"Better to be a little wise than in knowledge to abound;
Better to teach a child than toil to fill perfection's round;
Better to sit at a master's feet than thrill in a listening state;
Better suspect that thou art proud than be sure that thou
art great."--GEORGE MACDONALD.
To-morrow the college will close. The Summer vacation lay before
Wulf like a blank, unwritten page. An enjoyable Winter and a
delightful Summer lay behind him. Parties and balls, picnics and
concerts in their turn--the Summer had been somewhat more quiet than
the Winter; and this was fortunate, as Wulf could not neglect his
severe studies; and he had recently worked so diligently to keep his
grade that he felt quite satisfied with his progress.
Something else, therefore, is the cause of contracting wrinkles in
his forehead. His rent had been reckoned with other expenses, and
while he counted the balance of ready money, he discovered, to his
annoyance, that he had expended far too much. He might have
economized more, he must confess, for even in the society life in
which he moved there was not a very great pecuniary drain upon young
men; but it brought with it, naturally, some gift obligations, and
these Wulf had dispensed with greater liberality than his
circumstances permitted. What was to be done? It could not continue
any longer, but it would be difficult to forsake the beaten track and
walk in a private path. Wulf looked out of the window, and saw some
of his happy comrades pass along the street. Diplomas in hand, they
are going out into the wide world. How beautiful it will be in the
Tyrol, in Switzerland, in Italy! But he must deny himself the
pleasure of travel for want of sufficient means to defray expenses;
and then in the light of a reproving conscience, he asks himself
honestly: "Do I deserve this recreation after my year's work?"
Seldom and brief have been the letters to his mother. How little he
has thought of those nearest to him! And yet a home is there still,
and friends who love and think of the distant one. Here at Berlin
every body is going away, and no one inquires about his going or
remaining; but----
Among the crowd of people hurrying by, Wulf sees no more of them.
His eye skirts the distance, and reflects the blue sea, with the
gulls flying over its billows. Yonder stands the lowly cottage, with
its brown thatched roof; at the window the form of his mother,
waiting patiently for her son. Wulf throws himself upon a couch and
buries his face in his hands.
Upon another day he is hastening home. The last stretch of the way
lies behind him. Evening approaches as he nears the end of his
journey. The surroundings become more and more familiar; old
recollections are awakened; every thing rises up before his footsteps
as a sunken world. There is the beach, the home-beach, the very one
on which he formerly spent his turbulent desires. On the strand lie
boats--even his own is there. And now the windows of the little
cottage where he once dwelt glisten in the sun's departing rays; the
simple garden, with its hollyhocks and four-o'-clocks, is just the
same; every thing unchanged but himself.
The first greetings are over. The joy of reunion was great--so great
that few words are spoken. Wulf sees his mother gazing lovingly upon
him. Yes; she has grown older. Is it excessive care that has
whitened her locks so much? And the mother would read in Wulf's face
whether he is still her honest, unstained son.
"Wulf, you look pale. Have you studied too hard?"
"No, mother; but naturally one is more within doors at Berlin than
here. I still look dark there, compared with others."
Karen has observed her brother from all sides, and asks:
"But what do you have such fine linen for? and such a fine hat?"
Wulf blushes.
"Yes, Karen; one must dress differently there. But that is nothing."
The mother announces supper.
"We have only oatmeal," she says. "I did not know you were coming."
"Mother, I am so glad; it is so long since I have eaten any porridge."
Soon the humble repast was served, and Wulf did full justice to it;
but yet it was not agreeable for him to see how Karen held her spoon
and how old Peter ate.
The supper ended, all sat by the door, and the neighbors came to
greet Wulf heartily. He is very happy, and relates stories of
Berlin, to which all listen with open mouths. Even his mother feels
a certain additional respect for him to hear that he has really seen
the king several times, although it seems rather incredible that he
has not seen his golden crown. A king without a crown! No; she
knows better. Wulf talks well. Even old Peter lays aside his nets
and listens to the marvelous tales. At times he shakes his head
doubtfully; and even for days after refuses to believe wholly,
without some token more visible to his senses.
A few days afterward Wulf called upon Captain Nielsen and his
daughter, who had been visiting their pastor. Alas! Ingeborg had
only grown paler and more feeble; but her deep blue eyes had gained,
if possible, in expression. She knows much of Wulf's life and
efforts; for the Kahrings had but recently left the beach, and she
had been a great deal with them.
Once more the days pass as of old in Frau Ericksen's cottage; but
there is sunshine within, now that her son has returned. Yes; he is
a good boy, and has begged his mother's forgiveness for having
written so seldom. He desires to help her every way, but she
declines with: "There is so little to do, and you must study, and not
spoil your hands."
He tries to work, but there are many lonely, unoccupied hours.
During these times he takes Ingeborg out on the water. It is a
pleasure for the sturdy fellow to test his strength with the oars, to
battle with the winds and waves, and master them.
On Sundays, all rest by attending Church.
"You go to Church every Sunday at Berlin?" inquires the mother by the
way.
This question has been dreaded for some time. It might afford her
joy to hear him say, "Yes;" but Wulf, true to his nature, frankly
says: "Only occasionally."
"Occasionally? Why not always?" is the astonished reply. "What,
then, do you do on Sundays?"
"I study--or else do not much of any thing."
"I have thought," continued the mother, somewhat constrainedly, "it
might be well for you to study your catechism again."
"Mother, you don't understand," replied Wulf finally. "One learns to
consider many other things if one is clever. Prayer, for example----"
"O, never mind," interrupts Karen. "You are too clever for us."
Wulf would continue the controversy; but Ingeborg's gentle voice adds:
"Wulf wants to prove every thing; but yet, after all, isn't it
lovelier to attend Church on Sunday mornings in this way?"
They had now reached the little, unpretentious house of God. The
bell was ringing through the clear air, and from all directions
people in neat attire were entering.
It was a beautiful sight, and Wulf nodded assent to Ingeborg's
question, and said: "You are right." In the evening he read
willingly a selection from a volume of sermons; but his thoughts were
far away, and he was heartily glad when the "Amen" was reached.
Wulf rarely went out with his mother and sister. After the first
pleasure of seeing them again was over, he could not conceal the fact
that they had remained unchanged. It had been so different in his
own case that, involuntarily, he had expected progress among those at
home. But a kind of petrifaction seemed to lie over this corner of
the earth. The few Summer guests, with their gay attire, were like
the day-flowers which sprang up between the rocks; they did not take
root here, and were soon gone. But beneath the rocks rushed living
springs, of which Wulf had no knowledge, and therefore were
undiscovered. He was always dissatisfied here, and time went on
crutches. His life-work, which mightily stirred him, was absent. He
was no longer congenial to his old acquaintances, and they had become
as narrow to him as a garment outgrown. And while he could regard
his mother's employment with genuine respect, and recognize the
superiority of her simple, homely faith, he could not share her life
and opinions.
He loved to stroll on the beach alone. Was he happier now? Had he
attained his desires? It could not be denied that he was richer in
knowledge; but did the feeling never present itself that there was
something wanting to his life? What was it? Something that his
mother and those around her possessed in common. Was it their
religious faith? Never; for that was only fit for close-sighted
people. Was it the constant study attendant upon his profession?
No; he enjoyed this labor. What was it, then? He could not tell.
Was it, then, the stirrings within of conscience?
"Happiness, happiness," thought Wulf; "how shall I win it? Will it
bow down graciously before me? or must I attain it by ardent
endeavors over rough paths? Which form will it take?"
He threw himself on the sea-sands, closed his eyes, and meditated
long; but the meditation was only dreaming, in which happiness
appeared to him white and glistening, accompanied by charming
melodies. She sat at his feet, and sang sweet songs of love and
pleasure. "Sibylla," murmured the dreamer; and then the siren sang
more confidently, laying her hand upon his arm while the tones grew
stronger. Suddenly he awoke. What was that? The bands of the dream
were broken; the reality appeared before his astonished gaze. He had
lain down in a place which the flood-tide covered. Lightly the
waters were rising and approaching him, intoxicating their victim
with the spirit of music, in order the more surely to destroy him.
He had awakened just at the critical moment. He felt the cold water
rippling about his neck, and with one bound he was in a place of
safety. Why did he look with such terror upon the clear water? Was
it the sudden shock that held him spell-bound?--for it is no small
matter to have death so near. Ah, no; Wulf was not thinking of
death. Other and, to him, even graver thoughts moved him. Was this
dream, then, a vision of his future? Should happiness approach him
with ensnaring flatteries, only to destroy him? It was thoughts like
these that stirred Wulf's soul as he slowly sauntered home some hours
later.
At a fashionable bathing resort in the mountains we find Lady Obrist
Von Herbig and her daughter Sibylla. The latter, with her burning
thirst for freedom, evinces her enjoyment in her beaming face. She
is like a bird set free from its cage. Now she is with nature, which
is so beautiful no language can describe it, and which only persons
of deep appreciation can perceive.
Was Sibylla happy? There was, indeed, not wanting to her that pure
joyfulness which nature bestows as a heritage; but she did not live
in an atmosphere that called the gift into full exercise. She was
not wholly free; her mother is near, and any opposition to her wishes
was unthought of. Just at this moment the latter, a stout little
woman, is seated on the veranda of one of the bathing-houses. A
school director from the provinces is beside her. His attenuated
figure looks as if it had been hewn out of wood; his forest of white
hair stands high and bristling, and his long arms gesticulate with
solemn profundity. Report says he is an author. Conversation
between the two is fashioned upon pedagogic questions.
"These are dangerous principles upon which the youth of the present
are shaped," announces the school-man pathetically.
"O, the young girls!" exclaims Lady Von Herbig. "Only look at them!
Where is nature? These artificial frizzes! These frivolous
engagements! Instead of being like flowers, they dress like
canary-birds."
"The emancipation of women," continues the pedagogue, heedlessly, "is
the root of all evil; this false self-reliance, this independent
judgment, this free-and-easy manner, while young girls should
consider it rather their first duty to assiduously avoid every thing
bizarre in their behavior."
"Where is poetry? Always to be found in a sensitive heart! Nature
is banished!" Lady Von Herbig interjects, vainly endeavoring to keep
her companion to the text. "Nature must be restored; æsthetic
pictures, nowadays, present womanliness as more perfect than
consecration to the reality."
Both agree, and rejoice over their mutual intellectuality. Be
assured, on the next morning Lady Von Herbig will purchase a red
gilt-edged book, the latest work of the school director.
Sibylla sits alone, with busy pencil. She has written the following
in her journal: "How beautiful it is to lead a do-less, easy,
enjoyable life! Mornings, paint a little; at noon, partake of a fine
dinner, a nap; then reading, walking, or bathing, or a concert, etc.;
a plate of strawberries with sour cream; reveling enough; then a
comfortable bed. All earnest thoughts rest in the lumber-room of my
brain. If I could only have my own way, and enjoy nature! The woods
appear to be very beautiful; but my fondest desires go out to the
fresh, sparkling, rushing mountain springs, for which I long every
morning, and dream! There my life could have full play. Ah! the
sunshine amid the leaves, and--the air! But I am in a rendezvous of
the _beau monde_; a great decorated hall, where music is playing,
ladies promenading in elegant toilettes and banged hair. Gentlemen
sit reading newspapers, smoking, and playing at cards. There are
amusing people, too,--one exceedingly handsome Hungarian with the
physiognomy of a gypsy; a stout major is continually passing me with
a conscious _élan_ of presence, his steps taken with dancing
precision. That appears to be the highest attainment in life here.
It is too comical to see all the gentlemen walking in this way, while
their eyes are either centered upon the gaming-table or seeking a
pair of more beautiful eyes among the ladies. In the morning it is
dancing for a Church; yesterday they danced for relief to a city
where there had been a conflagration. There is no calamity too great
but they are ready to dance for it. O, and the people seem to regard
music as something to be seen, not listened to; for it only affords
opportunity for increased conversation. But the best folks here are
the children: they are worth looking at. Near every little spring is
found a group of little ones, so quaint and pretty, in their simple,
national costumes. On the whole, I prefer this place to Berlin; and
tiresome city people I need to see only at a distance. I wonder
whether Solomon, after he obtained possession of his wise heart, ever
found any thing that was particularly wearisome? I am reading a very
intellectual English romance in three volumes, Herder's 'Ideas of
Humanity,' and Rosencrans's 'Psychology of the Subjective;' and I am
still able to enjoy what is good, whether I find it in a plate of
strawberries or a beautiful fir. To think upon the good in every
thing keeps one always fresh in spirit, and is best, I think."
The postman now approached Lady Von Herbig, and gave her letters.
Sibylla was not curious, and remained quietly resting in her place.
A vehement movement and a light cry, however, brought her quickly to
her mother's side.
"No! is it possible one has lived to see such a thing?" exclaims Lady
Von Herbig in great indignation. "It is revolting, atrocious!"
"What has happened?" asks Sibylla, calmly. A long experience enables
her to know that these outbursts of her mother have never any real
and sufficient foundation.
"What has happened? O, she was always a singular person; but her
family never should have permitted this!"
"Has any one been betrothed against your will?" asks Sibylla.
"To be betrothed is the destination of young women, and every one who
fails to make a man happy in domestic life fails in her calling," is
the frigid reply.
Sibylla turns away. It is impossible for her to believe that
marriage is the sole destination of a woman; but she would not
controvert her voluble mother, and starts to go away.
"Sibylla, my sweet child, thank God it is something you would never
do," cries Lady Von Herbig, impetuously; and fearful least her
daughter should leave before she could tell her, she adds quickly:
"Fraulein Theodora Von Kahring has gone to a cholera hospital, to
nurse patients there. Of course she can have no communication
whatever with her family, nor, indeed, with any one in the entire
outer world. In a word, she might as well be in a convent. O, this
exalted fanaticism!"
Sibylla received the news in astonishment; her lips were compressed
in passionate agitation. What was passing through the mind of this
proud young woman? After a slight pause she remarks:
"No, the charge of fanaticism can never be laid to Theodora; on the
contrary, she is really calm and cold-hearted."
Lady Von Herbig continued to read her letter: "'The cholera rages at
Berlin. All the best families have left the city. The Kahrings
remain in a most incomprehensible manner.' How can they permit their
daughter to sacrifice herself in this manner? I should never expose
my daughter so; and we, too, must not remain here long. _My_
daughter would never compromise me in this way."
"_My_ daughter" at this moment is seated again before her journal,
staring upon the lines she had just written: "How beautiful to lead a
do-less, easy, enjoyable life!" She had not penned this in any
momentary impulse; it was the impression of her soul. But she did
not refer to the _dolce far niente_ of a fashionable watering-place,
but to the entire present life. And yet here had been one young
woman not only able to look with contempt upon the proprieties of
conventionalism, but who had been strong enough to break these little
bands, and to perform a clearly recognized duty. "Something you
would never do!" These words rang continually in Sibylla's ears.
"No; I should never do it," she said in her frank way; "I am too
cowardly, too conservative, too proud for that. O, to nurse such
patients, how horrible! No, I should never do it!"
But why was Sibylla unable to rid herself of these words? She would
gladly do so. Was it the power of their truth from which she could
not escape? And yet she had simply replied to her mother's
lamentation over this unheard-of action: "No, I should be too useless
for any such service." Whereupon Lady Von Herbig raised her hands in
horror as she looked upon her lovely daughter. She desired to say
something else but contented herself with: "You must always
contradict me, even if you do not mean it." Then she went off to
write letters to the more congenial spirits who did not continually
oppose her.
Sibylla was silent, but could not banish Theodora from her thoughts.
She had recently seen her rarely, as the much older girl did not
appear in society. But now she was constantly present before
Sibylla. "When I return to Berlin, I shall seek out this Theodora.
She shall be my friend; of this I am determined," was her firm
resolve.