described to me, in great detail and for the third

time, the burning of a widow that he had once been present at. (They

say that he always tells the gentlemen a similar story about a

tiger-hunt.) For this reason it happened that I could think a great

deal about you, and when I can do that I am always happy. My darling,

have you yet learned to put a good face on a bad matter? To howl with

the wolves? To do homage to 'his serene highness your sovereign

prince,' without letting your own sovereignty come out too plainly? I

am afraid that, inasmuch as they don't dance the bolero here at the

court balls, and as the whole _tempo_ of our life is an _andante

maestoso_, you will soon grow impatient with all this again, and give

umbrage to some of the best and best-intentioned people in the world.

No one can understand your feeling better than I do; only to think that

your poor sweetheart, whom you have always teased about her good

breeding and her respect for conventional forms, is looked upon by the

society of this city as a very emancipated individual, or, at all

events, is notorious for being a _tete forte_! The reason of this is,

that I generally am quite dumb in the midst of all tiresome talk and

whispered gossip; but if the conversation happens to turn upon anything

deeper, upon affairs of real human interest and not merely upon court

events, then I express my true opinion, without troubling myself to

care whether it falls in with the court tone or not. And the good

people look on this as very pronounced, and not at all good form for a

young lady.

"But don't you see, my dearest, in this way I manage to make this whole

world of forms bearable, by holding my human part ready in reserve, and

looking upon all these absurd prejudices and narrow conventionalities

as something purely superficial and accidental, as unimportant as the

other habits and customs we have in our toilet, behavior, and our

living and dying? And although the forms of the circle in which our lot

has happened to place us are very often more tiresome and senseless

than in other stations, still existence can nowhere be entirely

formless, and at the most can only seem so to one who only looks upon

it as a traveler may look, and who, as an irresponsible spectator, does

not feel bound to submit himself to any of the constraint that is

incumbent upon the natives. Have not you yourself told me that even

among the students a severe etiquette prevails, according to which they

sing and drink, and fight duels, and make up their quarrels? If young

people, in the years of their happiest freedom, cannot amuse themselves

without submitting to the restraint of customs and conventionality, why

should you be so angry with our poor aristocracy, that endeavors to

console itself by these wretched devices for the emptiness of its

existence?

"It is only among ourselves that we need not submit to any formality!

Only when in his most intimate circle can one be a human being! And,

since it is so, I think we can easily spare the little tribute of

restraint that we have to render to our social equals.

"So do come back, and behave like a pink of propriety, my darling

scapegrace; and try and make your seven-league boots accommodate

themselves to the minuet step of our dear capital at least once in

every month or two. Then when we are alone again in our own four walls,

I will do all I can to make up to you for the _ennui_ you have

suffered; and I will gladly dance the bolero with you, if you will only

teach me how."

This letter was soon followed by their reunion. With what a feeling he

took up all the little notes, that at that time had but a few streets

to go, to bring messages about a walk, a visit for which he was to call

for her, or some incident that had made it impossible to keep an

engagement! These notes showed, now and then, traces of some more

serious misunderstanding that had taken place between the two lovers:

an appeal to be very gentle to-day, a promise not to refer by a

syllable to the dispute of the day before. He seemed to see again all

that he had once read between these lines.

And then came her last letter, the letter of parting:

"I am quite quiet now, Felix, or at least as quiet as one is when pain

has exhausted all one's strength. I write to you this very night, for

of course there can be no thought of sleep. I have again and again

thought it all over from the beginning, and have each time arrived at

the same conclusion--that I deceived myself in believing through all

these years that I was necessary to your happiness. Do not try to shake

this belief; I am sadly humbled, Felix, very wretched and miserable

because of this confession; but I am as sure that it is true, as I am

that I still live and breathe.

"I know that you still love me, perhaps quite as much as you have

always loved me. But one thing I did not know before, and I learn it

now with pain: you love something better than you do me--your freedom.

"You would be willing to sacrifice it, partly from chivalry, in order

that you might keep your promise; partly from kind-heartedness, for you

must feel how my whole life has hung on you, and how slowly these

wounds will heal. And yet, _it must be!_ How could anything that would

not make you perfectly happy ever be happiness to me?

"You shall be free again, and you may be so without any anxiety about

me. I have more strength than I seem to have. There is only one thing I

cannot bear: to see a sacrifice laid at my feet.

"Even if you were now willing to disclose your secret to me, it would

not alter my resolve. I would not have you think that I wanted to wring

anything from you, which you would not give to me of your own accord.

But that you should make a distinction between that which you share

with me, and that which belongs only to yourself ... it may seem

narrow-minded or weak or arrogant of me, but I cannot help myself, I

cannot rise above it.

"I shall never feel toward you, Felix, any differently from what I do

now; I shall never feel toward another as I do toward you. I have to

thank you for the best and dearest feelings that I have ever possessed

and experienced. No lapse of time can change this in the least--as

little as it can my resolve.

"Think kindly of me, too--without bitterness. And now

farewell!--farewell forever! Irene."

He knew this letter by heart, word for word, and yet he read it through

again, word for word, and when he came to the end all the pain, and

defiance, and anger against himself and against her blazed up within

him, as it had in the hour when he first read it. Her calmness, her

gentle strength, that he used to laugh at as artificial, although he

knew how free she was from all feminine tricks; her clear comprehension

and her courage in asserting it: all this humiliated him anew. Then,

indeed, he had comforted himself with the belief that a word from him,

a look, her name merely pronounced by his lips, would demolish the

barrier that she had raised up between them, as easily as one blows

down a tower of cards. He had bitterly deceived himself. Neither by

entreaties nor stratagems had he succeeded in again gaining access to

her. He had to admit, with a new feeling of humiliation, that she was

the stronger. Then at last he too had, as he believed, bound his breast

in the seven-fold bands of iron, and had turned away from her. For the

last time he wrote to her a short, proud, but not unkind letter, almost

like an ultimatum from one power to another. He had felt some hope in

regard to it for that very reason. When it remained unanswered, he

acknowledged that all was over.

His face had sunk down on the little portfolio, he had closed his

eyes and had given himself up, with a kind of ecstasy, to all these

bitter-sweet memories. The thought that there was any one near him had

passed completely out of his mind, and his dreams began to lapse deeper

and deeper into the haziness that usually precedes unconsciousness.

Suddenly he roused himself with a start. A light hand had touched his

shoulder. As he turned hurriedly, he saw Zenz standing behind him. She

hastily stepped back again as far as the threshold of the door, which

she had softly opened, and stood there in the frame thus made in the

exact attitude of Jansen's "Dancing Girl," her arms thrown back and

holding, instead of the tambourine, the little plate on which Felix had

handed her the wine. The candle-light that streamed in from the

sitting-room, and the little lamp by the side of Felix's bed, doubly

illuminated the slim, youthful figure, and its shadow flickering back

and forth heightened the weird charm. She stood there with her profile

slightly turned upward, motionless as a statue, gazing straight before

her. It was not until quite a time had elapsed, and she had begun to

feel tired, that she asked, still without turning her head, whether he

was not going to begin to sketch? He rose and took a step toward her,

and then stood still again.

"My dear child," he said, controlling himself with difficulty, "it is

too late for that. The night has grown cool--you will catch cold. Come,

I thank you very much. You are a beautiful girl, and I--am not made of

stone. Now go back and go to sleep. To-morrow--tomorrow we will

sketch."

She gave a start, and he noticed with amazement that she began to

tremble violently. She gave but one timid glance at him. Suddenly, the

tears streamed from her eyes, she threw down the plate with such force

that it shivered into fragments, rushed back from the threshold into

the sitting-room and violently slammed the door behind her.

An instant after, he heard the bolt pushed to.

"For God's sake, child!" he cried, "what has come to you all of a

sudden? What have I done to offend you? Open the door, and let us have

a sensible talk together. Didn't I tell you that I had a headache? And

who ever heard of such an idea as sketching in the middle of the night?

Zenz! don't you hear? Won't you make it up again?"

All in vain. After wasting his entreaties and at last his anger, for

some time longer, on the tightly-closed door, he was finally obliged to

give it up. His blood was in a whirl; he could not conceive now how he

could have repulsed the poor creature in such cold-blooded fashion.

"Perhaps her anger will pass over, if I leave her to herself for a

while," he thought.

"I am going out to take a little walk," he cried through the key-hole.

"I must have a breath of fresh air. When I come back again, perhaps my

headache will be gone and your fit of temper, too. In the mean while,

pass away the time as pleasantly as you can."

And he really did go out into the night; but he returned again before a

quarter of an hour had passed--he was drawn back by some power that he

himself could not understand.

As he entered his sleeping-room, where the lamp was still burning

steadily, it was empty. He passed quickly through the door, which was

now unbolted, into the sitting-room. But here, too, no trace could be

found of his guest, search as he would behind the curtains and in the

dark corners. The light had not been extinguished and a bat had flown

into the room, and the exertion of hunting him out again threw him into

a perspiration. When at last he succeeded, and, exhausted by such a

variety of excitement, had sunk back upon the sofa, he found that all

the little knickknacks, which he had spread before her when they first

arrived, were still lying on the table in the same order in which he

had left them. The little dagger which his Creole friend had given him

was the only thing he missed, and he could not find it though he

searched for it everywhere.

_BOOK III_.

CHAPTER I.

There are summer nights that are not made for sleep. The moon shines

far brighter than at other times, as if a lamp were burning at its full

height in the sleeping-room instead of a mere night-light. People

strolling along, absorbed in thought and feeling the flagstones under

their feet still warm--for they have been drinking in the fierce glow

of the sun the livelong summer day--catch themselves in the act of

crossing over out of the moonlight to the shady side, just as one does

in the hot noontide. On such nights as this, sounds of life and

merriment are heard throughout the city long after the police have

sounded the hour for retiring; the couples that wander through the

streets seem unable to find their way home; young fellows march along

arm-in-arm, in long rows stretching the whole width of the road, as if

advancing to battle against some invisible enemy, singing all the while

as tenderly and sweetly as they know how, or else shrieking and yelling

like a troop of wild Indians. Here and there, where a window stands

open and a _sonata_ of Beethoven floats out into the night, they

suddenly hush their noise and listen, only to break out in a wild burst

of applause the moment the music ceases. On such a night solitary youth

lies dreaming, with open eyes, till long past midnight, of the glories

of the future; and solitary age thinks sadly how glorious the past was;

and at last they fall asleep over their musing, and slumber quietly,

until some young cock in a neighboring roost, who cannot sleep himself,

gives a glance up to heaven and begins to crow with such vigor at the

setting moon, which he mistakes for the rising sun, that the sleepers

start up again, throw off the bedclothes from their hot limbs, and

creep to the window to see whether the night is really at an end. After

this there is no more sleep for the aged; but they who are young lie

down once more and soon make up for all that they have lost.

Such was the night that followed that Sunday. Of those in whose fate

and adventures we are interested, none went to bed before midnight,

though in truth some other sprite than the charm of the sultry night

had possession of their hearts and senses. Even the good Angelica, who

to the best of our knowledge was not in love, and who rejoiced moreover

in that softest of pillows, a good conscience, sat at the open window

of her little virgin bower, in which a lamp was dimly burning, half

through the night, twining her curls and heavily sighing and dropping

into a doze, until her head would strike against the window-sash,

when she would start up and begin once more to spin her sorrowful

summer-night's thoughts. She had been at Julie's door that afternoon to

inquire what had been the upshot of this bad business. But no one was

at home. And so she was waiting impatiently for the following day.

It was later still before Julie could bring herself to go to bed. The

windows in her chamber stood open so as to let in the night-air through

the openings in the closed blinds. But with the air the magical

moonbeams streamed in too, and made a pattern on her green silk

coverlet; her thoughts were lost in its mazes, so that she could not

close her eyes. She felt as if she had never been at once so happy and

so wretched. At heart she did not doubt for a moment that everything

really was just as it stood in the baleful letter; that she would never

possess him whom she loved. His own puzzling behavior, the way in which

he had suddenly broken off and rushed out of the room, confirmed the

anonymous accusation only too well. But the thought that she loved him,

and that he returned her love, crowded out all others, and made her so

glad in the depths of her heart, that no hostile fate could crush the

rejoicing within her. So he is to "give her back her faith in her own

heart!" What a senseless phrase! When had she ever believed in anything

as she believed in the strength and truth and invincibility of this

feeling, in the feeling that it was worth while to have lived through a

long youth without love and happiness for the sake of this man, so that

now she might lavish upon him a hoarded wealth of passion?

She could not help smiling when it occurred to her how often she had

thought that she had done with the world, and could look back without

regret upon the years of youth she had lost. What had become of those

ten anxious years? Had she really lived in them or only dreamed of

them? Was she not as young and inexperienced, as thirsty for happiness

and as coy in its presence, as she had ever been in the first blooming

years of her girlhood? Yes, she felt the courage of her earliest youth,

when she still believed in miracles, bubbling up within her from an

inexhaustible spring. She made no attempt to close her eyes to what

could and would happen. But that this love, hopeless as it seemed,

would be a source of unspeakable happiness to her, that in the

sanctuary of her heart she would never cease to look upon this man as

belonging to her--all this she admitted to herself in words so plain

that, as she lay there wide awake in the moonlight, they sometimes

found utterance in a half-audible soliloquy.

Then she marveled at the suddenness with which it had all come about,

but she soon convinced herself again that this was just as it should

be. She tried hard to picture to herself the kind of wife he might

have. But she could not; it seemed to her impossible that he could ever

have loved any one but herself. She closed her eyes and tried to recall

his features to her mind. Singularly enough she met with no great

success. His eyes were all that she could distinctly call up before

her, and his voice seemed always to be close to her ear. She rose and

stepped to the window, and opened the blinds a little to see if the

night were not almost over. She herself did not know why she should

thus look forward to the morning, for there was little hope that it

would bring her anything new or good. But it would bring _him_, she

could count on that. With burning lips she drew in the mild night-air,

and listened to a love-song, which a solitary youth sang as he passed

under her window.

She understood each word, and as he ended she repeated the closing

verses softly, and sighed as she shut the blinds again. Then she lay

down and at last fell asleep.

The day had long dawned outside, but the green twilight in which she

lay caused her to dream on undisturbed. It struck seven, eight, nine,

from the clock on the Theatinerkirche. Then at last she awoke, feeling

as refreshed as if she had just emerged from bathing in the sea. It was

some time before she could think clearly of all that had happened

yesterday and would probably happen today, but as she did so a vague

fear and anxiety came over her. She hastened to dress, so that she

might go out and ask whether any letter had come. When at last she

opened the door into the parlor, her figure wrapped in a loose robe,

and her hair thrust carelessly under a pretty cap, her foot hit against

some heavy object that took up the whole breadth of the threshold. As

the blinds were closed in this room also, she did not see at first,

owing to her short-sightedness, what it was that lay in her way. But

the object immediately began to move of its own accord, and raised

itself up before her, and she felt a cold tongue on her hand and saw

that the intruder was no other than Jansen's venerable Newfoundland

dog. The start he gave her was almost instantly lost in the greater one

with which she found herself saying, "Where the dog is, the master will

not be far away." And she was right, for there, in the back part of the

room, leaning against the stove, was a dark figure with disheveled

hair, standing as immovable in its place as she herself stood in the

doorway, deprived of all power to move a limb or open her lips.

Just at this moment the other door opened, and the old servant stepped

in and turned to the man at the stove with a gesture which was half

indignant, half timid, but which said plainer than words that it had

been impossible to turn away this uncomfortably early guest; he had

made his way in by force.

"It is quite right, Erich," said his mistress, who had now completely

recovered her composure. "I will ring when I want breakfast. And,

by-the-way, I am not at home in case any one calls."

The old man retired, shrugging his shoulders, and muttering to himself.

The moment he closed the door behind him, Julie stepped quickly up to

Jansen, who stood in silence at the opposite end of the room, and

cordially extended her hand.

"Thank you for coming," she said; and from her voice it would have been

hard for any one to have believed how her heart beat as she uttered

these few words, "But sit down. We have much to say to one another."

He bowed slightly, but remained standing where he was, and appeared not

to notice that she had offered him her hand.

"Pardon this early visit," he said. "Your note did not reach me last

evening. Early this morning, when I went into the studio--"

"Have you any suspicion as to who could have written the letter?" she

interrupted, wishing to come to his aid. She had sunk down into a

chair, and the dog lay beside her on the carpet, occasionally giving a

growl of content as he felt her soft hand on his head.

"I think I know," replied Jansen, after a short pause. "I am certain

that some one in this city is dogging all my steps, very likely in the

interest of another. What was in that letter is nothing but the pure

truth; and when I went to my studio this morning, I carried a letter in

my pocket which I had written overnight, and which tells you almost the

same thing. Here it is--if you would like to read it."

She shook her head slightly.

"What for, my dear friend, if it tells me nothing new?"

"Perhaps it may. But you are right; this piece of paper cannot prove to

you the fact I most desire to have proved: that is, that I really wrote

this letter last night before I knew of any other. That is something

you can only believe from my personal assurance--and that is the reason

of my being here."

"That is the reason? Oh! my friend, as if I needed such an

assurance--as if your hasty departure yesterday had not told me that

you did not trust yourself to stay because you--because you had only

said what you did in a moment of self-forgetfulness--and yet, believe

me, that was a thoughtless word that slipped from my pen, that only an

explanation from you could give me back my faith in my own heart. I

have never lost that faith. I believe to-day, as yesterday, that my

heart knew perfectly well what it was about when it surrendered itself

to you."

"You are an angel from heaven!" he cried, his grief breaking forth;

"you seek to defend me even from myself. Yet for me with my hopeless

lot to have forced myself into your quiet life, will never cease to be

a crime. That is what I said to myself yesterday the moment I left your

door. This letter attempted to say the same thing, and informed you

also of my firm resolve never to show myself in your sight again. But

the strange hand that tugs at the chords of my ruined life, and seeks

to tear them asunder, has shattered this resolve. Now I owe you a

longer confession than could be written in a letter. For not until you

know all about me will you be able to understand that, though it was a

sin, it was still a human one, that caused me so to forget myself; and

that you need not withdraw your respect from me--though you do your

heart--and your hand."

He was silent again for a moment; she, too, said nothing. She trembled,

but she strove hard to appear calm, so that he would go on. How

willingly she would have heard her fate in two words--her "to be or not

to be!" What did she care for all the rest? But she felt that he had

more to tell her, and she would not interrupt him.

"I hardly know," he continued, "how much our friend Angelica has told

you about me. I am a peasant's son, and had to struggle through a hard

childhood; and it was a long time before I could bend my stiff

peasant's neck so that it fitted without chafing in the yoke of city

etiquette. Few men have ever gone such strange ways as I have, always

wavering between defiance and humility, audacity and shrinking, as

well in my dealings with my fellow-men as in my art. I had a mother of

the true old yeoman nobility--which is synonymous with true human

nobility--at least in our part of the country. She finally succeeded in

making a strong, silent man of my father, who had a streak of the

tyrant in him. If she had lived longer, who knows whether I should ever

have left her? But soon after her death I prevailed upon my father to

let me go to the art-school at Kiel. I did little good there. There was

a wild element among the scholars, and I was not the tamest. I always

had a great contempt--perhaps because I was ashamed of my peasant's

manners--for what we were pleased to call the Philistinism of the

worthy citizens. That I, as an artist, was permitted all sorts of

liberties that were denied to officials, scholars, and tradespeople,

pleased me greatly; and I abused my freedom without stint. But as I

moved in a very narrow circle, and seldom came in contact with any high

type of humanity, I had no great field in which to display the

profligacy of my thoughts and habits. A few wretched _liaisons_, and a

number of silly and by no means edifying scrapes, were all that came of

it.

"Then I moved to Hamburg. There the same wild life was continued on a

somewhat larger scale. You will readily spare me the details. Now, when

I think back on that time, I have to stop and reflect whether it really

could have been _I_ who wasted his days and nights in such shameful

dissipation with such worthless companions. They were my Prince Hal

days. 'The wild oats had to be sown.' But now I thank my good star for

having led me safely, though by dubious ways, past all that kind of

crime and wrong-doing which could not have been covered by this trite

saying."

"Well, one evening, when my aching head and my gnawing rage at my own

idiocy unfitted me for anything else, I went to the theatre, and saw

for the first time an actress who was just entering on an engagement

there. The piece was a flat, sensational, social drama, in which she

took the part of the noble, generous, young wife, who plays the saving

angel to the dissipated husband. It was a moral lecture that appealed

directly to my own case; and as the sinner, even in his deepest

degradation, seemed an enviable creature as compared with me--for he

invariably fell into the arms of his guardian angel--I could not help

wishing myself in his place; and so was led to examine that angel very

carefully.

"She was certainly well worth looking at. A most charming young person,

with a figure, a bearing, and a certain indolent grace in all her

movements, such as I had never seen before. In addition to all this a

childlike face, with dove-like eyes, and such an innocent, plaintive

mouth, that you would have been willing to storm the very heavens just

to bring a smile to those pretty lips. When this really appeared at the

close of the play (for the young husband reformed), it was all over

with me. As I noticed that half the audience--indeed, the entire male

part--had gone mad over her, I considered my sudden infatuation not

extraordinary; especially as I have a way of not being very slow in my

feelings of love and hate. You have had experience of that yourself."

He paused for a moment, and gave her a hasty glance. But she did not

stir, so breathlessly was she listening to him, her eyes fixed on the

head of the dog, who lay quietly sleeping at her side.

"I will spare you any account of the further course of my love affair,"

he continued. "It is enough that in eight days I gained my case by

ardor and flattery: and Lucie was my betrothed.

"The strange manner in which she bore herself in this position ought to

have warned me. To my first passionate wooing she had opposed a

prudishness and a maidenly reserve such as I had not expected to find

in an actress, especially as she let me see plainly enough that she

felt anything but indifferent toward me, and that the homage of an

artist whose reputation was then in the ascendant was exceptionally

flattering to her. But no sooner did I, somewhat taken aback by this

severe maidenly reserve, make her a proposal that aimed at nothing less

than our marriage and her retirement from the stage, than her tone

changed. She began to treat the subject with greater lightness, to

utter platitudes against marriages among artists, and in praise of the

happiness of liberty; to tease me with moods, and to attract me again

by all kinds of pretty coaxing; so that my passionate obstinacy was

urged higher and higher, until at last I forced her, half against her

will, to fix the wedding-day.

"Of course this excited the greatest amazement among my former

companions, who could scarcely believe their ears. To those with whom I

was most intimate I expatiated on the matter as an exceedingly

practical undertaking, as a truly sensible marriage. I should never

again find a being who was thus equally removed from Philistinism and

evil courses. Besides, one cannot go on sowing wild oats forever; and

it seemed to me that now, when my prospects had begun to seem quite

favorable on account of a number of orders I had received, was the most

suitable time to settle to a steadier life. This is what I said to my

most intimate friends. I said nothing to the others. One of them, our

Falstaff, who was the one most concerned at my loss, took me aside one

day and asked whether I was really in earnest about this foolish

affair. Upon my replying that I was sufficiently in earnest to forbid

any contemptuous criticism upon my conduct, even from a good friend, he

shrugged his shoulders and excused himself: he had not had the

slightest intention of offending me, but he merely wished to call my

attention to the fact that this freak of mine might cost me too dearly.

Then, when I pressed him further, he remarked that 'in his opinion

there were such things as artificial violets, and that the most genuine

thing about this creature was her acting, which, unfortunately, she

kept up in real life as well as on the stage.' And then followed a

short sketch of her adventurous career, which this well-meaning man had

collected, not without considerable trouble, from numberless inquiries

at the theatres where she had appeared.

"Of course I expressed my appreciation of his kindness in the plainest

possible words, broke with him once and for all, and ran off to my

betrothed, to whom I excitedly related the whole chronicle of what I

had heard about her way of life. The idea had never even entered my

head that she would answer me in any other way than with a burst of

burning indignation, and I had already been considering what kind words

I should make use of in order to soothe her. But she heard me through

without emotion, indeed without even blushing, so that for a moment I

was fool enough to say to myself, 'I really believe she is so innocent

that she doesn't even understand what I have been telling her.' But

when I ceased speaking, she looked me full in the face, quite unabashed

and with her most angelic expression, and said: 'This is all a lie,

except in one particular. I committed a single wrong when I was a mere

child, and that was the reason why I refused to become your wife. Do

now as you like; you know what you take when you take me.'

"This confession, which she made with her irresistible melodramatic

voice, blinded me completely; and I was more convinced than ever that

all the rest of the talk about her deceitfulness and coquetry, and her

heartless flirting with foolish young admirers, was a lie. 'No,' I

cried, folding her in my arms, 'you shall not find yourself

disappointed in me, you shall not find a narrow-minded Philistine, when

you thought you were giving yourself up to a free artist's soul. What

lies behind you shall cast no shadow over our future. If it is true

that you love me, why then--' and here I quoted, slightly changing it

to suit the occasion, a verse of poetry that I had read but a short

time before and had thought very profound. 'Was _I_ a saint before I

asked your hand? And yet I was master of my fate, and knew what I did.

No, let there be day before us and behind us night, that none may look

upon us! Only promise me that in the _future_ all your thoughts shall

belong to me alone.'

"She sobbed violently in my arms, and made me the fairest promises. I

almost believe that at that moment she did indeed mean what she said,

for there was a sound spot in her that had not yet been touched by the

worm--a longing for what was pure and good. If this had not been the

case, how would it have been possible for me to have continued in my

blindness longer than the few weeks of the honey-moon? But she herself

seemed so happy in those first months, though we lived quite by

ourselves--for I had broken with my old cronies, and had no particular

desire to form new acquaintances, whom I could only have found among

the Philistine class that I so heartily despised. Then, too, she grew

more charming with each day. Once in a while, however, I caught her

poring over her prompt-books; and then I told her bluntly, for I could

see that her eyes were red with weeping, that she longed to be back

behind the foot-lights again, that she missed the applause and grieved

because she could not any longer turn the heads of the whole parquet.

'What can you be thinking of!' she laughed. 'In my condition! Why, I

should feel like sinking through the deepest trap-door, I should be so

ashamed!' In this way she would drive away my suspicions; and when at

length her child was born, I really thought she was so taken up with

household joys and cares that she cared for nothing else.

"It is true she was not such a foolish mother as to think her child an

angel of beauty. It was a rather plain, unattractive-looking little

thing--'the father over again,' remarked the women, very justly. But

she played the _role_ of mother with considerable talent; and not until

a long time later, when she was sent to the sea-shore to recuperate,

did it occur to me that she parted without any particular grief from

the laughing and cooing little creature that clung so tightly to her. I

staid at home and let her go over to Heligoland by herself, in the

charge of an elderly friend of hers--an actress, but a woman bearing an

irreproachable name. I happened to have a few orders that it was

necessary to execute just as soon as possible--among others two busts

of a rich wharfinger and his wife--and as our household, small as it

was, made pretty heavy drains upon my purse, I felt that I ought not to

let these chances slip through my fingers. It was our first separation,

and I found it hard enough to bear. But, as I had to work hard and also

to fill a mother's place toward the child, the first two weeks passed

pretty quickly.

"But after that the little one began to give me a great deal of

anxiety. Teething set in, there were bad days and worse nights, and the

letters I received from my wife--in which she said she was doing

admirably and had grown quite young again--did not tend to raise my

spirits especially, for it appeared as if nothing were wanting to her

happiness, not even her husband and child.

"Heretofore I had had neither disposition nor occasion for jealousy.

Suddenly I was to learn what an abyss can be uncovered in a man's soul,

into which everything sinks that he has before believed firm and true.

"I had been sitting up late; the child was very feverish, and toward

midnight we had been obliged to call in the doctor. For the first time

I thought with bitterness about my wife, who could stay at such a

distance and nurse her own health while the little life, that should

have been dearer to her than her own, was trembling in the balance.

When the child had been quieted a little, so that I could think of

taking some rest, it was a long time before I could close my eyes,

though as a general thing I could reckon on my peasant's sleep under

all circumstances. At last it came, but with it came dreams--dreams

such as I would not have wished to the damned in hell. Always about

_her_, in ever-new costumes, playing the old play of pledged and broken

faith. Out of the last scene, where, in the very presence of her lover

and with the quietest mien in the world, she sought to demonstrate to

me her right to transfer her love from one man to another, until I

sprang forward with a cry of fury to seize her by the hair--out of this

wretched vision of hell I was awakened by the crying of my child; so

that I did not take time to wipe the cold sweat from my forehead, but

ran into the nursery quite prepared to find Death standing at the head

of the little bed. But once again it passed, and in the morning we were

both able to get a couple of hours of quiet sleep. Then, at last, I sat

down and wrote to my wife just how things stood.

"For some days before, I had not sent her any very encouraging reports.

Any other woman would have returned at once, and not have tried to

excuse herself on the ground that the water-cure ought not to be

interrupted. But she--enough! I must try and control myself when I

speak of her. After all the poor creature cannot be blamed because she

had no heart, and because my love and passion could not conjure up one

within her breast.

"But at the time I wrote in all the roughness and bitterness of my

mood, and insisted upon her immediate return. I had almost forgotten

the dreams of the night before. But a little later, when I was taking a

walk through the city, chance willed it that they should again be

recalled to my mind.

"I met a gossiping acquaintance, who had also been passing a few weeks

at the island. Heaven knows how it came about that I stopped him and

inquired about my wife. He was very much surprised to hear that she had

been there, indeed that she was there still. As in such a small place

everybody met everybody else, he could not understand how so beautiful

a woman could have escaped his notice. 'To be sure, she has lived in

great retirement,' I stammered, and he found this very natural and

praiseworthy of a charming young lady, and hoped the cure would be

successful, and so left me; while I stood there like a fool for a full

quarter of an hour, staring vacantly at the same flag-stone, and

blocking peoples' way as if I had been a stopping-post. Yet she _must_

have been there; letters had daily passed back and forth; and then,

what earthly reason could she have for trying to deceive me in this

respect? But then again: you will readily understand that this

incident, trifling as it was in itself, was well calculated to add new

fuel to the fever that was raging within me.

"I could not expect her back before the following day. How I survived

the intervening hours will always remain a mystery to me. I was

incapable of any occupation, of any connected thought or action. I had

just sufficient strength and reason left to sit by the side of the

poor, feverish child, and apply the ice-bandages, and count the hairs

on its forehead.

"Even when night came I would not leave my post. I dreaded to dream.

Then came the morning again, and noon and afternoon, and still no news.

But at length a drosky drove up, the house-door was opened, the stairs

creaked under a light step, I sprang to my feet and rushed to meet her;

just then she entered the door, and my first look in her face

strengthened all my horrible suspicions.

"Or no; it was not her face. I have no right to do this actress an

injustice; she had her face as completely under control as ever--the

innocent violet eyes, the Madonna mouth, the clear forehead--and yet it

_was_ her face that sent a shudder to my inmost heart. Was that the

mien of a mother, hastening to her child that lay at the door of death?

of a wife returning, after such anxious weeks of separation, to the

husband whom she pretended to have married for love?

"Enough! The fate of our lives was decided in the first few hours. But

I was crafty too, and played my _role_ bravely. That we should refrain

from all demonstrations of tenderness, while our child lay in such

danger, was so natural--she herself could find nothing wrong in this.

But on the following morning, after the night had brought a change for

the better and we were able to breathe freely once more, she said to

me--and I can see her before me now, as she knelt at a trunk and turned

over the gay contents trying to find a comfortable dress to put on, for

she had not taken off her clothes during the night--'Do you know,

Hans,' she said, looking up at me with her dove-like eyes, half

petulantly, half pleadingly, 'do you know that it isn't at all nice of

you not to have paid me a single compliment upon how well I am looking?

I left a gallant husband, and find a cold-hearted bear. Come, as a

punishment, I will let you kiss this little slipper, that I might have

put on the neck of the whole male population of the island if I had

wanted to.'

"'Lucie,' said I, 'I want first to make a request of you.'

"'About what?' asked she, innocently.

"'That you will swear to me, by the life of our child, that it is only

a devilish delusion, sprung from my jealous dreams, that makes me think

you do not come back to me what you were when you went away.'

"I had arranged this sentence word for word, just as one loads with the

greatest care a gun with which one wants to take sure aim. And I did

not miss the mark. She suddenly flushed purple, bent down her head over

the trunk, and fumbled nervously with the heap of sashes and scarfs.

"But she quickly recovered herself.

"'You have had bad dreams?' she asked, still quite unabashed. 'What did

you dream, then?'

"And I replied: 'That you had been unfaithful to me. It is nonsense; I

know that you can give me back my peace by a single word. But, unless

you speak this word--did you understand me, Lucie? By the life of our

child, who lies there barely escaped from death--I only want to hear

one word. I cannot reproach myself with any neglect of my duty toward

_you_. Do you hear me, Lucie? Why don't you answer me? Can't you bear

my look?'

"She actually succeeded in forcing herself to look at me, but there was

not the flash of innocent pride, of offended womanly honor; it was an

unsteady, flickering defiance, and the flaring up of a hostile feeling,

that I read in her eyes.

"'I have no answer to such a question,' said she, with a gesture that

carried me back to the time when she was on the stage. 'You insult me,

Hans. Let us talk about something else. I will pardon you for the

child's sake, and because of the anxiety you have been suffering.'

"I was still so under her influence that I hesitated for a moment

whether to mistrust the voice in my heart, or this serpent look. She

had risen, and was standing at the window, her face turned away and her

hand before her eyes, such a picture of insulted majesty and innocence

that I already began to curse my heat, and to accuse myself of having

done the greatest injustice and wrong that can be done to a helpless

woman. But just as I was on the point of going up to her and trying the

power of kind words, I heard my dog give a strange sort of a growl and

bark, as if he were angry and provoked; for which I could see no

reason. He did not like the woman. Either she had never known how, or

else she had never thought it worth while, to gain his favor. But

heretofore he had seemed to feel the greatest indifference toward her,

and I could not understand why her offended speech and bearing should

now enrage him. The truth is he was not paying the slightest attention

to her, but seemed to have been excited by something that he had

dragged out of the pile of things she had taken from her trunk. I

called out to him to lie down and keep quiet; he was still in a moment;

but, wagging his tail violently, he ran up to me, holding something in

his mouth which he laid on my knee. It was a man's glove.

"Can you believe it?--my first feeling at the sight of this evidence

was a wild joy and satisfaction. I was suddenly at one with myself

again, and the wretched feeling of shame that perhaps after all I had

let my suspicious heat get the better of my reason, gave place to an

icy calmness.

"'If you would only turn round,' I said, 'perhaps you would speak in a

different tone. Without knowing it or wishing it, you have brought me a

present from your journey for which I ought to thank you.'

"As she turned round, even she was not actress enough to repress a

gesture of terror.

"'I swear to you--she stammered, pale as death.

"'Very good,' I said; 'that is precisely what I have been asking you to

do. But--do you hear?--consider well what you swear and by what you

swear it. By the life of the innocent creature lying in that chamber,

by that God who visits the sins of the fathers upon the children unto

the third and fourth generation--'

"'I don't know what you mean--I--I have done no wrong and have no need

to swear. This glove, Heaven knows--'

"'Heaven does know!' I shrieked, my smouldering rage breaking out

furiously.

"I reached out my hand toward her; everything reeled before my eyes; I

have no further recollection of what I said and did at that moment,

except that I was very near seizing her by her long locks, as in my

dream, and dragging her across the room and down the stairs, and

casting her out into the street. I am sure, however, that I did not

touch her, but my looks and words must have been so relentless and

unmistakable that she herself found it advisable to leave me. Half an

hour later I was alone again with my child.

"That very day I received a letter from her, full of well-turned

periods and insidious accusations. I read it without emotion. I was

like a well that has been choked forever--nothing can make its water

bubble up again. I answered this letter with a single word--'Swear!' No

second letter came; a last remnant of human feeling, sunk deep in

superstition, made it impossible for her to utter a lie that might be

revenged upon her child.

"I waited three days. Then I wrote her a note that contained no word of

reproach, but simply said that it would be impossible for me to share

my life with her longer. I told her I would provide for her as I had

done heretofore, under the single condition that she would take her

maiden name again and never make any claim upon the child. When I wrote

this--I can't help confessing my foolishness to you--something within

me said, 'She will never consent to this condition. She will come and

fall at your feet, with a full confession of her guilt, and pray you

rather to kill her than to separate her from her child.' Then--what

might I not have done then?--it makes me shudder to think of it. I

almost believe I should have pardoned her--and been wretched ever

after, with my honor wounded and my confidence shaken at the very

roots. But I had loved her too dearly for me to become master of my

weakness so quickly.

"She spared me the temptation. In a few days her answer came; she

refrained from making any explanations, which she knew would never be

satisfactory to a person so inclined to be suspicious as I was. Great

God! I suspicious--I, whom a lie would have quieted again! She accepted

what I had proposed to her, intended to return to the stage--for which

she was undoubtedly born--thanked me for all the goodness I had shown

her, hoped all would go well with me, and much more--a letter well

written, friendly, and icy cold.

"Not a syllable was said about the child!"