CHAPTER I

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Transcriber's Note:

1. Page scan source:

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2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].

[Illustration: VIEW OF POTSDAM, WHERE STORM LIVED]

THE HARVARD CLASSICS

SHELF OF FICTION

SELECTED BY CHARLES W. ELIOT LLD.

GERMAN FICTION

J. W. VON GOETHE GOTTFRIED KELLER

THEODOR FONTANE THEODOR STORM

EDITED WITH NOTES AND INTRODUCTIONS

BY WILLIAM ALLAN NEILSON Ph D

P F COLLIER & SON COMPANY

NEW YORK

Copyright, 1917

By P. F. Collier & Son

MANUFACTURED IN U. S. A.

CONTENTS

The Novel in Germany

J. W. VON GOETHE

Criticism And Interpretation:

By Thomas Carlyle

The Sorrows Of Werther

Book I

Book II

The Editor To The Reader

GOTTFRIED KELLER

Biographical Note

Criticisms And Interpretations:

I. By John Firman Coar

II. By Calvin Thomas

The Banner Of The Upright Seven

THEODOR STORM

Biographical Note

Criticism And Interpretation:

By Adolf Stern

The Rider On The White Horse

THEODOR FONTANE

Biographical Note

Criticisms And Interpretations:

I. By Richard M. Meyer

II. By S. C. De Soissons

Trials And Tribulations

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Chapter XXVI

THE NOVEL IN GERMANY

The fact that newspaper reporters commonly call their articles

"stories" points to a certain analogy between the novel and the

newspaper. Even when prose fiction aims to be a fine art, it readily

takes on a journalistic character; it is usually designed for immediate

effect--at the concomitant risk of producing no other--and it easily

passes from hand to hand or from country to country. In our day prose

fiction is almost an international phenomenon: novels of a high degree

of popularity are immediately translated and promptly imitated in the

most distant quarters of the globe.

In the universal give and take of literary commodities Germany has

played her part and, from time to time at least, has been in no wise a

debtor nation; but she has more often followed than led along new

paths, making up in thoroughness what she lacked in originality, and a

superficial history of the German novel would be little more than a

record of how successive foreign influences were turned to account in

domestic production. Thus, in the eighteenth century such sorrows as

those of Werther would doubtless have found some form of expression,

but Goethe could not have expressed them as he did without the example

of Rousseau and Richardson. Wieland and Jean Paul Richter are

inconceivable without Fielding and Sterne. In the nineteenth century

the epochs of German novel-writing are marked by the times when Scott,

Dickens, Balzac, Dumas, Sue, George Sand, Tolstoy, Ibsen, Bjoernson,

Turgenev, Zola, or some other foreigner, happened for the moment to be

most conspicuous on the literary horizon. During the century that lies

between Goethe and Hauptmann there is hardly a German novelist who has

invited imitation abroad. It is in the lyric poem that the Germans have

excelled, and in the drama and the opera that they have scored their

international successes.

The history of the German novel would have, however, also to record

that those writers have secured the most permanent distinction who have

most significantly modified in their own way the suggestions which

foreign examples gave them, and that the greatest distinction of all

belongs to writers whom we can, if we will, associate with one or

another of the main currents, but who are by no means carried away by

it. In the work of these men the national character of the German

novel, if it has a national character, ought to be discoverable.

For two reasons it is a fair question whether the German novel has a

national character. In the first place, modern Germany has been a

nation only since 1871; and in the second place, only in times of some

great crisis does there appear to be in Germany a national life, as we

understand the term. At other times life in Germany is urban,

provincial, or private, in those aspects of existence which the Germans

most prize. The imperial capital affects to represent Germany as London

represents England and Paris represents France; but such ascendancy is

stoutly denied Berlin in the capitals of the other states, and Saxons

or Bavarians refuse to submit to Prussian hegemony in any other than

political and military affairs. In literature Prussia is not the

nation; the empire itself is a federation of states, and Berlin is less

specifically a German city than any other in the realm. Germany is

emphatically _e pluribus_. Still, there may be some bond of union

stronger than political alliance, some fundamental quality common to

Prussian, Saxon, and Bavarian. In this we should seek the national

character. We should find the national character depicted in the

historical novel, which has had a great vogue in Germany; but we may

discern it also in the fiction devoted to the problems of contemporary

life.

It was Goethe's opinion that the hero of a novel should be passive, and

so eminently dramatic a genius as Hebbel declared that the important

thing for us to observe in any individual is not how he makes his mark

in the world, but how the world makes its marks upon him. These views,

synonymous in meaning, but uttered by men as different, one from the

other, as two Germans could very well be, may suffice as an indication

of the common quality for which we are seeking: it is the metaphysical

cast of the German mind. When Goethe contemplated the transitoriness of

conditions, and in all his work endeavored to catch and preserve these

fleeting phenomena, or when Hebbel defined man as the resultant of

conflicting forces rather than as an effective force in himself, both

evidently thought of life as a product, not as a producer, and sought

the meaning of life in personal reaction rather than in personal

action. The life of which the German desires abundance is the inner

life. Character is to him a greater good than conduct.

Accordingly, German literature is not rich in tales of adventurous

activity--indeed, it affords few examples of pure narrative, that is,

of stories told chiefly for the sake of chronicling events. When such a

master narrator as Heinrich von Kleist tells a tale, he presents the

facts objectively--no judicial referee could be more circumstantial;

but in the case on which he reports the author sees the impersonation

of a problem, and the data which really concern him are the perturbed

emotions of a man or woman. The same is true of Kleist's contemporary,

Ludwig Tieck, of the amiable Theodor Storm, and of the prolific Paul

Heyse. The character, in its peculiar makeup and its peculiar

circumstances, presents a problem, and the most significant evidence

that its experiences furnish is its reaction upon the outside world. An

author who treats this character will, then, dwell fondly upon

psychological analysis and upon the atmosphere in which the character

lives and moves and has its being.

These facts account for certain peculiarities of form in German fiction

which to us seem like defects. It generally takes a German novelist a

long while to get under way, and he generally appears to move in

spirals. He invites us to tarry and survey the scenery--to which his

hero is wont to be more sensitive than we are--and he tends to

elaborate episodes, which serve indeed to bring out qualities in his

persons, but which, an impatient reader would say, delay the action.

Evidently, it is not the action about which the author primarily cares.

But the German novelist has the merits of his defects: if he does not

touch lightly, he does probe deeply, and if his characters cannot

manage to get things done and over, their impediment is an excess of

those personal endowments which have after all to be reckoned among the

positive values of life. It is better to be sentimental or even

whimsical than to have neither sentiments nor ideas.

Sentimentality and whimsicality are apt to strike one as the most

prominent traits of any art that aims at what is characteristic and

individual, rather than at what is typical and broadly representative.

The Germans are individualists. They can cooperate efficiently with

their fellow Germans, but each insists upon being himself. The German

novelist will surely treat by preference a character of notable

peculiarity, and if he writes many novels, he will try to give a

conspectus of the qualities of the stock to which he belongs. Thus

Reuter presents many characteristic figures taken from Mecklenburg;

Ludwig from Thuringia; Auerbach from the Black Forest; Gotthelf,

Keller, and Zahn from Switzerland; Fontane from Brandenburg; Storm and

Frenssen from Schleswig-Holstein. So strong is this tendency that the

Germans have a special name for this kind of art; they call it

_Heimatkunst_, a word which may be translated "art of the native

heath." If the author is a humorist, like Reuter or Keller, he will

successfully recommend his whimsical creations to our indulgent esteem;

or if he is a discriminating lover of mankind, like Ludwig, he will

reconcile us even to the supersensitiveness of a narrow-minded but

noble-hearted slater. The danger incurred by writers without humor and

without discrimination is that their creations shall seem boorish or

lachrymose.

Probably the most pitiful failures in German fiction have attended

those imitators of foreign models who mistook for "modern" what is

simply shallow and frivolous, and, trying to be smart, proved

themselves merely clumsy. Freytag, call him a Philistine if you will,

is preferable, with his gospel of toil for one's daily bread, to those

who would hold the dissolute idlers of the great cities to be typical

representatives of modern life. Fontane, on the other hand, as "modern"

as any, shows how an intelligent and cultivated man can assimilate

foreign suggestions, remain himself, and treat the actualities of life

with a matter-of-factness as far from cynicism as it is from prudery.

At the beginning of the nineteenth century the German Romanticists

proclaimed the novel (in German _der Roman_) the supremely appropriate

form for Romantic literature, and they regarded this truth as

especially illustrated by Goethe's "Wilhelm Meister." The novel, they

said, is not merely the most elastic, the most inclusive, the freest of

the literary forms, it is the form in which a writer can most perfectly

convey by suggestion and implication the infinitude of relations in

which persons and objects stand to their environment, but which the

necessarily sharper contours of the other forms--notably the drama--do

not permit. By contrast to the drama, which in a certain sense is

similar to statuary, the novel is picturesque; that is, it presents

figures in relation to their background; and it is quite conceivable

that in some compositions the whole, with what corresponds to

perspective and to light and shade--in other words "atmosphere"--is

more significant than the individual figures that are given their

setting in this whole. This, at any rate, is the case with "Wilhelm

Meister." A story first conceived as the fulfilment of a theatrical

mission by a young man whose experience was an education, became the

picture of a world full of influences, many of them mysterious, that

operate to develop personality.

The German novel after Goethe followed his lead. The idea of education

by experience, and the idea of the symbolical presentation of the

inexplicable background of life, give to some of the greatest examples

of prose fiction of the nineteenth century--such as Moerike's "Maler

Nolten," Keller's "Gruener Heinrich," and Spielhagen's "Problematische

Naturen"--this Goethean, Romantic picturesqueness. If the heroes are

seldom great public characters and the background of their lives does

not always suggest relations with illimitable space, these facts find

their explanation in the German proneness to particularism.

To this particularism the short story would seem to be especially

adapted. In fact, the Germans--again following Goethe's lead--have

probably attained to a higher excellence in the short story than in the

novel. It is to their advantage that in the narrow limits of this form

they have no opportunity to philosophize; they must relate how

something happened of which their auditors have not heard, or must

depict a situation as it discloses itself to a passing glance. The

Swiss Keller and Meyer and many Germans, Austrians, and Swiss of our

own time have attained considerable virtuosity in this form; but many

of their products would have to be called little novels rather than

short stories in the technical sense.

There are, then, some national traits in German prose fiction taken by

and large. The Germans cannot vie with the English as writers of

stories long or short. They have, however, much more to offer than has

yet been widely circulated. During the past forty years the world has

marveled at their achievements is the multifarious departments of

active life. Nevertheless, their highest ideal is not doing, but being;

and this being is faithfully reflected in their novels and tales.

W. G. H.

THE SORROWS OF WERTHER

BY

J. W. VON GOETHE

TRANSLATED BY

BAYARD TAYLOR

CRITICISM AND INTERPRETATION

By Thomas Carlyle

By degrees, however, after not a little suffering in many hard contests

with himself and his circumstances, Goethe began to emerge from these

troubles: light dawned on his course; and his true destination, a life

of literature, became more and more plain to him. His first efforts

were crowned with a success well calculated to confirm him in such

purposes. "Goetz von Berlichingen," an historical drama of the Feudal

Ages, appeared in 1773; by the originality both of its subject and its

execution, attracting the public eye to the young author: and next year

his "Sorrows of Werther" rose like a literary meteor on the world; and

carried his name on its blazing wings, not only over Germany, but into

the remotest corners of Europe. The chief incident of this work had

been suggested by a tragical catastrophe, which had occurred in his

neighbourhood, during a residence at Wetzlar: the emotions and

delineations which give life to it; the vague impassioned longing, the

moody melancholy, the wayward love and indignation, the soft feeling

and the stern philosophy, which characterize the hero, he had drawn

from his own past or actual experience.

The works just mentioned, though noble specimens of youthful talent,

are still not so much distinguished by their intrinsic merits, as by

their splendid fortune. It would be difficult to name two books which

have exercised a deeper influence on the subsequent literature of

Europe than these two performances of a young author; his first fruits,

the produce of his twenty-fourth year. "Werther" appeared to seize the

hearts of men in all quarters of the world, and to utter for them the

word which they had long been waiting to hear. As usually happens, too,

this same word once uttered was soon abundantly repeated; spoken in all

dialects, and chanted through all the notes of the gamut, till at

length the sound of it had grown a weariness rather than a pleasure.

Sceptical sentimentality, view-hunting, love, friendship, suicide, and

desperation, became the staple of literary ware; and though the

epidemic, after a long course of years, subsided in Germany, it

reappeared with t various modifications in other countries; and

everywhere abundant traces of its good and bad effects are still to be

discerned....

But overlooking these spiritual genealogies, which bring little

certainty and little profit, it may be sufficient to observe of

"Berlichingen" and "Werther," that they stand prominent among the

causes, or, at the very least, among the signals, of a great change in

modern Literature. The former directed men's attention with a new force

to the picturesque effects of the Past; and the latter, for the first

time, attempted the more accurate delineation of a class of feelings,

deeply important to modern minds; but for which our elder poetry

offered no exponent, and perhaps could offer none, because they are

feelings that arise from passion incapable of being converted into

action, and belong chiefly to an age as indolent, cultivated, and

unbelieving, as our own. This, notwithstanding the dash of falsehood

which may exist in "Werter" itself, and the boundless delirium of

extravagance which it called forth in others, is a high praise which

cannot justly be denied it.--From "German Romance" (1827).

THE SORROWS OF WERTHER

BOOK I

May 4.

How happy I am that I am gone! My dear friend, what a thing is the

heart of man! To leave you, from whom I have been inseparable, whom I

love so dearly, and yet to feel happy! I know you will forgive me. Have

not other attachments been specially appointed by fate to torment a

head like mine? Poor Leonora! and yet I was not to blame. Was it my

fault, that, whilst the peculiar charms of her sister afforded me an

agreeable entertainment, a passion for me was engendered in her feeble

heart? And yet am I wholly blameless? Did I not encourage her emotions?

Did I not feel charmed at those truly genuine expressions of nature,

which, though but little mirthful in reality, so often amused us? Did I

not--but oh! what is man, that he dares so to accuse himself? My dear

friend, I promise you I will improve; I will no longer, as has ever

been my habit, continue to ruminate on every petty vexation which

fortune may dispense; I will enjoy the present, and the past shall be

for me the past. No doubt you are right, my best of friends, there

would be far less suffering amongst mankind, if men--and God knows why

they are so fashioned--did not employ their imaginations so assiduously

in recalling the memory of past sorrow, instead of bearing their

present lot with equanimity.

Be kind enough to inform my mother that I shall attend to her business

to the best of my ability, and shall give her the earliest information

about it. I have seen my aunt, and find that she is very far from being

the disagreeable person our friends allege her to be. She is a lively,

cheerful woman, with the best of hearts. I explained to her my mother's

wrongs with regard to that part of her portion which has been withheld

from her. She told me the motives and reasons of her own conduct, and

the terms on which she is willing to give up the whole, and to do more

than we have asked. In short, I cannot write further upon this subject

at present; only assure my mother that all will go on well. And I have

again observed, my dear friend, in this trifling affair, that

misunderstandings and neglect occasion more mischief in the world than

even malice and wickedness. At all events, the two latter are of less

frequent occurrence.

In other respects I am very well off here. Solitude in this terrestrial

paradise is a genial balm to my mind, and the young spring cheers with

its bounteous promises my oftentimes misgiving heart. Every tree, every

bush, is full of flowers; and one might wish himself transformed into a

butterfly, to float about in this ocean of perfume, and find his whole

existence in it.

The town itself is disagreeable; but then, all around, you find an

inexpressible beauty of Nature. This induced the late Count M---- to

lay out a garden on one of the sloping hills which here intersect each

other with the most charming variety, and form the most lovely valleys.

The garden is simple; and it is easy to perceive, even upon your first

entrance, that the plan was not designed by a scientific gardener, but

by a man who wished to give himself up here to the enjoyment of his own

sensitive heart. Many a tear have I already shed to the memory of its

departed master in a summer-house which is now reduced to ruins, but

was his favourite resort, and now is mine. I shall soon be master of

the place. The gardener has become attached to me within the last few

days, and he will lose nothing thereby.

May 10.

A wonderful serenity has taken possession of my entire soul, like these

sweet mornings of spring which I enjoy with my whole heart. I am alone,

and feel the charm of existence in this spot, which was created for the

bliss of souls like mine. I am so happy, my dear friend, so absorbed in

the exquisite sense of mere tranquil existence, that I neglect my

talents. I should be incapable of drawing a single stroke at the

present moment; and yet I feel that I never was a greater artist than

now. When, while the lovely valley teems with vapour around me, and the

meridian sun strikes the upper surface of the impenetrable foliage of

my trees, and but a few stray gleams steal into the inner sanctuary, I

throw myself down among the tall grass by the trickling stream; and as

I lie close to the earth, a thousand unknown plants are noticed by me:

when I hear the buzz of the little world among the stalks, and grow

familiar with the countless indescribable forms of the insects and

flies, then I feel the presence of the Almighty, who formed us in his

own image, and the breath of that universal love which bears and

sustains us, as it floats around us in an eternity of bliss; and then,

my friend, when darkness overspreads my eyes, and heaven and earth seem

to dwell in my soul and absorb its power, like the form of a beloved

mistress,--then I often think with longing, Oh, would I could describe

these conceptions, could impress upon paper all that is living so full

and warm within me, that it might be the mirror of my soul, as my soul

is the mirror of the infinite God! O my friend--but it is too much for

my strength--I sink under the weight of the splendour of these visions!

May 12.

I know not whether some deceitful spirits haunt this spot, or whether

it be the warm, celestial fancy in my own heart which makes everything

around me seem like paradise. In front of the house is a fountain,--a

fountain to which I am bound by a charm like Melusina and her sisters.

Descending a gentle slope, you come to an arch, where, some twenty

steps lower down, water of the clearest crystal gushes from the marble

rock. The narrow wall which encloses it above, the tall trees which

encircle the spot, and the coolness of the place itself,--everything

imparts a pleasant but sublime impression. Not a day passes on which I

do not spend an hour there. The young maidens come from the town to

fetch water,--innocent and necessary employment, and formerly the

occupation of the daughters of kings. As I take my rest there, the idea

of the old patriarchal life is awakened around me. I see them, our old

ancestors, how they formed their friendships and contracted alliances

at the fountain-side; and I feel how fountains and streams were guarded

by beneficent spirits. He who is a stranger to these sensations has

never really enjoyed cool repose at the side of a fountain after the

fatigue of a weary summer day.

May 13.

You ask if you shall send me books. My dear friend, I beseech you, for

the love of God, relieve me from such a yoke! I need no more to be

guided, agitated, heated. My heart ferments sufficiently of itself. I

want strains to lull me, and I find them to perfection in my Homer.

Often do I strive to allay the burning fever of my blood; and you have

never witnessed anything so unsteady, so uncertain, as my heart. But

need I confess this to you, my dear friend, who have so often endured

the anguish of witnessing my sudden transitions from sorrow to

immoderate joy, and from sweet melancholy to violent passions? I treat

my poor heart like a sick child, and gratify its every fancy. Do not

mention this again: there are people who would censure me for it.

May 15.

The common people of the place know me already, and love me,

particularly the children. When at first I associated with them, and

inquired in a friendly tone about their various trifles, some fancied

that I wished to ridicule them, and turned from me in exceeding

ill-humour. I did not allow that circumstance to grieve me: I only felt

most keenly what I have often before observed. Persons who can claim a

certain rank keep themselves coldly aloof from the common people, as

though they feared to lose their importance by the contact; whilst

wanton idlers, and such as arc prone to bad joking, affect to descend

to their level, only to make the poor people feel their impertinence

all the more keenly.

I know very well that we are not all equal, nor can be so; but it is my

opinion that he who avoids the common people, in order not to lose

their respect, is as much to blame as a coward who hides himself from

his enemy because he fears defeat.

The other day I went to the fountain, and found a young servant-girl,

who had set her pitcher on the lowest step, and looked round to see if

one of her companions was approaching to place it on her head. I ran

down, and looked at her. "Shall I help you, pretty lass?" said I. She

blushed deeply. "Oh, sir!" she exclaimed. "No ceremony!" I replied. She

adjusted her head-gear, and I helped her. She thanked me, and ascended

the steps.

May 17.

I have made all sorts of acquaintances, but have as yet found no

society. I know not what attraction I possess for the people, so many

of them like me, and attach themselves to me; and then I feel sorry

when the road we pursue together goes only a short distance. If you

inquire what the people are like here, I must answer, "The same as

everywhere." The human race is but a monotonous affair. Most of them

labour the greater part of their time for mere subsistence; and the

scanty portion of freedom which remains to them so troubles them that

they use every exertion to get rid of it. Oh, the destiny of man!

But they are a right good sort of people. If I occasionally forget

myself, and take part in the innocent pleasures which are not yet

forbidden to the peasantry, and enjoy myself, for instance, with

genuine freedom and sincerity, round a well-covered table, or arrange

an excursion or a dance opportunely, and so forth, all this produces a

good effect upon my disposition; only I must forget that there lie

dormant within me so many other qualities which moulder uselessly, and

which I am obliged to keep carefully concealed. Ah! this thought

affects my spirits fearfully. And yet to be misunderstood is the fate

of the like of us.

Alas, that the friend of my youth is gone! Alas, that I ever knew her!

I might say to myself, "You are a dreamer to seek what is not to be

found here below." But she has been mine. I have possessed that heart,

that noble soul, in whose presence I seemed to be more than I really

was, because I was all that I could be. Good heavens! did then a single

power of my soul remain unexercised? In her presence could I not

display, to its full extent, that mysterious feeling with which my

heart embraces Nature? Was not our intercourse a perpetual web of the

finest emotions, of the keenest wit, the varieties of which, even in

their very eccentricity, bore the stamp of genius? Alas! the few years

by which she was my senior brought her to the grave before me. Never

can I forget her firm mind or her heavenly patience.

A few days ago I met a certain young V----, a frank, open fellow, with

a most pleasing countenance. He has just left the university, does not

deem himself over-wise, but believes he knows more than other people.

He has worked hard, as I can perceive from many circumstances, and, in

short, possesses a large stock of information. When he heard that I am

drawing a good deal, and that I know Greek (two wonderful things for

this part of the country), he came to see me, and displayed his whole

store of learning, from Batteaux to Wood, from De Piles to Winkelmann:

he assured me he had read through the first part of Sultzer's theory,

and also possessed a manuscript of Heyne's work on the study of the

antique. I allowed it all to pass.

I have become acquainted, also, with a very worthy person, the district

judge, a frank and open-hearted man. I am told it is a most delightful

thing to see him in the midst of his children, of whom he has nine. His

eldest daughter especially is highly spoken of. He has invited me to go

and see him, and I intend to do so on the first opportunity. He lives

at one of the royal hunting-lodges, which can be reached from here in

an hour and a half by walking, and which he obtained leave to inhabit

after the loss of his wife, as it is so painful to him to reside in

town and at the court.

There have also come in my way a few other originals of a questionable

sort, who are in all respects undesirable, and most intolerable in

their demonstrations of friendship. Good-by. This letter will please

you; it is quite historical.

May 22.

That the life of man is but a dream, many a man has surmised

heretofore; and I, too, am everywhere pursued by this feeling. When I

consider the narrow limits within which our active and inquiring

faculties are confined; when I see how all our energies are wasted in

providing for mere necessities, which again have no further end than to

prolong a wretched existence; and then that all our satisfaction

concerning certain subjects of investigation ends in nothing better

than a passive resignation, whilst we amuse ourselves painting our

prison-walls with bright figures and brilliant landscapes,--when I

consider all this, Wilhelm, I am silent. I examine my own being and

find there a world, but a world rather of imagination and dim desires,

than of distinctness and living power. Then everything swims before my

senses, and I smile and dream while pursuing my way through the world.

All learned professors and doctors are agreed that children do not

comprehend the cause of their desires; but that the grown-up should

wander about this earth like children, without knowing whence they

come, or whither they go, influenced as little by fixed motives, but

guided like them by biscuits, sugar-plums, and the rod,--this is what

nobody is willing to acknowledge; and yet I think it is palpable.

I know what you say in reply; for I am ready to admit that they are

happiest, who, like children, amuse themselves with their play-things,

dress and undress their dolls, and attentively watch the cupboard,

where mamma has locked up her sweet things, and, when at last they get

a delicious morsel, eat it greedily, and exclaim, "More!" These are

certainly happy beings; but others also are objects of envy, who

dignify their paltry employments, and sometimes even their passions,

with pompous titles, representing them to mankind as gigantic

achievements performed for their welfare and glory. But the man who

humbly acknowledges the vanity of all this, who observes with what

pleasure the thriving citizen converts his little garden into a

paradise, and how patiently even the poor man pursues his weary way

under his burden, and how all wish equally to behold the light of the

sun a little longer,--yes, such a man is at peace, and creates his own

world within himself; and he is also happy, because he is a man. And

then, however limited his sphere, he still preserves in his bosom the

sweet feeling of liberty, and knows that he can quit his prison

whenever he likes.

May 26.

You know of old my ways of settling anywhere, of selecting a little

cottage in some cosey spot, and of putting up in it with every

inconvenience. Here, too, I have discovered such a snug, comfortable

place, which possesses peculiar charms for me.

About a league from the town is a place called Walheim.[1] It is

delightfully situated on the side of a hill; and by proceeding along

one of the footpaths which lead out of the village, you can have a view

of the whole valley. A good old woman lives there, who keeps a small

inn. She sells wine, beer, and coffee, and is cheerful and pleasant

notwithstanding her age. The chief charm of this spot consists in two

linden-trees, spreading their enormous branches over the little green

before the church, which is entirely surrounded by peasants' cottages,

barns, and homesteads. I have seldom seen a place so retired and

peaceable; and there often have my table and chair brought out from the

little inn, and drink my coffee there, and read my Homer. Accident

brought me to the spot one fine afternoon, and I found it perfectly

deserted. Everybody was in the fields except a little boy about four

years of age, who was sitting on the ground, and held between his knees

a child about six months old; he pressed it to his bosom with both

arms, which thus formed a sort of armchair; and notwithstanding the

liveliness which sparkled in its black eyes, it remained perfectly

still. The sight charmed me. I sat down upon a plough opposite, and

sketched with great delight this little picture of brotherly

tenderness. I added the neighbouring hedge, the barn-door, and some

broken cart-wheels, just as they happened to lie; and I found in about

an hour that I had made a very correct and interesting drawing, without

putting in the slightest thing of my own. This confirmed me in my

resolution of adhering, for the future, entirely to Nature, She alone

is inexhaustible, and capable of forming the greatest masters. Much may

be alleged in favour of rules; as much may be likewise advanced in

favour of the laws of society: an artist formed upon them will never

produce anything absolutely bad or disgusting; as a man who observes

the laws and obeys decorum can never be an absolutely intolerable

neighbour nor a decided villain: but yet, say what you will of rules,

they destroy the genuine feeling of Nature, as well as its true

expression. Do not tell me "that this is too hard, that they only

restrain and prune superfluous branches, etc." My good friend, I will

illustrate this by an analogy. These things resemble love. A

warmhearted youth becomes strongly attached to a maiden: he spends

every hour of the day in her company, wears out his health, and

lavishes his fortune, to afford continual proof that he is wholly

devoted to her. Then comes a man of the world, a man of place and

respectability, and addresses him thus: "My good young friend, love is

natural; but you must love within bounds. Divide your time: devote a

portion to business, and give the hours of recreation to your mistress.

Calculate your fortune; and out of the superfluity you may make her a

present, only not too often,--on her birthday, and such occasions."

Pursuing this advice, he may become a useful member of society, and I

should advise every prince to give him an appointment; but it is all up

with his love, and with his genius if he be an artist. O my friend! why

is it that the torrent of genius so seldom bursts forth, so seldom

rolls in full-flowing stream, overwhelming your astounded soul?

Because, on either side of this stream, cold and respectable persons

have taken up their abodes, and, forsooth, their summer-houses and

tulip-beds would suffer from the torrent; wherefore they dig trenches,

and raise embankments betimes, in order to avert the impending danger.

May 27.

I find I have fallen into raptures, declamation, and similes, and have

forgotten, in consequence, to tell you what became of the children.

Absorbed in my artistic contemplations, which I briefly described in my

letter of yesterday, I continued sitting on the plough for two hours.

Towards evening a young woman, with a basket on her arm, came running

towards the children, who had not moved all that time. She exclaimed

from a distance, "You are a good boy, Philip!" She gave me greeting: I

returned it, rose, and approached her. I inquired if she were the

mother of those pretty children. "Yes," she said; and, giving the

eldest a piece of bread, she took the little one in her arms and kissed

it with a mother's tenderness. "I left my child in Philip's care," she

said, "whilst I went into the town with my eldest boy to buy some

wheaten bread, some sugar, and an earthen pot." I saw the various

articles in the basket, from which the cover had fallen. "I shall make

some broth to-night for my little Hans (which was the name of the

youngest): that wild fellow, the big one, broke my pot yesterday,

whilst he was scrambling with Philip for what remained of the

contents." I inquired for the eldest; and she had scarcely time to tell

me that he was driving a couple of geese home from the meadow, when he

ran up, and handed Philip an osier-twig. I talked a little longer with

the woman, and found that she was the daughter of the schoolmaster, and

that her husband was gone on a journey into Switzerland for some money

a relation had left him. "They wanted to cheat him," she said, "and

would not answer his letters; so he is gone there himself. I hope he

has met with no accident, as I have heard nothing of him since his

departure." I left the woman with regret, giving each of the children a

kreutzer, with an additional one for the youngest, to buy some wheaten

bread for his broth when she went to town next; and so we parted.

I assure you, my dear friend, when my thoughts are all in tumult, the

sight of such a creature as this tranquillises my disturbed mind. She

moves in a happy thoughtlessness within the confined circle of her

existence; she supplies her wants from day to day; and when she sees

the leaves fall, they raise no other idea in her mind than that winter

is approaching.

Since that time I have gone out there frequently. The children have

become quite familiar with me; and each gets a lump of sugar when I

drink my coffee, and they share my milk and bread and butter in the

evening. They always receive their kreutzer on Sundays, for the good

woman has orders to give it to them when I do not go there after

evening service.

They are quite at home with me, tell me everything; and I am

particularly amused with observing their tempers, and the simplicity of

their behaviour, when some of the other village children are assembled

with them.

It has given me a deal of trouble to satisfy the anxiety of the mother,

lest (as she says) "they should inconvenience the gentleman."

May 30.

What I have lately said of painting is equally true with respect to

poetry. It is only necessary for us to know what is really excellent,

and venture to give it expression; and that is saying much in few

words. To-day I have had a scene which, if literally related, would

make the most beautiful idyl in the world. But why should I talk of

poetry and scenes and idyls? Can we never take pleasure in Nature

without having recourse to art?

If you expect anything grand or magnificent from this introduction, you

will be sadly mistaken. It relates merely to a peasant-lad, who has

excited in me the warmest interest. As usual, I shall tell my story

badly; and you, as usual, will think me extravagant. It is Walheim once

more--always Walheim--which produces these wonderful phenomena.

A party had assembled outside the house under the linden-trees, to

drink coffee. The company did not exactly please me; and, under one

pretext or another, I lingered behind.

A peasant came from an adjoining house, and set to work arranging some

part of the same plough which I had lately sketched. His appearance

pleased me; and I spoke to him, inquired about his circumstances, made

his acquaintance, and, as is my wont with persons of that class, was

soon admitted into his confidence. He said he was in the service of a

young widow, who set great store by him. He spoke so much of his

mistress, and praised her so extravagantly, that I could soon see he

was desperately in love with her. "She is no longer young," he said;

"and she was treated so badly by her former husband that she does not

mean to marry again." From his account it was so evident what

incomparable charms she possessed for him, and how ardently he wished

she would select him to extinguish the recollection of her first

husband's misconduct, that I should have to repeat his own words in

order to describe the depth of the poor fellow's attachment, truth, and

devotion. It would, in fact, require the gifts of a great poet to

convey the expression of his features, the harmony of his voice, and

the heavenly fire of his eye. No words can portray the tenderness of

his every movement and of every feature; no effort of mine could do

justice to the scene. His alarm lest I should misconceive his position

with regard to his mistress, or question the propriety of her conduct,

touched me particularly. The charming manner with which he described

her form and person, which, without possessing the graces of youth, won

and attached him to her, is inexpressible, and must be left to the

imagination. I have never in my life witnessed or fancied or conceived

the possibility of such intense devotion, such ardent affections,

united with so much purity. Do not blame me if I say that the

recollection of this innocence and truth is deeply impressed upon my

very soul; that this picture of fidelity and tenderness haunts me

everywhere: and that my own heart, as though enkindled by the flame,

glows and burns within me.

I mean now to try and see her as soon as I can: or perhaps, on second

thoughts, I had better not; it is better I should behold her through

the eyes of her lover. To my sight, perhaps, she would not appear as

she now stands before me; and why should I destroy so sweet a picture?

June 16.

"Why do I not write to you?" You lay claim to learning, and ask such a

question. You should have guessed that I am well--that is to say--in a

word, I have made an acquaintance who has won my heart: I have--I know

not.

To give you a regular account of the manner in which I have become

acquainted with the most amiable of women would be a difficult task. I

am a happy and contented mortal, but a poor historian.

An angel! Nonsense! Everybody so describes his mistress; and yet I find

it impossible to tell you how perfect she is, or why she is so perfect:

suffice it to say she has captivated all my senses.

So much simplicity with so much understanding--so mild, and yet so

resolute--a mind so placid, and a life so active.

But all this is ugly balderdash, which expresses not a single character

nor feature. Some other time--but no, not some other time, now, this

very instant, will I tell you all about it. Now or never. Well, between

ourselves, since I commenced my letter, I have been three times on the

point of throwing down my pen, of ordering my horse, and riding out.

And yet I vowed this morning that I would not ride to-day, and yet

every moment I am rushing to the window to see how high the sun is.

* * * * *

I could not restrain myself--go to her I must. I have just returned,

Wilhelm; and whilst I am taking supper, I will write to you. What a

delight it was for my soul to see her in the midst of her dear,

beautiful children,--eight brothers and sisters!

But if I proceed thus, you will be no wiser at the end of my letter

than you were at the beginning. Attend, then, and I will compel myself

to give you the details.

I mentioned to you the other day that I had become acquainted with

S----, the district judge, and that he had invited me to go and visit

him in his retirement, or rather in his little kingdom. But I neglected

going, and perhaps should never have gone, if chance had not discovered

to me the treasure which lay concealed in that retired spot. Some of

our young people had proposed giving a ball in the country, at which I

consented to be present. I offered my hand for the evening to a pretty

and agreeable, but rather commonplace, sort of girl from the immediate

neighbourhood; and it was agreed that I should engage a carriage, and

call upon Charlotte, with my partner and her aunt, to convey them to

the ball. My companion informed me, as we drove along through the park

to the hunting-lodge, that I should make the acquaintance of a very

charming young lady. "Take care," added the aunt, "that you do not lose

your heart." "Why?" said I. "Because she is already engaged to a very

worthy man," she replied, "who is gone to settle his affairs upon the

death of his father, and will succeed to a very considerable

inheritance." This information possessed no interest for me. When we

arrived at the gate, the sun was setting behind the tops of the

mountains. The atmosphere was heavy; and the ladies expressed their

fears of an approaching storm, as masses of low black clouds were

gathering in the horizon. I relieved their anxieties by pretending to

be weather-wise, although I myself had some apprehensions lest our

pleasure should be interrupted.

I alighted; and a maid came to the door, and requested us to wait a

moment for her mistress. I walked across the court to a well-built

house, and, ascending the flight of steps in front, opened the door,

and saw before me the most charming spectacle I had ever witnessed. Six

children, from eleven to two years old, were running about the hall,

and surrounding a lady of middle height, with a lovely figure, dressed

in a robe of simple white, trimmed with pink ribbons. She was holding a

rye loaf in her hand, and was cutting slices for the little ones all

round, in proportion to their age and appetite. She performed her task

in a graceful and affectionate manner; each claimant awaiting his turn

with outstretched hands, and boisterously shouting his thanks. Some of

them ran away at once, to enjoy their evening meal; whilst others, of a

gentler disposition, retired to the courtyard to see the strangers, and

to survey the carriage in which their Charlotte was to drive away.

"Pray forgive me for giving you the trouble to come for me, and for

keeping the ladies waiting: but dressing, and arranging some household

duties before I leave, had made me forget my children's supper; and

they do not like to take it from any one but me." I uttered some

indifferent compliment: but my whole soul was absorbed by her air, her

voice, her manner; and I had scarcely recovered myself when she ran

into her room to fetch her gloves and fan. The young ones threw

inquiring glances at me from a distance; whilst I approached the

youngest, a most delicious little creature. He drew back; and

Charlotte, entering at the very moment, said, "Louis, shake hands with

your cousin." The little fellow obeyed willingly; and I could not

resist giving him a hearty kiss, notwithstanding his rather dirty face.

"Cousin," said I to Charlotte, as I handed her down, "do you think I

deserve the happiness of being related to you?" She replied, with a

ready smile, "Oh! I have such a number of cousins that I should be

sorry if you were the most undeserving of them." In taking leave, she

desired her next sister, Sophy, a girl about eleven years old, to take

great care of the children, and to say good-by to papa for her when he

came home from his ride. She enjoined to the little ones to obey their

sister Sophy as they would herself, upon which some promised that they

would; but a little fair-haired girl, about six years old, looked

discontented, and said, "But Sophy is not you, Charlotte; and we like

you best." The two eldest boys had clambered up the carriage; and, at

my request, she permitted them to accompany us a little way through the

forest, upon their promising to sit very still, and hold fast.

We were hardly seated, and the ladies had scarcely exchanged

compliments, making the usual remarks upon each other's dress, and upon

the company they expected to meet, when Charlotte stopped the carriage,

and made her brothers get down. They insisted upon kissing her hands

once more; which the eldest did with all the tenderness of a youth of

fifteen, but the other in a lighter and more careless manner. She

desired them again to give her love to the children, and we drove off.

The aunt inquired of Charlotte whether she had finished the book she

had last sent her. "No," said Charlotte; "I did not like it: you can

have it again. And the one before was not much better." I was

surprised, upon asking the title, to hear that it was ----.[2] I found

penetration and character in everything she said: every expression

seemed to brighten her features with new charms, with new rays of

genius, which unfolded by degrees, as she felt herself understood.

"When I was younger," she observed, "I loved nothing so much as

romances. Nothing could equal my delight when, on some holiday, I could

settle down quietly in a corner, and enter with my whole heart and soul

into the joys or sorrows of some fictitious Leonora. I do not deny that

they even possess some charms for me yet. But I read so seldom that I

prefer books suited exactly to my taste. And I like those authors best

whose scenes describe my own situation in life,--and the friends who

are about me whose stories touch me with interest, from resembling my

own homely existence,--which, without being absolutely paradise, is, on

the whole, a source of indescribable happiness."

I endeavoured to conceal the emotion which these words occasioned, but

it was of slight avail; for when she had expressed so truly her opinion

of "The Vicar of Wakefield," and of other works, the names of which I

omit,[3] I could no longer contain myself, but gave full utterance to

what I thought of it; and it was not until Charlotte had addressed

herself to the two other ladies, that I remembered their presence, and

observed them sitting mute with astonishment. The aunt looked at me

several times with an air of raillery, which, however, I did not at all

mind.

We talked of the pleasures of dancing. "If it is a fault to love it,"

said Charlotte, "I am ready to confess that I prize it above all other

amusements. If anything disturbs me, I go to the piano, play an air to

which I have danced, and all goes right again directly."

You, who know me, can fancy how steadfastly I gazed upon her rich dark

eyes during these remarks, how my very soul gloated over her warm lips

and fresh, glowing cheeks, how I became quite lost in the delightful

meaning of her words,--so much so, that I scarcely heard the actual

expressions. In short, I alighted from the carriage like a person in a

dream, and was so lost to the dim world around me that I scarcely heard

the music which resounded from the illuminated ball-room.

The two Messrs. Andran and a certain N. N. (I cannot trouble myself

with the names), who were the aunt's and Charlotte's partners, received

us at the carriage-door, and took possession of their ladies, whilst I

followed with mine.

We commenced with a minuet. I led out one lady after another, and

precisely those who were the most disagreeable could not bring

themselves to leave off. Charlotte and her partner began an English

country dance, and you must imagine my delight when it was their turn

to dance the figure with us.

You should see Charlotte dance. She dances with her whole heart and

soul: her figure is all harmony, elegance, and grace, as if she were

conscious of nothing else, and had no other thought or feeling; and,

doubtless, for the moment every other sensation is extinct.

She was engaged for the second country dance, but promised me the

third, and assured me, with the most agreeable freedom, that she was

very fond of waltzing. "It is the custom here," she said, "for the

previous partners to waltz together; but my partner is an indifferent

waltzer, and will feel delighted if I save him the trouble. Your

partner is not allowed to waltz, and, indeed, is equally incapable: but

I observed during the country dance that you waltz well; so, if you

will waltz with me, I beg you would propose it to my partner, and I

will propose it to yours." We agreed, and it was arranged that our

partners should mutually entertain each other.

We set off, and at first delighted ourselves with the usual graceful

motions of the arms. With what grace, with what ease, she moved! When

the waltz commenced, and the dancers whirled round each other in the

giddy maze, there was some confusion, owing to the incapacity of some

of the dancers. We judiciously remained still, allowing the others to

weary themselves; and when the awkward dancers had withdrawn, we joined

in, and kept it up famously together with one other couple,--Andran and

his partner. Never did I dance more lightly. I felt myself more than

mortal, holding this loveliest of creatures in my arms, flying with her

as rapidly as the wind, till I lost sight of every other object; and

oh, Wilhelm, I vowed at that moment, that a maiden whom I loved, or for

whom I felt the slightest attachment, never, never should waltz with

any one else but with me, if I went to perdition for it!--you will

understand this.

We took a few turns in the room to recover our breath. Charlotte sat

down, and felt refreshed by partaking of some oranges which I had had

secured,--the only ones that had been left; but at every slice which

from politeness she offered to her neighbours, I felt as though a

dagger went through my heart.

We were the second couple in the third country dance. As we were going

down (and Heaven knows with what ecstasy I gazed at her arms and eyes,

beaming with the sweetest feeling of pure and genuine enjoyment), we

passed a lady whom I had noticed for her charming expression of

countenance, although she was no longer young. She looked at Charlotte

with a smile, then holding up her finger in a threatening attitude,

repeated twice in a very significant tone of voice the name of

"Albert."

"Who is Albert," said I to Charlotte, "if it is not impertinent to

ask?" She was about to answer, when we were obliged to separate, in

order to execute a figure in the dance; and as we crossed over again in

front of each other, I perceived she looked somewhat pensive. "Why need

I conceal it from you?" she said, as she gave me her hand for the

promenade. "Albert is a worthy man, to whom I am engaged." Now, there

was nothing new to me in this (for the girls had told me of it on the

way); but it was so far new that I had not thought of it in connection

with her whom in so short a time I had learned to prize so highly.

Enough. I became confused, got out in the figure, and occasioned

general confusion; so that it required all Charlotte's presence of mind

to set me right by pulling and pushing me into my proper place.

The dance was not yet finished when the lightning which had for some

time been seen in the horizon, and which I had asserted to proceed

entirely from heat, grew more violent; and the thunder was heard above

the music. When any distress or terror surprises us in the midst of our

amusements, it naturally makes a deeper impression than at other times,

either because the contrast makes us more keenly susceptible, or rather

perhaps because our senses are then more open to impressions, and the

shock is consequently stronger. To this cause I must ascribe the fright

and shrieks of the ladies. One sagaciously sat down in a corner with

her back to the window, and held her fingers to her ears; a second

knelt down before her, and hid her face in her lap; a third threw

herself between them, and embraced her sister with a thousand tears;

some insisted on going home; others, unconscious of their actions,

wanted sufficient presence of mind to repress the impertinence of their

young partners, who sought to direct to themselves those sighs which

the lips of our agitated beauties intended for heaven. Some of the

gentlemen had gone downstairs to smoke a quiet cigar, and the rest of

the company gladly embraced a happy suggestion of the hostess to retire

into another room which was provided with shutters and curtains. We had

hardly got there, when Charlotte placed the chairs in a circle; and

when the company had sat down in compliance with her request, she

forthwith proposed a round game.

I noticed some of the company prepare their mouths and draw themselves

up at the prospect of some agreeable forfeit. "Let us play at

counting," said Charlotte. "Now, pay attention: I shall go round the

circle from right to left; and each person is to count, one after the

other, the number that comes to him, and must count fast; whoever stops

or mistakes is to have a box on the ear, and so on, till we have

counted a thousand." It was delightful to see the fun. She went round

the circle with upraised arm. "One," said the first; "two," the second;

"three," the third; and so, till Charlotte went faster and faster. One

made a mistake, instantly a box on the ear; and amid the laughter that

ensued, came another box; and so on, faster and faster. I myself came

in for two. I fancied they were harder than the rest, and felt quite

delighted. A general laughter and confusion put an end to the game long

before we had counted as far as a thousand. The party broke up into

little separate knots; the storm had ceased, and I followed Charlotte

into the ballroom. On the way she said, "The game banished their fears

of the storm." I could make no reply. "I myself," she continued, "was

as much frightened as any of them; but by affecting courage, to keep up

the spirits of the others, I forgot my apprehensions." We went to the

window. It was still thundering at a distance; a soft rain was pouring

down over the country, and filled the air around us with delicious

odours. Charlotte leaned forward on her arm; her eyes wandered over the

scene; she raised them to the sky, and then turned them upon me: they

were moistened with tears; she placed her hand on mine and said,

"Klopstock!" At once I remembered the magnificent ode which was in her

thoughts; I felt oppressed with the weight of my sensations, and sank

under them. It was more than I could bear. I bent over her hand, kissed

it in a stream of delicious tears, and again looked up to her eyes.

Divine Klopstock! why didst thou not see thy apotheosis in those eyes?

And thy name, so often profaned, would that I never heard it repeated!

June 19.

I no longer remember where I stopped in my narrative; I only know it

was two in the morning when I went to bed; and if you had been with me,

that I might have talked instead of writing to you, I should, in all

probability, have kept you up till daylight.

I think I have not yet related what happened as we rode home from the

ball, nor have I time to tell you now. It was a most magnificent

sunrise; the whole country was refreshed, and the rain fell drop by

drop from the trees in the forest. Our companions were asleep.

Charlotte asked me if I did not wish to sleep also, and begged of me

not to make any ceremony on her account. Looking steadfastly at her, I

answered, "As long as I see those eyes open, there is no fear of my

falling asleep." We both continued awake till we reached her door. The

maid opened it softly, and assured her, in answer to her inquiries,

that her father and the children were well, and still sleeping. I left

her, asking permission to visit her in the course of the day. She

consented, and I went; and since that time sun, moon, and stars may

pursue their course: I know not whether it is day or night; the whole

world is nothing to me.

June 21.

My days are as happy as those reserved by God for his elect; and

whatever be my fate hereafter, I can never say that I have not tasted

joy,--the purest joy of life. You know Walheim. I am now completely

settled there. In that spot I am only half a league from Charlotte; and

there I enjoy myself, and taste all the pleasure which can fall to the

lot of man.

Little did I imagine, when I selected Walheim for my pedestrian

excursions, that all heaven lay so near it. How often, in my wanderings

from the hillside or from the meadows across the river, have I beheld

this hunting-lodge, which now contains within it all the joy of my

heart!

I have often, my dear Wilhelm, reflected on the eagerness men feel to

wander and make new discoveries, and upon that secret impulse which

afterwards inclines them to return to their narrow circle, conform to

the laws of custom, and embarrass themselves no longer with what passes

around them.

It is so strange how, when I came here first, and gazed upon that

lovely valley from the hillside, I felt charmed with the entire scene

surrounding me. The little wood opposite,--how delightful to sit under

its shade! How fine the view from that point of rock! Then that

delightful chain of hills, and the exquisite valleys at their feet!

Could I but wander and lose myself amongst them! I went, and returned

without finding what I wished. Distance, my friend, is like futurity. A

dim vastness is spread before our souls; the perceptions of our mind

are as obscure as those of our vision; and we desire earnestly to

surrender up our whole being, that it may be filled with the complete

and perfect bliss of one glorious emotion. But alas! when we have

attained our object, when the distant _there_ becomes the present

_here_, all is changed; we are as poor and circumscribed as ever, and

our souls still languish for unattainable happiness.

So does the restless traveller pant for his native soil, and find in

his own cottage, in the arms of his wife, in the affections of his

children, and in the labour necessary for their support, that happiness

which he had sought in vain through the wide, world.

When in the morning at sunrise I go out to Walheim and with my own

hands gather in the garden the pease which are to serve for my dinner;

when I sit down to shell them, and read my Homer during the intervals,

and then, selecting a saucepan from the kitchen, fetch my own butter,

put my mess on the fire, cover it up, and sit down to stir it as

occasion requires,--I figure to myself the illustrious suitors of

Penelope, killing, dressing, and preparing their own oxen and swine.

Nothing fills me with a more pure and genuine sense of happiness than

those traits of patriarchal life which, thank Heaven! I can imitate

without affectation. Happy is it, indeed, for me that my heart is

capable of feeling the same simple and innocent pleasure as the peasant

whose table is covered with food of his own rearing, and who not only

enjoys his meal, but remembers with delight the happy days and sunny

mornings when he planted it, the soft evenings when he watered it, and

the pleasure he experienced in watching its daily growth.

June 29.

The day before yesterday the physician came from the town to pay a

visit to the judge. He found me on the floor playing with Charlotte's

children. Some of them were scrambling over me, and others romped with

me; and as I caught and tickled them, they made a great noise. The

doctor is a formal sort of personage; he adjusts the plaits of his

ruffles and continually settles his frill whilst he is talking to you;

and he thought my conduct beneath the dignity of a sensible man. I

could perceive this by his countenance; but I did not suffer myself to

be disturbed. I allowed him to continue his wise conversation, whilst I

rebuilt the children's card-houses for them as fast as they threw them

down. He went about the town afterwards, complaining that the judge's

children were spoiled enough before, but that now Werther was

completely ruining them.

Yes, my dear Wilhelm, nothing on this earth affects my heart so much as

children. When I look on at their doings; when I mark in the little

creatures the seeds of all those virtues and qualities which they will

one day find so indispensable; when I behold in the obstinate all the

future firmness and constancy of a noble character, in the capricious

that levity and gayety of temper which will carry them lightly over the

dangers and troubles of life, their whole nature simple and

unpolluted,--then I call to mind the golden words of the Great Teacher

of mankind, "Unless ye become like one of these." And now, my friend,

these children, who are our equals, whom we ought to consider as our

models,--we treat them as though they were our subjects. They are

allowed no will of their own. And have we, then, none ourselves? Whence

comes our exclusive right? Is it because we are older and more

experienced? Great God! from the height of thy heaven thou beholdest

great children and little children, and no others; and thy Son has long

since declared which afford thee greatest pleasure. But they believe in

him and hear him not,--that, too, is an old story; and they train their

children after their own image, etc.

Adieu, Wilhelm. I will not further bewilder myself with this subject.

July 1.

The consolation Charlotte can bring to an invalid I experience from my

own heart, which suffers more from her absence than many a poor

creature lingering on a bed of sickness. She is gone to spend a few

days in the town with a very worthy woman, who is given over by the

physicians, and wishes to have Charlotte near her in her last moments.

I accompanied her last week on a visit to the vicar of S----, a small

village in the mountains, about a league hence. We arrived about four

o'clock. Charlotte had taken her little sister with her. When we

entered the vicarage court, we found the good old man sitting on a

bench before the door, under the shade of two large walnut-trees. At

the sight of Charlotte he seemed to gain new life, rose, forgot his

stick, and ventured to walk towards her. She ran to him, and made him

sit down again; then placing herself by his side, she gave him a number

of messages from her father, and then caught up his youngest child,--a

dirty, ugly little thing, the joy of his old age,--and kissed it. I

wish you could have witnessed her attention to this old man,--how she

raised her voice on account of his deafness; how she told him of

healthy young people who had been carried off when it was least

expected; praised the virtues of Carlsbad, and commended his

determination to spend the ensuing summer there; and assured him that

he looked better and stronger than he did when she saw him last. I, in

the mean time, paid attention to his good lady. The old man seemed

quite in spirits; and as I could not help admiring the beauty of the

walnut-trees, which formed such an agreeable shade over our heads, he

began, though with some little difficulty, to tell us their history.

"As to the oldest," said he, "we do not know who planted it,--some say

one clergyman, and some another; but the younger one, there behind us,

is exactly the age of my wife,--fifty years old next October. Her

father planted it in the morning, and in the evening she came into the

world. My wife's father was my predecessor here, and I cannot tell you

how fond he was of that tree; and it is fully as dear to me. Under the

shade of that very tree, upon a log of wood, my wife was seated

knitting when I, a poor student, came into this court for the first

time, just seven and twenty years ago." Charlotte inquired for his

daughter. He said she was gone with Herr Schmidt to the meadows, and

was with the haymakers. The old man then resumed his story, and told us

how his predecessor had taken a fancy to him, as had his daughter

likewise; and how he had become first his curate, and subsequently his

successor. He had scarcely finished his story when his daughter

returned through the garden, accompanied by the above-mentioned Herr

Schmidt. She welcomed Charlotte affectionately, and I confess I was

much taken with her appearance. She was a lively-looking, good-humoured

brunette, quite competent to amuse one for a short time in the country.

Her lover (for such Herr Schmidt evidently appeared to be) was a

polite, reserved personage, and would not join our conversation,

notwithstanding all Charlotte's endeavours to draw him out. I was much

annoyed at observing, by his countenance, that his silence did not

arise from want of talent, but from caprice and ill-humour. This

subsequently became very evident, when we set out to take a walk, and

Frederica joining Charlotte, with whom I was talking, the worthy

gentleman's face, which was naturally rather sombre, became so dark and

angry that Charlotte was obliged to touch my arm and remind me that I

was talking too much to Frederica. Nothing distresses me more than to

see men torment each other; particularly when in the flower of their

age, in the very season of pleasure, they waste their few short days of

sunshine in quarrels and disputes, and only perceive their error when

it is too late to repair it. This thought dwelt upon my mind; and in

the evening, when we returned to the vicar's, and were sitting round

the table with our bread and milk, the conversation turned on the joys

and sorrows of the world, I could not resist the temptation to inveigh

bitterly against ill-humour. "We are apt," said I, "to complain, but

with very little cause, that our happy days are few and our evil days

many. If our hearts were always disposed to receive the benefits Heaven

sends us, we should acquire strength to support evil when it comes."

"But," observed the vicar's wife, "we cannot always command our

tempers, so much depends upon the constitution; when the body suffers,

the mind is ill at ease." "I acknowledge that," I continued; "but we

must consider such a disposition in the light of a disease, and inquire

whether there is no remedy for it." "I should be glad to hear one,"

said Charlotte. "At least, I think very much depends upon ourselves; I

know it is so with me. When anything annoys me, and disturbs my temper,

I hasten into the garden, hum a couple of country dances, and it is all

right with me directly." "That is what I meant," I replied. "Ill-humour

resembles indolence: it is natural to us; but if once we have courage

to exert ourselves, we find our work run fresh from our hands, and we

experience in the activity from which we shrank a real enjoyment."

Frederica listened very attentively; and the young man objected that we

were not masters of ourselves, and still less so of our feelings. "The

question is about a disagreeable feeling," I added, "from which every

one would willingly escape, but none know their own power without

trial. Invalids are glad to consult physicians, and submit to the most

scrupulous regimen, the most nauseous medicines, in order to recover

their health." I observed that the good old man inclined his head, and

exerted himself to hear our discourse; so I raised my voice, and

addressed myself directly to him. "We preach against a great many

crimes," I observed, "but I never remember a sermon delivered against

ill-humour." "That may do very well for your town clergymen," said he;

"country people are never ill-humoured, though, indeed, it might be

useful occasionally,--to my wife, for instance, and the judge." We all

laughed, as did he likewise very cordially, till he fell into a fit of

coughing, which interrupted our conversation for a time. Herr Schmidt

resumed the subject. "You call ill-humour a crime," he remarked, "but I

think you use too strong a term." "Not at all," I replied, "if that

deserves the name which is so pernicious to ourselves and our

neighbours. Is it not enough that we want the power to make one another

happy,--must we deprive each other of the pleasure which we can all

make for ourselves? Show me the man who has the courage to hide his

ill-humour, who bears the whole burden himself without disturbing the

peace of those around him. No; ill-humour arises from an inward

consciousness of our own want of merit,--from a discontent which ever

accompanies that envy which foolish vanity engenders. We see people

happy whom we have not made so, and cannot endure the sight." Charlotte

looked at me with a smile; she observed the emotion with which I spoke;

and a tear in the eyes of Frederica stimulated me to proceed. "Woe unto

those," I said, "who use their power over a human heart to destroy the

simple pleasures it would naturally enjoy! All the favours, all the

attentions, in the world cannot compensate for the loss of that

happiness which a cruel tyranny has destroyed." My heart was full as I

spoke. A recollection of many things which had happened pressed upon my

mind, and filled my eyes with tears. "We should daily repeat to

ourselves," I exclaimed, "that we should not interfere with our

friends, unless to leave them in possession of their own joys, and

increase their happiness by sharing it with them! But when their souls

are tormented by a violent passion, or their hearts rent with grief, is

it in your power to afford them the slightest consolation?

"And when the last fatal malady seizes the being whose untimely grave

you have prepared, when she lies languid and exhausted before you, her

dim eyes raised to heaven, and the damp of death upon her pallid

brow,--then you stand at her bedside like a condemned criminal, with

the bitter feeling that your whole fortune could not save her; and the

agonizing thought wrings you that all your efforts are powerless to

impart even a moment's strength to the departing soul, or quicken her

with a transitory consolation."

At these words the remembrance of a similar scene at which I had been

once present fell with full force upon my heart. I buried my face in my

handkerchief, and hastened from the room, and was only recalled to my

recollection by Charlotte's voice, who reminded me that it was time to

return home. With what tenderness she chid me on the way for the too

eager interest I took in everything! She declared it would do me

injury, and that I ought to spare myself. Yes, my angel! I will do so

for your sake.

July 6.

She is still with her dying friend, and is still the same bright,

beautiful creature whose presence softens pain, and sheds happiness

around whichever way she turns. She went out yesterday with her little

sisters: I knew it, and went to meet them; and we walked together. In

about an hour and a half we returned to the town. We stopped at the

spring I am so fond of, and which is now a thousand times dearer to me

than ever. Charlotte seated herself upon the low wall, and we gathered

about her. I looked round, and recalled the time when my heart was

unoccupied and free. "Dear fountain," I said, "since that time I have

no more come to enjoy cool repose by thy fresh stream; I have passed

thee with careless steps, and scarcely bestowed a glance upon thee." I

looked down, and observed Charlotte's little sister, Jane, coming up

the steps with a glass of water. I turned towards Charlotte, and I felt

her influence over me. Jane at the moment approached with the glass.

Her sister, Marianne, wished to take it from her. "No!" cried the

child, with the sweetest expression of face, "Charlotte must drink

first."

The affection and simplicity with which this was uttered so charmed me

that I sought to express my feelings by catching up the child and

kissing her heartily. She was frightened, and began to cry. "You should

not do that," said Charlotte. I felt perplexed. "Come, Jane," she

continued, taking her hand and leading her down the steps again, "it is

no matter; wash yourself quickly in the fresh water."

I stood and watched them; and when I saw the little dear rubbing her

cheeks with her wet hands, in full belief that all the impurities

contracted from my ugly beard would be washed off by the miraculous

water, and how, though Charlotte said it would do, she continued still

to wash with all her might, as though she thought too much were better

than too little, I assure you, Wilhelm, I never attended a baptism with

greater reverence; and when Charlotte came up from the well, I could

have prostrated myself as before the prophet of an Eastern nation.

In the evening I could not resist telling the story to a person who, I

thought, possessed some natural feeling, because he was a man of

understanding. But what a mistake I made! He maintained it was very

wrong of Charlotte,--that we should not deceive children,--that such

things occasioned countless mistakes and superstitions, from which we

were bound to protect the young. It occurred to me, then, that this

very man had been baptized only a week before; so I said nothing

further, but maintained the justice of my own convictions. We should

deal with children as God deals with us,--we are happiest under the

influence of innocent delusions.

July 8.

What a child is man that he should be so solicitous about a look! What

a child is man! We had been to Walheim: the ladies went in a carriage;

but during our walk I thought I saw in Charlotte's dark eyes--I am a

fool--but forgive me! you should see them,--those eyes. However, to be

brief (for my own eyes are weighed down with sleep), you must know,

when the ladies stepped into their carriage again, young W. Seldstadt,

Andran, and I were standing about the door. They are a merry set of

fellows, and they were all laughing and joking together. I watched

Charlotte's eyes. They wandered from one to the other; but they did not

light on me,--on me, who stood there motionless, and who saw nothing

but her! My heart bade her a thousand times adieu, but she noticed me

not. The carriage drove off, and my eyes filled with tears. I looked

after her: suddenly I saw Charlotte's bonnet leaning out of the window,

and she turned to look back,--was it at me? My dear friend, I know not;

and in this uncertainty I find consolation. Perhaps she turned to look

at me. Perhaps! Good-night--what a child I am!

July 10.

You should see how foolish I look in company when her name is

mentioned, particularly when I am asked plainly how I like her. How I

like her!--I detest the phrase. What sort of creature must he be who

merely liked Charlotte, whose whole heart and senses were not entirely

absorbed by her? Like her! Some one asked me lately how I liked Ossian.

July 11.

Madame M---- is very ill. I pray for her recovery, because Charlotte

shares my sufferings. I see her occasionally at my friend's house, and

to-day she has told me the strangest circumstance. Old M---- is a

covetous, miserly fellow, who has long worried and annoyed the poor

lady sadly; but she has borne her afflictions patiently. A few days

ago, when the physician informed us that her recovery was hopeless, she

sent for her husband (Charlotte was present), and addressed him thus:

"I have something to confess which after my decease may occasion

trouble and confusion. I have hitherto conducted your household as

frugally and economically as possible, but you must pardon me for

having defrauded you for thirty years. At the commencement of our

married life you allowed a small sum for the wants of the kitchen and

the other household expenses. When our establishment increased and our

property grew larger, I could not persuade you to increase the weekly

allowance in proportion; in short, you know that when our wants were

greatest, you required me to supply everything with seven florins a

week. I took the money from you without an observation, but made up the

weekly deficiency from the money-chest,--as nobody would suspect your

wife of robbing the household bank. But I wasted nothing, and should

have been content to meet my eternal Judge without this confession, if

she, upon whom the management of your establishment will devolve after

my decease, would be free from embarrassment upon your insisting that

the allowance made to me, your former wife, was sufficient."

I talked with Charlotte of the inconceivable manner in which men allow

themselves to be blinded; how any one could avoid suspecting some

deception, when seven florins only were allowed to defray expenses

twice as great. But I have myself known people who believed, without

any visible astonishment, that their house possessed the prophet's

never-failing cruse of oil.

July 13.

No, I am not deceived. In her dark eyes I read a genuine interest

in me and in my fortunes. Yes, I feel it; and I may believe my own

heart which tells me--dare I say it?--dare I pronounce the divine

words?--that she loves me!

That she loves me! How the idea exalts me in my own eyes! And as you

can understand my feelings, I may say to you, how I honour myself since

she loves me!

Is this presumption, or is it a consciousness of the truth? I do not

know a man able to supplant me in the heart of Charlotte; and yet when

she speaks of her betrothed with so much warmth and affection, I feel

like the soldier who has been stripped of his honours and titles, and

deprived of his sword.

July 16.

How my heart beats when by accident I touch her finger, or my feet meet

hers under the table! I draw back as if from a furnace; but a secret

force impels me forward again, and my senses become disordered. Her

innocent, unconscious heart never knows what agony these little

familiarities inflict upon me. Sometimes when we are talking she lays

her hand upon mine, and in the eagerness of conversation comes closer

to me, and her balmy breath reaches my lips,--when I feel as if

lightning had struck me, and that I could sink into the earth. And yet,

Wilhelm, with all this heavenly confidence,--if I know myself, and

should ever dare--you understand me. No, no! my heart is not so

corrupt,--it is weak, weak enough--but is not that a degree of

corruption?

She is to me a sacred being. All passion is still in her presence; I

cannot express my sensations when I am near her. I feel as if my soul

beat in every nerve of my body. There is a melody which she plays on

the piano with angelic skill,--so simple is it, and yet so spiritual!

It is her favourite air; and when she plays the first note, all pain,

care, and sorrow disappear from me in a moment.

I believe every word that is said of the magic of ancient music. How

her simple song enchants me! Sometimes, when I am ready to commit

suicide, she sings that air; and instantly the gloom and madness which

hung over me are dispersed, and I breathe freely again.

July 18.

Wilhelm, what is the world to our hearts without love? What is a

magic-lantern without light? You have but to kindle the flame within,

and the brightest figures shine on the white wall; and if love only

show us fleeting shadows, we are yet happy, when, like mere children,

we behold them, and are transported with the splendid phantoms. I have

not been able to see Charlotte to-day. I was prevented by company from

which I could not disengage myself. What was to be done? I sent my

servant to her house, that I might at least see somebody to-day who had

been near her. Oh, the impatience with which I waited for his return,

the joy with which I welcomed him! I should certainly have caught him

in my arms, and kissed him, if I had not been ashamed.

It is said that the Bonona stone, when placed in the sun, attracts the

rays, and for a time appears luminous in the dark. So was it with me

and this servant The idea that Charlotte's eyes had dwelt on his

countenance, his cheek, his very apparel, endeared them all inestimably

to me, so that at the moment I would not have parted from him for a

thousand crowns. His presence made me so happy! Beware of laughing at

me, Wilhelm. Can that be a delusion which makes us happy?

July 19.

"I shall see her to-day!" I exclaim with delight, when I rise in the

morning, and look out with gladness of heart at the bright, beautiful

sun. "I shall see her to-day!" and then I have no further wish to form;

all, all is included in that one thought.

July 20.

I cannot assent to your proposal that I should accompany the ambassador

to ----. I do not love subordination; and we all know that he is a

rough, disagreeable person to be connected with. You say my mother

wishes me to be employed. I could not help laughing at that. Am I not

sufficiently employed? And is it not in reality the same, whether I

shell pease or count lentils? The world runs on from one folly to

another; and the man who, solely from regard to the opinion of others,

and without any wish or necessity of his own, toils after gold, honour,

or any other phantom, is no better than a fool.

July 24.

You insist so much on my not neglecting my drawing, that it would be as

well for me to say nothing as to confess how little I have lately done.

I never felt happier, I never understood Nature better, even down to

the veriest stem or smallest blade of grass; and yet I am unable to

express myself: my powers of execution are so weak, everything seems to

swim and float before me, so that I cannot make a clear, bold outline.

But I fancy I should succeed better if I had some clay or wax to model.

I shall try, if this state of mind continues much longer, and will take

to modelling, if I only knead dough.

I have commenced Charlotte's portrait three times, and have as often

disgraced myself. This is the more annoying, as I was formerly very

happy in taking likenesses. I have since sketched her profile, and must

content myself with that.

July 25.

Yes, dear Charlotte! I will order and arrange everything. Only give me

more commissions, the more the better. One thing, however, I must

request: use no more writing-sand with the dear notes you send me.

To-day I raised your letter hastily to my lips, and it set my teeth on

edge.

July 26.

I have often determined not to see her so frequently. But who could

keep such a resolution? Every day I am exposed to the temptation, and

promise faithfully that to-morrow I will really stay away; but when

to-morrow comes, I find some irresistible reason for seeing her; and

before I can account for it, I am with her again. Either she has said

on the previous evening, "You will be sure to call to-morrow,"--and who

could stay away then?--or she gives me some commission, and I find it

essential to take her the answer in person; or the day is fine, and I

walk to Walheim; and when I am there, it is only half a league farther

to her. I am within the charmed atmosphere, and soon find myself at her

side. My grandmother used to tell us a story of a mountain of

loadstone. When any vessels came near it, they were instantly deprived

of their ironwork; the nails flew to the mountain, and the unhappy crew

perished amidst the disjointed planks.

July 30.

Albert is arrived, and I must take my departure. Were he the best and

noblest of men, and I in every respect his inferior, I could not endure

to see him in possession of such a perfect being. Possession!--enough,

Wilhelm; her betrothed is here,--a fine, worthy fellow, whom one cannot

help liking. Fortunately I was not present at their meeting. It would

have broken my heart! And he is so considerate: he has not given

Charlotte one kiss in my presence. Heaven reward him for it! I must

love him for the respect with which he treats her. He shows a regard

for me; but for this I suspect I am more indebted to Charlotte than to

his own fancy for me. Women have a delicate tact in such matters, and

it should be so. They cannot always succeed in keeping two rivals on

terms with each other; but when they do, they are the only gainers.

I cannot help esteeming Albert. The coolness of his temper contrasts

strongly with the impetuosity of mine, which I cannot conceal. He has a

great deal of feeling, and is fully sensible of the treasure he

possesses in Charlotte. He is free from ill-humour, which you know is

the fault I detest most.

He regards me as a man of sense; and my attachment to Charlotte, and

the interest I take in all that concerns her, augment his triumph and

his love. I shall not inquire whether he may not at times tease her

with some little jealousies; as I know that, were I in his place, I

should not be entirely free from such sensations.

But, be that as it may, my pleasure with Charlotte is over. Call it

folly or infatuation, what signifies a name? The thing speaks for

itself. Before Albert came, I knew all that I know now. I knew I could

make no pretensions to her, nor did I offer any,--that is, as far as it

was possible, in the presence of so much loveliness, not to pant for

its enjoyment. And now behold me, like a silly fellow, staring with

astonishment when another comes in, and deprives me of my love.

I bite my lips, and feel infinite scorn for those who tell me to be

resigned, because there is no help for it. Let me escape from the yoke

of such silly subterfuges! I ramble through the woods; and when I

return to Charlotte, and find Albert sitting by her side in the

summer-house in the garden, I am unable to bear it, behave like a fool,

and commit a thousand extravagances. "For Heaven's sake," said

Charlotte to-day, "let us have no more scenes like those of last night!

You terrify me when you are so violent." Between ourselves, I am always

away now when he visits her; and I feel delighted when I find her

alone.

Aug. 8.

Believe me, dear Wilhelm, I did not allude to you when I spoke so

severely of those who advise resignation to inevitable fate. I did not

think it possible for you to indulge such a sentiment. But in fact you

are right. I only suggest one objection. In this world one is seldom

reduced to make a selection between two alternatives. There are as many

varieties of conduct and opinion as there are turns of feature between

an aquiline nose and a flat one.

You will, therefore, permit me to concede your entire argument, and yet

contrive means to escape your dilemma.

Your position is this, I hear you say: "Either you have hopes of

obtaining Charlotte, or you have none. Well, in the first case, pursue

your course, and press on to the fulfilment of your wishes. In the

second, be a man, and shake off a miserable passion, which will

enervate and destroy you." My dear friend, this is well and easily

said.

But would you require a wretched being, whose life is slowly wasting

under a lingering disease, to despatch himself at once by the stroke of

a dagger? Does not the very disorder which consumes his strength

deprive him of the courage to effect his deliverance?

You may answer me, if you please, with a similar analogy: "Who would

not prefer the amputation of an arm to the perilling of life by doubt

and procrastination?" But I know not if I am right, and let us leave

these comparisons.

Enough! There are moments, Wilhelm, when I could rise up and shake it

all off, and when, if I only knew where to go, I could fly from this

place.

The Same Evening.

My diary, which I have for some time neglected, came before me to-day;

and I am amazed to see how deliberately I have entangled myself step by

step. To have seen my position so clearly, and yet to have acted so

like a child! Even still I behold the result plainly, and yet have no

thought of acting with greater prudence.

Aug. 10.

If I were not a fool, I could spend the happiest and most delightful

life here. So many agreeable circumstances, and of a kind to insure a

worthy man's happiness, are seldom united. Alas! I feel it too

sensibly,--the heart alone makes our happiness! To be admitted into

this most charming family, to be loved by the father as a son, by the

children as a father, and by Charlotte!--then the noble Albert, who

never disturbs my happiness by any appearance of ill-humour, receiving

me with the heartiest affection, and loving me, next to Charlotte,

better than all the world! Wilhelm, you would be delighted to hear us

in our rambles, and conversations about Charlotte. Nothing in the world

can be more absurd than our connection, and yet the thought of it often

moves me to tears.

He tells me sometimes of her excellent mother; how, upon her death-bed,

she had committed her house and children to Charlotte, and had given

Charlotte herself in charge to him; how, since that time, a new spirit

had taken possession of her; how, in care and anxiety for their

welfare, she became a real mother to them; how every moment of her time

was devoted to some labour of love in their behalf,--and yet her mirth

and cheerfulness had never forsaken her. I walk by his side, pluck

flowers by the way, arrange them carefully into a nosegay, then fling

them into the first stream I pass, and watch them as they float gently

away. I forgot whether I told you that Albert is to remain here. He has

received a government appointment, with a very good salary; and I

understand he is in high favour at court. I have met few persons so

punctual and methodical in business.

Aug. 12.

Certainly Albert is the best fellow in the world. I had a strange scene

with him yesterday. I went to take leave of him; for I took it into my

head to spend a few days in these mountains, from where I now write to

you. As I was walking up and down his room, my eye fell upon his

pistols. "Lend me those pistols," said I, "for my journey." "By all

means," he replied, "if you will take the trouble to load them; for

they only hang there for form." I took down one of them; and he

continued: "Ever since I was near suffering from my extreme caution, I

will have nothing to do with such things." I was curious to hear the

story. "I was staying," said he, "some three months ago, at a friend's

house in the country. I had a brace of pistols with me, unloaded; and I

slept without any anxiety. One rainy afternoon I was sitting by myself,

doing nothing, when it occurred to me--I do not know how--that the

house might be attacked, that we might require the pistols, that we

might--in short, you know how we go on fancying, when we have nothing

better to do. I gave the pistols to the servant, to clean and load. He

was playing with the maid, and trying to frighten her, when the pistol

went off--God knows how!--the ramrod was in the barrel; and it went

straight through her right hand, and shattered the thumb. I had to

endure all the lamentation, and to pay the surgeon's bill; so, since

that time, I have kept all my weapons unloaded. But, my dear friend,

what is the use of prudence? We can never be on our guard against all

possible dangers. However,"--now, you must know I can tolerate all men

till they come to "however;" for it is self-evident that every

universal rule must have its exceptions. But he is so exceedingly

accurate that if he only fancies he has said a word too precipitate or

too general or only half true, he never ceases to qualify, to modify,

and extenuate, till at last he appears to have said nothing at all.

Upon this occasion Albert was deeply immersed in his subject: I ceased

to listen to him, and became lost in reverie. With a sudden motion I

pointed the mouth of the pistol to my forehead, over the right eye.

"What do you mean?" cried Albert, turning back the pistol. "It is not

loaded," said I. "And even if not," he answered with impatience, "what

can you mean? I cannot comprehend how a man can be so mad as to shoot

himself; and the bare idea of it shocks me."

"But why should any one," said I, "in speaking of an action, venture to

pronounce it mad or wise, or good or bad? What is the meaning of all

this? Have you carefully studied the secret motives of our actions? Do

you understand? can you explain the causes which occasion them, and

make them inevitable? If you can, you will be less hasty with your

decision."

"But you will allow," said Albert, "that some actions are criminal, let

them spring from whatever motives they may." I granted it, and shrugged

my shoulders.

"But still, my good friend," I continued, "there are some exceptions

here too. Theft is a crime; but the man who commits it from extreme

poverty, with no design but to save his family from perishing, is he an

object of pity or of punishment? Who shall throw the first stone at a

husband who in the heat of just resentment sacrifices his faithless

wife and her perfidious seducer; or at the young maiden who in her weak

hour of rapture forgets herself in the impetuous joys of love? Even our

laws, cold and cruel as they are, relent in such cases, and withhold

their punishment."

"That is quite another thing," said Albert; "because a man under the

influence of violent passion loses all power of reflection, and is

regarded as intoxicated or insane."

"Oh, you people of sound understandings," I replied, smiling, "are ever

ready to exclaim, 'Extravagance, and madness, and intoxication!' You

moral men are so calm and so subdued! You abhor the drunken man, and

detest the extravagant; you pass by, like the Levite, and thank God,

like the Pharisee, that you are not like one of them. I have been more

than once intoxicated, my passions have always bordered on

extravagance: I am not ashamed to confess it; for I have learned, by my

own experience, that all extraordinary men, who have accomplished great

and astonishing actions, have ever been decried by the world as drunken

or insane. And in private life, too, is it not intolerable that no one

can undertake the execution of a noble or generous deed, without giving

rise to the exclamation that the doer is intoxicated or mad? Shame upon

you, ye sages!"

"This is another of your extravagant humours," said Albert: "you always

exaggerate a case, and in this matter you are undoubtedly wrong; for we

were speaking of suicide, which you compare with great actions, when it

is impossible to regard it as anything but a weakness. It is much

easier to die than to bear a life of misery with fortitude."

I was on the point of breaking off the conversation, for nothing puts

me so completely out of patience as the utterance of a wretched

commonplace when I am talking from my inmost heart. However, I composed

myself, for I had often heard the same observation with sufficient

vexation; and I answered him, therefore, with a little warmth, "You

call this a weakness,--beware of being led astray by appearances.

"When a nation which has long groaned under the intolerable yoke of a

tyrant rises at last and throws off its chains, do you call that

weakness? The man who, to rescue his house from the flames, finds his

physical strength redoubled, so that he lifts burdens with ease which

in the absence of excitement he could scarcely move; he who under the

rage of an insult attacks and puts to flight half a score of his

enemies,--are such persons to be called weak? My good friend, if

resistance be strength, how can the highest degree of resistance be a

weakness?"

Albert looked steadfastly at me, and said, "Pray forgive me, but I do

not see that the examples you have adduced bear any relation to the

question." "Very likely," I answered; "for I have often been told that

my style of illustration borders a little on the absurd. But let us see

if we cannot place the matter in another point of view, by inquiring

what can be a man's state of mind who resolves to free himself from the

burden of life,--a burden often so pleasant to bear,--for we cannot

otherwise reason fairly upon the subject.

"Human nature," I continued, "has its limits. It is able to endure a

certain degree of joy, sorrow, and pain, but becomes annihilated as

soon as this measure is exceeded. The question, therefore, is, not

whether a man is strong or weak, but whether he is able to endure the

measure of his sufferings. The suffering may be moral or physical; and

in my opinion it is just as absurd to call a man a coward who destroys

himself, as to call a man a coward who dies of a malignant fever."

"Paradox, all paradox!" exclaimed Albert. "Not so paradoxical as you

imagine," I replied. "You allow that we designate a disease as mortal

when Nature is so severely attacked, and her strength so far exhausted,

that she cannot possibly recover her former condition under any change

that may take place.

"Now, my good friend, apply this to the mind; observe a man in his

natural, isolated condition; consider how ideas work, and how

impressions fasten on him, till at length a violent passion seizes him,

destroying all his powers of calm reflection, and utterly ruining him.

"It is in vain that a man of sound mind and cool temper understands the

condition of such a wretched being, in vain he counsels him. He can no

more communicate his own wisdom to him than a healthy man can instil

his strength into the invalid by whose bedside he is seated."

Albert thought this too general. I reminded him of a girl who had

drowned herself a short time previously, and I related her history.

She was a good creature, who had grown up in the narrow sphere of

household industry and weekly-appointed labour; one who knew no

pleasure beyond indulging in a walk on Sundays, arrayed in her best

attire, accompanied by her friends, or perhaps joining in the dance

now and then at some festival, and chatting away her spare hours

with a neighbour, discussing the scandal or the quarrels of the

village,--trifles sufficient to occupy her heart. At length the warmth

of her nature is influenced by certain new and unknown wishes. Inflamed

by the flatteries of men, her former pleasures become by degrees

insipid, till at length she meets with a youth to whom she is attracted

by an indescribable feeling; upon him she now rests all her hopes; she

forgets the world around her; she sees, hears, desires nothing but him,

and him only. He alone occupies all her thoughts. Uncorrupted by the

idle indulgence of an enervating vanity, her affection moving steadily

towards its object, she hopes to become his, and to realise, in an

everlasting union with him, all that happiness which she sought, all

that bliss for which she longed. His repeated promises confirm her

hopes: embraces and endearments, which increase the ardour of her

desires, overmaster her soul. She floats in a dim, delusive

anticipation of her happiness; and her feelings become excited to their

utmost tension. She stretches out her arms finally to embrace the

object of all her wishes--and her lover forsakes her. Stunned and

bewildered, she stands upon a precipice. All is darkness around her.

No prospect, no hope, no consolation,--forsaken by him in whom her

existence was centred! She sees nothing of the wide world before her,

thinks nothing of the many individuals who might supply the void in her

heart; she feels herself deserted, forsaken by the world; and, blinded

and impelled by the agony which wrings her soul, she plunges into the

deep, to end her sufferings in the broad embrace of death. See here,

Albert, the history of thousands; and tell me, is not this a case of

physical infirmity? Nature has no way to escape from the labyrinth: her

powers are exhausted; she can contend no longer, and the poor soul must

die.

"Shame upon him who can look on calmly, and exclaim, The foolish girl!

she should have waited; she should have allowed time to wear off the

impression; her despair would have been softened, and she would have

found another lover to comfort her.' One might as well say, 'The fool,

to die of a fever! why did he not wait till his strength was restored,

till his blood became calm? All would then have gone well, and he would

have been alive now.'"

Albert, who could not see the justice of the comparison, offered some

further objections, and, amongst others, urged that I had taken the

case of a mere ignorant girl. But how any man of sense, of more

enlarged views and experience, could be excused, he was unable to

comprehend. "My friend!" I exclaimed, "man is but man; and, whatever be

the extent of his reasoning powers, they are of little avail when

passion rages within, and he feels himself confined by the narrow

limits of Nature. It were better, then--But we will talk of this some

other time," I said, and caught up my hat. Alas! my heart was full; and

we parted without conviction on either side. How rarely in this world

do men understand each other!

Aug. 15.

There can be no doubt that in this world nothing is so indispensable as

love. I observe that Charlotte could not lose me without a pang, and

the very children have but one wish; that is, that I should visit them

again to-morrow. I went this afternoon to tune Charlotte's piano. But I

could not do it, for the little ones insisted on my telling them a

story; and Charlotte herself urged me to satisfy them. I waited upon

them at tea, and they are now as fully contented with me as with

Charlotte; and I told them my very best tale of the princess who was

waited upon by dwarfs. I improve myself by this exercise, and am quite

surprised at the impression my stories create. If I sometimes invent an

incident which I forget upon the next narration, they remind me

directly that the story was different before; so that I now endeavour

to relate with exactness the same anecdote in the same monotonous tone

which never changes. I find by this, how much an author injures his

works by altering them, even though they be improved in a poetical

point of view. The first impression is readily received. We are so

constituted that we believe the most incredible things; and, once they

are engraved upon the memory, woe to him who would endeavour to efface

them.

Aug. 18.

Must it ever be thus,--that the source of our happiness must also be

the fountain of our misery? The full and ardent sentiment which

animated my heart with the love of Nature, overwhelming me with a

torrent of delight, and which brought all paradise before me, has now

become an insupportable torment,--a demon which perpetually pursues and

harasses me. When in by-gone days I gazed from these rocks upon yonder

mountains across the river, and upon the green, flowery valley before

me, and saw all Nature budding and bursting around; the hills clothed

from foot to peak with tall, thick forest trees; the valleys in all

their varied windings, shaded with the loveliest woods; and the soft

river gliding along amongst the lisping reeds, mirroring the beautiful

clouds which the soft evening breeze wafted across the sky,--when I

heard the groves about me melodious with the music of birds, and saw

the million swarms of insects dancing in the last golden beams of the

sun, whose setting rays awoke the humming beetles from their grassy

beds, whilst the subdued tumult around directed my attention to the

ground, and I there observed the arid rock compelled to yield nutriment

to the dry moss, whilst the heath flourished upon the barren sands

below me,--all this displayed to me the inner warmth which animates all

nature, and filled and glowed within my heart. I felt myself exalted by

this overflowing fulness to the perception of the Godhead, and the

glorious forms of an infinite universe became visible to my soul!

Stupendous mountains encompassed me, abysses yawned at my feet, and

cataracts fell headlong down before me; impetuous rivers rolled through

the plain, and rocks and mountains resounded from afar. In the depths

of the earth I saw innumerable powers in motion, and multiplying to

infinity; whilst upon its surface, and beneath the heavens, there

teemed ten thousand varieties of living creatures. Everything around is

alive with an infinite number of forms; while mankind fly for security

to their petty houses, from the shelter of which they rule in their

imaginations over the wide-extended universe. Poor fool! in whose petty

estimation all things are little. From the inaccessible mountains,

across the desert which no mortal foot has trod, far as the confines of

the unknown ocean, breathes the spirit of the eternal Creator; and

every atom to which he has given existence finds favour in his sight.

Ah, how often at that time has the flight of a bird, soaring above my

head, inspired me with the desire of being transported to the shores of

the immeasurable waters, there to quaff the pleasures of life from the

foaming goblet of the Infinite, and to partake, if but for a moment

even, with the confined powers of my soul, the beatitude of that

Creator who accomplishes all things in himself, and through himself!

My dear friend, the bare recollection of those hours still consoles me.

Even this effort to recall those ineffable sensations, and give them

utterance, exalts my soul above itself, and makes me doubly feel the

intensity of my present anguish.

It is as if a curtain had been drawn from before my eyes, and,

instead of prospects of eternal life, the abyss of an ever-open grave

yawned before me. Can we say of anything that it exists when all passes

away,--when time, with the speed of a storm, carries all things

onward,--and our transitory existence, hurried along by the torrent, is

either swallowed up by the waves or dashed against the rocks? There is

not a moment but preys upon you, and upon all around you,--not a moment

in which you do not yourself become a destroyer. The most innocent walk

deprives of life thousands of poor insects: one step destroys the

fabric of the industrious ant, and converts a little world into chaos.

No: it is not the great and rare calamities of the world, the floods

which sweep away whole villages, the earthquakes which swallow up our

towns, that affect me. My heart is wasted by the thought of that

destructive power which lies concealed in every part of universal

Nature. Nature has formed nothing that does not consume itself, and

every object near it: so that, surrounded by earth and air and all the

active powers, I wander on my way with aching heart; and the universe

is to me a fearful monster, forever devouring its own offspring.

Aug. 21.

In vain do I stretch out my arms towards her when I awaken in the

morning from my weary slumbers. In vain do I seek for her at night in

my bed, when some innocent dream has happily deceived me, and placed

her near me in the fields, when I have seized her hand and covered it

with countless kisses. And when I feel for her in the half confusion of

sleep, with the happy sense that she is near me, tears flow from my

oppressed heart; and, bereft of all comfort, I weep over my future

woes.

Aug. 22.

What a misfortune, Wilhelm! My active spirits have degenerated into

contented indolence. I cannot be idle, and yet I am unable to set to

work. I cannot think: I have no longer any feeling for the beauties of

nature, and books are distasteful to me. Once we give ourselves up, we

are totally lost. Many a time and oft I wished I were a common

labourer; that awakening in the morning, I might have but one prospect,

one pursuit, one hope, for the day which has dawned. I often envy

Albert when I see him buried in a heap of papers and parchments, and I

fancy I should be happy were I in his place. Often impressed with this

feeling, I have been on the point of writing to you and to the

minister, for the appointment at the embassy, which you think T might

obtain. I believe I might procure it. The minister has long shown a

regard for me, and has frequently urged me to seek employment. It is

the business of an hour only.

Now and then the fable of the horse recurs to me. Weary of liberty, he

suffered himself to be saddled and bridled, and was ridden to death for

his pains. I know not what to determine upon. For is not this anxiety

for change the consequence of that restless spirit which would pursue

me equally in every situation of life?

Aug. 28.

If my ills would admit of any cure, they would certainly be cured here.

This is my birthday, and early in the morning I received a packet from

Albert. Upon opening it, I found one of the pink ribbons which

Charlotte wore in her dress the first time I saw her, and which I had

several times asked her to give me. With it were two volumes in

duodecimo of Wetstein's Homer,--a book I had often wished for, to save

me the inconvenience of carrying the large Ernestine edition with me

upon my walks. You see how they anticipate my wishes, how well they

understand all those little attentions of friendship, so superior to

the costly presents of the great, which are humiliating. I kissed the

ribbon a thousand times, and in every breath inhaled the remembrance of

those happy and irrevocable days, which filled me with the keenest joy.

Such, Wilhelm, is our fate. T do not murmur at it: the flowers of life

are but visionary. How many pass away and leave no trace behind; how

few yield any fruit; and the fruit itself, how rarely does it ripen!

And yet there are flowers enough; and is it not strange, my friend,

that we should suffer the little that does really ripen to rot, decay,

and perish unenjoyed? Farewell! This is a glorious summer. I often

climb into the trees in Charlotte's orchard, and shake down the pears

that hang on the highest branches; she stands below, and catches them

as they fall.

Aug. 30.

Unhappy being that I am! Why do I thus deceive myself? What is to come

of all this wild, aimless, endless passion? I cannot pray except to

her. My imagination sees nothing but her; all surrounding objects are

of no account except as they relate to her. In this dreamy state I

enjoy many happy hours, till at length I feel compelled to tear myself

away from her. Ah, Wilhelm, to what does not my heart often compel me!

When I have spent several hours in her company, till I feel completely

absorbed by her figure, her grace, the divine expression of her

thoughts, my mind becomes gradually excited to the highest excess, my

sight grows dim, my hearing confused, my breathing oppressed as if by

the hand of a murderer, and my beating heart seeks to obtain relief for

my aching senses. I am sometimes unconscious whether I really exist. If

in such moments I find no sympathy, and Charlotte does not allow me to

enjoy the melancholy consolation of bathing her hand with my tears, I

feel compelled to tear myself from her, when I either wander through

the country, climb some precipitous cliff, or force a path through the

trackless thicket, where I am lacerated and torn by thorns and briers;

and thence I find relief.

Sometimes I lie stretched on the ground, overcome with fatigue and

dying with thirst; sometimes, late in the night, when the moon shines

above me, I recline against an aged tree in some sequestered forest to

rest my weary limbs, when, exhausted and worn, I sleep till break of

day. O Wilhelm! the hermit's cell, his sackcloth, and girdle of thorns

would be luxury and indulgence compared with what I suffer. Adieu! I

see no end to this wretchedness except the grave.

Sept. 3.

I must away. Thank you, Wilhelm, for determining my wavering purpose.

For a whole fortnight I have thought of leaving her. I must away. She

has returned to town, and is at the house of a friend. And then,

Albert--yes, I must go.

Sept. 10.

Oh, what a night, Wilhelm! I can henceforth bear anything. I shall

never see her again. Oh, why cannot I fall on your neck, and with

floods of tears and raptures give utterance to all the passions which

distract my heart! Here I sit gasping for breath, and struggling to

compose myself. I wait for day, and at sunrise the horses are to be at

the door.

And she is sleeping calmly, little suspecting that she has seen me for

the last time. I am free. I have had the courage, in an interview of

two hours' duration, not to betray my intention. And oh, Wilhelm, what

a conversation it was!

Albert had promised to come to Charlotte in the garden immediately

after supper. I was upon the terrace under the tall chestnut-trees, and

watched the setting sun. I saw him sink for the last time beneath this

delightful valley and silent stream. I had often visited the same spot

with Charlotte, and witnessed that glorious sight; and now--I was

walking up and down the very avenue which was so dear to me. A secret

sympathy had frequently drawn me thither before I knew Charlotte; and

we were delighted when, in our early acquaintance, we discovered that

we each loved the same spot, which is indeed as romantic as any that

ever captivated the fancy of an artist.

From beneath the chestnut-trees there is an extensive view. But I

remember that I have mentioned all this in a former letter, and have

described the tall mass of beech-trees at the end, and how the avenue

grows darker and darker as it winds its way among them, till it ends in

a gloomy recess, which has all the charm of a mysterious solitude. I

still remember the strange feeling of melancholy which came over me the

first time I entered that dark retreat, at bright midday. I felt some

secret foreboding that it would one day be to me the scene of some

happiness or misery.

I had spent half an hour struggling between the contending thoughts of

going and returning, when I heard them coming up the terrace. I ran to

meet them. I trembled as I took her hand, and kissed it. As we reached

the top of the terrace, the moon rose from behind the wooded hill. We

conversed on many subjects, and without perceiving it approached the

gloomy recess. Charlotte entered, and sat down. Albert seated himself

beside her. I did the same, but my agitation did not suffer me to

remain long seated. I got up and stood before her, then walked

backwards and forwards, and sat down again. I was restless and

miserable. Charlotte drew our attention to the beautiful effect of the

moonlight, which threw a silver hue over the terrace in front of us

beyond the beech-trees. It was a glorious sight, and was rendered more

striking by the darkness which surrounded the spot where we were. We

remained for some time silent, when Charlotte observed, "Whenever I

walk by moonlight, it brings to my remembrance all my beloved and

departed friends, and I am filled with thoughts of death and futurity.

We shall live again, Werther," she continued, with a firm but feeling

voice; "but shall we know one another again? What do you think? What do

you say?"

"Charlotte," I said, as I took her hand in mine, and my eyes filled

with tears, "we shall see each other again,--here and hereafter we

shall meet again." I could say no more. Why, Wilhelm, should she put

this question to me just at the moment when the fear of our cruel

separation filled my heart?

"And oh, do those departed ones know how we are employed here? Do they

know when we are well and happy? Do they know when we recall their

memories with the fondest love? In the silent hour of evening the shade

of my mother hovers round me; when seated in the midst of my children,

I see them assembled near me as they used to assemble near her; and

then I raise my anxious eyes to heaven, and wish she could look down

upon us, and witness how I fulfil the promise I made to her in her last

moments to be a mother to her children. With what emotion do I then

exclaim: 'Pardon, dearest of mothers, pardon me, if I do not adequately

supply your place! Alas! I do my utmost. They are clothed and fed; and,

still better, they are loved and educated. Could you but see, sweet

saint, the peace and harmony that dwells amongst us, you would glorify

God with the warmest feelings of gratitude, to whom, in your last hour,

you addressed such fervent prayers for our happiness.'" Thus did she

express herself; but, oh, Wilhelm, who can do justice to her language?

How can cold and passionless words convey the heavenly expressions of

the spirit? Albert interrupted her gently: "This affects you too

deeply, my dear Charlotte. I know your soul dwells on such

recollections with intense delight; but I implore--" "Oh, Albert!"

she continued, "I am sure you do not forget the evenings when we three

used to sit at the little round table, when papa was absent, and the

little ones had retired. You often had a good book with you, but seldom

read it; the conversation of that noble being was preferable to

everything,--that beautiful, bright, gentle, and yet ever-toiling

woman. God alone knows how I have supplicated with tears on my nightly

couch that I might be like her!"

I threw myself at her feet, and seizing her hand, bedewed it with a

thousand tears. "Charlotte," I exclaimed, "God's blessing and your

mother's spirit are upon you!" "Oh that you had known her!" she said,

with a warm pressure of the hand. "She was worthy of being known to

you." I thought I should have fainted. Never had I received praise so

flattering. She continued: "And yet she was doomed to die in the flower

of her youth, when her youngest child was scarcely six months old. Her

illness was but short, but she was calm and resigned; and it was only

for her children, especially the youngest, that she felt unhappy. When

her end drew nigh, she bade me bring them to her. I obeyed. The younger

ones knew nothing of their approaching loss, while the elder ones were

quite overcome with grief. They stood around the bed; and she raised

her feeble hands to heaven, and prayed over them; then kissing them in

turn, she dismissed them, and said to me, 'Be you a mother to them.' I

gave her my hand. 'You are promising much, my child,' she said,--'a

mother's fondness and a mother's care! I have often witnessed, by your

tears of gratitude, that you know what is a mother's tenderness; show

it to your brothers and sisters. And be dutiful and faithful to your

father as a wife; you will be his comfort.' She inquired for him. He

had retired to conceal his intolerable anguish,--he was heart-broken.

"Albert, you were in the room. She heard some one moving; she inquired

who it was, and desired you to approach. She surveyed us both with a

look of composure and satisfaction, expressive of her conviction that

we should be happy,--happy with one another." Albert fell upon her

neck, and kissed her, and exclaimed, "We are so, and we shall be so!"

Even Albert, generally so tranquil, had quite lost his composure; and I

was excited beyond expression.

"And such a being," she continued, "was to leave us, Werther! Great

God, must we thus part with everything we hold dear in this world?

Nobody felt this more acutely than the children; they cried and

lamented for a long time afterwards, complaining that black men had

carried away their dear mamma."

Charlotte rose. It aroused me; but I continued sitting, and held her

hand. "Let us go," she said; "it grows late." She attempted to withdraw

her hand; I held it still. "We shall see each other again," I

exclaimed; "we shall recognise each other under every possible change!

I am going," I continued, "going willingly; but, should I say forever,

perhaps I may not keep my word. Adieu, Charlotte; adieu, Albert. We

shall meet again." "Yes; to-morrow, I think," she answered with a

smile. To-morrow! how I felt the word! Ah! she little thought, when she

drew her hand away from mine. They walked down the avenue. I stood

gazing after them in the moonlight. I threw myself upon the ground, and

wept; I then sprang up, and ran out upon the terrace, and saw, under

the shade of the linden-trees, her white dress disappearing near the

garden-gate. I stretched out my arms, and she vanished.

BOOK II

Oct. 20.

We arrived here yesterday. The ambassador is indisposed, and will not

go out for some days. If he were less peevish and morose, all would be

well. I see but too plainly that Heaven has destined me to severe

trials; but courage! a light heart may bear anything. A light heart!

I smile to find such a word proceeding from my pen. A little more

light-heartedness would render me the happiest being under the sun. But

must I despair of my talents and faculties, whilst others of far

inferior abilities parade before me with the utmost self-satisfaction?

Gracious Providence, to whom I owe all my powers, why didst thou not

withhold some of those blessings I possess, and substitute in their

place a feeling of self-confidence and contentment?

But patience! all will yet be well; for I assure you, my dear friend,

you were right: since I have been obliged to associate continually with

other people, and observe what they do, and how they employ themselves,

I have become far better satisfied with myself. For we are so

constituted by nature, that we are ever prone to compare ourselves with

others; and our happiness or misery depends very much on the objects

and persons around us. On this account nothing is more dangerous than

solitude; there our imagination, always disposed to rise, taking a new

flight on the wings of fancy, pictures to us a chain of beings of whom

we seem the most inferior. All things appear greater than they really

are, and all seem superior to us. This operation of the mind is quite

natural; we so continually feel our own imperfections, and fancy we

perceive in others the qualities we do not possess, attributing to them

also all that we enjoy ourselves, that by this process we form the idea

of a perfect, happy man,--a man, however, who only exists in our own

imagination.

But when, in spite of weakness and disappointments, we set to work in

earnest, and persevere steadily, we often find that, though obliged

continually to tack, we make more way than others who have the

assistance of wind and tide; and, in truth, there can be no greater

satisfaction than to keep pace with others or outstrip them in the

race.

Nov. 26.

I begin to find my situation here more tolerable, considering all

circumstances. I find a great advantage in being much occupied; and the

number of persons I meet, and their different pursuits, create a varied

entertainment for me. I have formed the acquaintance of the Count

C----, and I esteem him more and more every day. He is a man of strong

understanding and great discernment; but though he sees farther than

other people, he is not on that account cold in his manner, but capable

of inspiring and returning the warmest affection. He appeared

interested in me on one occasion, when I had to transact some business

with him. He perceived, at the first word, that we understood each

other, and that he could converse with me in a different tone from what

he used with others. I cannot sufficiently esteem his frank and open

kindness to me. It is the greatest and most genuine of pleasures to

observe a great mind in sympathy with our own.

Dec. 24.

As I anticipated, the ambassador occasions me infinite annoyance. He is

the most punctilious blockhead under heaven. He does everything step by

step, with the trifling minuteness of an old woman; and he is a man

whom it is impossible to please, because he is never pleased with

himself. I like to do business regularly and cheerfully, and, when it

is finished, to leave it. But he constantly returns my papers to me,

saying, "They will do," but recommending me to look over them again, as

"one may always improve by using a better word or a more appropriate

particle." I then lose all patience, and wish myself at the Devil's.

Not a conjunction, not an adverb, must be omitted; he has a deadly

antipathy to all those transpositions of which I am so fond; and if the

music of our periods is not tuned to the established official key, he

cannot comprehend our meaning. It is deplorable to be connected with

such a fellow.

My acquaintance with the Count C---- is the only compensation for such

an evil. He told me frankly, the other day, that he was much displeased

with the difficulties and delays of the ambassador; that people like

him are obstacles, both to themselves and to others. "But," added he,

"one must submit, like a traveller who has to ascend a mountain; if the

mountain was not there, the road would be both shorter and pleasanter;

but there it is, and he must get over it."

The old man perceives the count's partiality for me; this annoys him,

and he seizes every opportunity to depreciate the count in my hearing.

I naturally defend him, and that only makes matters worse. Yesterday he

made me indignant, for he also alluded to me. "The count," he said, "is

a man of the world, and a good man of business; his style is good, and

he writes with facility; but, like other geniuses, he has no solid

learning." He looked at me with an expression that seemed to ask if I

felt the blow. But it did not produce the desired effect; I despise a

man who can think and act in such a manner. However, I made a stand,

and answered with not a little warmth. The count, I said, was a man

entitled to respect, alike for his character and his acquirements. I

had never met a person whose mind was stored with more useful and

extensive knowledge,--who had, in fact, mastered such an infinite

variety of subjects, and who yet retained all his activity for the

details of ordinary business. This was altogether beyond his

comprehension; and I took my leave, lest my anger should be too highly

excited by some new absurdity of his.

And you are to blame for all this,--you who persuaded me to bend my

neck to this yoke by preaching a life of activity to me. If the man who

plants vegetables, and carries his corn to town on market-days, is not

more usefully employed than I am, then let me work ten years longer at

the galleys to which I am now chained.

Oh the brilliant wretchedness, the weariness, that one is doomed to

witness among the silly people whom we meet in society here! The

ambition of rank! How they watch, how they toil, to gain precedence!

What poor and contemptible passions are displayed in their utter

nakedness! We have a woman here, for example, who never ceases to

entertain the company with accounts of her family and her estates. Any

stranger would consider her a silly being, whose head was turned by her

pretensions to rank and property; but she is in reality even more

ridiculous,--the daughter of a mere magistrate's clerk from this

neighbourhood. I cannot understand how human beings can so debase

themselves.

Every day I observe more and more the folly of judging of others by

ourselves; and I have so much trouble with myself, and my own heart is

in such constant agitation, that I am well content to let others pursue

their own course, if they only allow me the same privilege.

What provokes me most is the unhappy extent to which distinctions of

rank are carried. I know perfectly well how necessary are inequalities

of condition, and I am sensible of the advantages I myself derive

therefrom; but I would not have these institutions prove a barrier to

the small chance of happiness which I may enjoy on this earth.

I have lately become acquainted with a Miss B----, a very agreeable

girl, who has retained her natural manners in the midst of artificial

life. Our first conversation pleased us both equally; and, at taking

leave, I requested permission to visit her. She consented in so

obliging a manner, that I waited with impatience for the arrival of the

happy moment. She is not a native of this place, but resides here with

her aunt. The countenance of the old lady is not prepossessing. I paid

her much attention, addressing the greater part of my conversation to

her; and, in less than half an hour, I discovered what her niece

subsequently acknowledged to me, that her aged aunt, having but a small

fortune and a still smaller share of understanding, enjoys no

satisfaction except in the pedigree of her ancestors, no protection

save in her noble birth, and no enjoyment but in looking from her

castle over the heads of the humble citizens. She was, no doubt,

handsome in her youth, and in her early years probably trifled away her

time in rendering many a poor youth the sport of her caprice: in her

riper years she has submitted to the yoke of a veteran officer, who, in

return for her person and her small independence, has spent with her

what we may designate her age of brass. He is dead; and she is now a

widow, and deserted. She spends her iron age alone, and would not be

approached, except for the loveliness of her niece.

Jan. 8, 1772.

What beings are men, whose whole thoughts are occupied with form and

ceremony, who for years together devote their mental and physical

exertions to the task of advancing themselves but one step, and

endeavouring to occupy a higher place at the table! Not that such

persons would otherwise want employment: on the contrary, they give

themselves much trouble by neglecting important business for such petty

trifles. Last week a question of precedence arose at a sledging-party,

and all our amusement was spoiled.

The silly creatures cannot see that it is not place which constitutes

real greatness, since the man who occupies the first place but seldom

plays the principal part. How many kings are governed by their

ministers, how many ministers by their secretaries? Who, in such cases,

is really the chief? He, as it seems to me, who can see through the

others, and possesses strength or skill enough to make their power or

passions subservient to the execution of his own designs.

Jan. 20.

I must write to you from this place, my dear Charlotte, from a small

room in a country inn, where I have taken shelter from a severe storm.

During my whole residence in that wretched place, D----, where I lived

amongst strangers,--strangers, indeed, to this heart,--I never at any

time felt the smallest inclination to correspond with you; but in this

cottage, in this retirement, in this solitude, with the snow and hail

beating against my lattice-pane, you are my first thought. The instant

I entered, your figure rose up before me, and the remembrance,--O my

Charlotte, the sacred, tender remembrance! Gracious Heaven, restore to

me the happy moment of our first acquaintance!

Could you but see me, my dear Charlotte, in the whirl of

dissipation,--how my senses are dried up, but my heart is at no time

full. I enjoy no single moment of happiness: all is vain,--nothing

touches me. I stand, as it were, before the raree-show: I see the

little puppets move, and I ask whether it is not an optical illusion. I

am amused with these puppets, or rather, I am myself one of them; but

when I sometimes grasp my neighbour's hand, I feel that it is not

natural, and I withdraw mine with a shudder. In the evening I say I

will enjoy the next morning's sunrise, and yet I remain in bed: in the

day I promise to ramble by moonlight; and I, nevertheless, remain at

home. I know not why I rise, nor why I go to sleep.

The leaven which animated my existence is gone: the charm which cheered

me in the gloom of night, and aroused me from my morning slumbers, is

forever fled.

I have found but one being here to interest me, a Miss B----. She

resembles you, my dear Charlotte, if any one can possibly resemble you.

"Ah!" you will say, "he has learned how to pay fine compliments." And

this is partly true. I have been very agreeable lately, as it was not

in my power to be otherwise. I have, moreover, a deal of wit: and the

ladies say that no one understands flattery better, or falsehoods you

will add; since the one accomplishment invariably accompanies the

other. But I must tell you of Miss B----. She has abundance of soul,

which flashes from her deep blue eyes. Her rank is a torment to her,

and satisfies no one desire of her heart. She would gladly retire from

this whirl of fashion, and we often picture to ourselves a life of

undisturbed happiness in distant scenes of rural retirement: and

then we speak of you, my dear Charlotte; for she knows you, and

renders homage to your merits; but her homage is not exacted, but

voluntary,--she loves you, and delights to hear you made the subject

of conversation.

Oh that I were sitting at your feet in your favourite little room, with

the dear children playing around us! If they became troublesome to you,

I would tell them some appalling goblin story; and they would crowd

round me with silent attention. The sun is setting in glory; his last

rays are shining on the snow, which covers the face of the country: the

storm is over, and I must return to my dungeon. Adieu! Is Albert with

you? and what is he to you? God forgive the question.

Feb. 8.

For a week past we have had the most wretched weather: but this to me

is a blessing; for, during my residence here, not a single fine day has

beamed from the heavens but has been lost to me by the intrusion of

somebody. During the severity of rain, sleet, frost, and storm, I

congratulate myself that it cannot be worse in-doors than abroad, nor

worse abroad than it is within doors; and so I become reconciled.

When the sun rises bright in the morning, and promises a glorious

day, I never omit to exclaim, "There, now, they have another blessing

from Heaven, which they will be sure to destroy: they spoil

everything,--health, fame, happiness, amusement; and they do this

generally through folly, ignorance, or imbecility, and always,

according to their own account, with the best intentions!" I could

often beseech them, on my bended knees, to be less resolved upon their

own destruction.

Feb. 17.

I fear that my ambassador and I shall not continue much longer

together. He is really growing past endurance. He transacts his

business in so ridiculous a manner that I am often compelled to

contradict him, and do things my own way; and then, of course, he

thinks them very ill done. He complained of me lately on this account

at court; and the minister gave me a reprimand,--a gentle one, it is

true, but still a reprimand. In consequence of this I was about to

tender my resignation, when I received a letter, to which I submitted

with great respect, on account of the high, noble, and generous spirit

which dictated it. He endeavoured to soothe my excessive sensibility,

paid a tribute to my extreme ideas of duty, of good example, and of

perseverance in business, as the fruit of my youthful ardour,--an

impulse which he did not seek to destroy, but only to moderate, that it

might have proper play and be productive of good. So now I am at rest

for another week, and no longer at variance with myself. Content and

peace of mind are valuable things: I could wish, my dear friend, that

these precious jewels were less transitory.

Feb. 20.

God bless you, my dear friends, and may he grant you that happiness

which he denies to me!

I thank you, Albert, for having deceived me. I waited for the news that

your wedding-day was fixed; and I intended on that day, with solemnity,

to take down Charlotte's profile from the walls, and to bury it with

some other papers I possess. You are now united, and her picture still

remains here. Well, let it remain! Why should it not? I know that

I am still one of your society, that I still occupy a place uninjured

in Charlotte's heart, that I hold the second place therein; and I

intend to keep it. Oh, I should become mad if she could forget!

Albert, that thought is hell! Farewell, Albert,--farewell, angel of

heaven,--farewell, Charlotte!

March 15.

I have just had a sad adventure, which will drive me away from here. I

lose all patience! Death! It is not to be remedied; and you alone are

to blame, for you urged and impelled me to fill a post for which I was

by no means suited. I have now reason to be satisfied, and so have you!

But, that you may not again attribute this fatality to my impetuous

temper, I send you, my dear sir, a plain and simple narration of the

affair, as a mere chronicler of facts would describe it.

The Count of O---- likes and distinguishes me. It is well known, and I

have mentioned this to you a hundred times. Yesterday I dined with him.

It is the day on which the nobility are accustomed to assemble at his

house in the evening. I never once thought of the assembly, nor that we

subalterns did not belong to such society. Well, I dined with the

count; and after dinner we adjourned to the large hall. We walked up

and down together; and I conversed with him, and with Colonel B----,

who joined us; and in this manner the hour for the assembly approached.

God knows, I was thinking of nothing, when who should enter but the

honourable Lady S----, accompanied by her noble husband and their

silly, scheming daughter, with her small waist and flat neck; and, with

disdainful looks and a haughty air, they passed me by. As I heartily

detest the whole race, I determined upon going away; and only waited

till the count had disengaged himself from their impertinent prattle,

to take leave, when the agreeable Miss B---- came in. As I never meet

her without experiencing a heartfelt pleasure, I stayed and talked to

her, leaning over the back of her chair, and did not perceive, till

after some time, that she seemed a little confused, and ceased to

answer me with her usual ease of manner. I was struck with it.

"Heavens!" I said to myself, "can she, too, be like the rest?" I felt

annoyed, and was about to withdraw; but I remained, notwithstanding,

forming excuses for her conduct fancying she did not mean it, and still

hoping to receive some friendly recognition. The rest of the company

now arrived. There was the Baron F----, in an entire suit that dated

from the coronation of Francis I.; the Chancellor N----, with his deaf

wife; the shabbily dressed I----, whose old-fashioned coat bore

evidence of modern repairs: this crowned the whole. I conversed with

some of my acquaintances, but they answered me laconically. I was

engaged in observing Miss B----, and did not notice that the women were

whispering at the end of the room, that the murmur extended by degrees

to the men, that Madame S---- addressed the count with much warmth

(this was all related to me subsequently by Miss B----); till at length

the count came up to me, and took me to the window. "You know our

ridiculous customs," he said. "I perceive the company is rather

displeased at your being here. I would not on any account"--"I beg your

excellency's pardon!" I exclaimed. "I ought to have thought of this

before, but I know you will forgive this little inattention. I was

going," I added, "some time ago, but my evil genius detained me." And I

smiled and bowed to take my leave. He shook me by the hand, in a manner

which expressed everything. I hastened at once from the illustrious

assembly, sprang into a carriage, and drove to M----. I contemplated

the setting sun from the top of the hill, and read that beautiful

passage in Homer where Ulysses is entertained by the hospitable

herdsmen. This was indeed delightful.

I returned home to supper in the evening. But few persons were

assembled in the room. They had turned up a corner of the tablecloth,

and were playing at dice. The good-natured A---- came in. He laid down

his hat when he saw me, approached me, and said in a low tone, "You

have met with a disagreeable adventure." "I!" I exclaimed. "The count

obliged you to withdraw from the assembly." "Deuce take the assembly!"

said I. "I was very glad to be gone." "I am delighted," he added, "that

you take it so lightly. I am only sorry that it is already so much

spoken of." The circumstance then began to pain me. I fancied that

every one who sat down, and even looked at me, was thinking of this

incident; and my heart became embittered.

And now I could plunge a dagger into my bosom when I hear myself

everywhere pitied, and observe the triumph of my enemies, who say that

this is always the case with vain persons, whose heads are turned with

conceit, who affect to despise forms and such petty, idle nonsense.

Say what you will of fortitude, but show me the man who can patiently

endure the laughter of fools, when they have obtained an advantage over

him. 'Tis only when their nonsense is without foundation that one can

suffer it without complaint.

March 16.

Everything conspires against me. I met Miss B---- walking to-day. I

could not help joining her; and when we were at a little distance from

her companions, I expressed my sense of her altered manner towards me.

"O Werther!" she said, in a tone of emotion, "you, who know my heart,

how could you so ill interpret my distress? What did I not suffer for

you from the moment you entered the room! I foresaw it all; a hundred

times was I on the point of mentioning it to you. I knew that the

S----s and T----s, with their husbands, would quit the room rather than

remain in your company. I knew that the count would not break with

them: and now so much is said about it." "How!" I exclaimed, and

endeavoured to conceal my emotion; for all that Adelin had mentioned to

me yesterday recurred to me painfully at that moment. "Oh, how much it

has already cost me!" said this amiable girl, while her eyes filled

with tears. I could scarcely contain myself, and was ready to throw

myself at her feet. "Explain yourself!" I cried. Tears flowed down her

cheeks. I became quite frantic. She wiped them away, without attempting

to conceal them. "You know my aunt," she continued; "she was present:

and in what light does she consider the affair! Last night, and this

morning, Werther, I was compelled to listen to a lecture upon my

acquaintance with you. I have been obliged to hear you condemned and

depreciated; and I could not--I dared not--say much in your defence."

Every word she uttered was a dagger to my heart. She did not feel what

a mercy it would have been to conceal everything from me. She told me,

in addition, all the impertinence that would be further circulated, and

how the malicious would triumph; how they would rejoice over the

punishment of my pride, over my humiliation for that want of esteem for

others with which I had often been reproached. To hear all this,

Wilhelm, uttered by her in a voice of the most sincere sympathy,

awakened all my passions; and I am still in a state of extreme

excitement. I wish I could find a man to jeer me about this event. I

would sacrifice him to my resentment. The sight of his blood might

possibly be a relief to my fury. A hundred times have I seized a

dagger, to give ease to this oppressed heart. Naturalists tell of a

noble race of horses that instinctively open a vein with their teeth,

when heated and exhausted by a long course, in order to breathe more

freely, I am often tempted to open a vein, to procure for myself

everlasting liberty.

March 24.

I have tendered my resignation to the court. I hope it will be

accepted, and you will forgive me for not having previously consulted

you. It is necessary I should leave this place. I know you all will

urge me to stay, and therefore--I beg you will soften this news to my

mother. I am unable to do anything for myself: how, then, should I be

competent to assist others? It will afflict her that I should have

interrupted that career which would have made me first privy

councillor, and then minister, and that I should look behind me, in

place of advancing. Argue as you will, combine all the reasons which

should have induced me to remain,--I am going: that is sufficient. But,

that you may not be ignorant of my destination, I may mention that the

Prince of ---- is here. He is much pleased with my company; and, having

heard of my intention to resign, he has invited me to his country

house, to pass the spring months with him. I shall be left completely

my own master; and as we agree on all subjects but one, I shall try my

fortune, and accompany him.

April 19.

Thanks for both your letters. I delayed my reply, and withheld this

letter, till I should obtain an answer from the court. I feared my

mother might apply to the minister to defeat my purpose. But my request

is granted, my resignation is accepted. I shall not recount with what

reluctance it was accorded, nor relate what the minister has written:

you would only renew your lamentations. The Crown Prince has sent me a

present of five and twenty ducats; and, indeed, such goodness has

affected me to tears. For this reason I shall not require from my

mother the money for which I lately applied.

May 5.

I leave this place to-morrow; and as my native place is only six miles

from the high-road, I intend to visit it once more, and recall the

happy dreams of my childhood. I shall enter at the same gate through

which I came with my mother, when, after my father's death, she left

that delightful retreat to immure herself in your melancholy town.

Adieu, my dear friend: you shall hear of my future career.

May 9.

I have paid my visit to my native place with all the devotion of a

pilgrim, and have experienced many unexpected emotions. Near the great

elm-tree, which is a quarter of a league from the village, I got out of

the carriage, and sent it on before, that alone and on foot I might

enjoy vividly and heartily all the pleasure of my recollections. I

stood there under that same elm which was formerly the term and object

of my walks. How things have since changed! Then, in happy ignorance, I

sighed for a world I did not know, where I hoped to find every pleasure

and enjoyment which my heart could desire; and now, on my return from

that wide world, O my friend, how many disappointed hopes and

unsuccessful plans have I brought back!

As I contemplated the mountains which lay stretched out before me, I

thought how often they had been the object of my dearest desires. Here

used I to sit for hours together with my eyes bent upon them, ardently

longing to wander in the shade of those woods, to lose myself in those

valleys, which form so delightful an object in the distance. With what

reluctance did I leave this charming spot, when my hour of recreation

was over, and my leave of absence expired! I drew near to the village:

all the well-known old summer-houses and gardens were recognized again;

I disliked the new ones, and all other alterations which had taken

place. I entered the village, and all my former feelings returned. I

cannot, my dear friend, enter into details, charming as were my

sensations; they would be dull in the narration. I had intended to

lodge in the market-place, near our old house. As soon as I entered, I

perceived that the schoolroom, where our childhood had been taught by

that good old woman, was converted into a shop, I called to mind the

sorrow, the heaviness, the tears, and oppression of heart which I

experienced in that confinement. Every step produced some particular

impression. A pilgrim in the Holy Land does not meet so many spots

pregnant with tender recollections, and his soul is hardly moved with

greater devotion. One incident will serve for illustration. I followed

the course of a stream to a farm, formerly a delightful walk of mine,

and paused at the spot where, when boys we used to amuse ourselves

making ducks and drakes upon the water. I recollected so well how I

used formerly to watch the course of that same stream, following it

with inquiring eagerness, forming romantic ideas of the countries it

was to pass through; but my imagination was soon exhausted; while the

water continued flowing farther and farther on, till my fancy became

bewildered by the contemplation of an invisible distance. Exactly such,

my dear friend, so happy and so confined, were the thoughts of our good

ancestors. Their feelings and their poetry were fresh as childhood. And

when Ulysses talks of the immeasurable sea and boundless earth, his

epithets are true, natural, deeply felt, and mysterious. Of what

importance is it that I have learned, with every schoolboy, that the

world is round? Man needs but little earth for enjoyment, and still

less for his final repose.

I am at present with the prince at his hunting-lodge. He is a man with

whom one can live happily. He is honest and unaffected. There are,

however, some strange characters about him, whom I cannot at all

understand. They do not seem vicious, and yet they do not carry the

appearance of thoroughly honest men. Sometimes I am disposed to believe

them honest, and yet I cannot persuade myself to confide in them. It

grieves me to hear the prince occasionally talk of things which he has

only read or heard of, and always with the same view in which they have

been represented by others.

He values my understanding and talents more highly than my heart, but I

am proud of the latter only. It is the sole source of everything,--of

our strength, happiness, and misery. All the knowledge I possess every

one else can acquire, but my heart is exclusively my own.

May 25.

I have had a plan in my head of which I did not intend to speak to you

until it was accomplished: now that it has failed, I may as well

mention it. I wished to enter the army, and had long been desirous of

taking the step. This, indeed, was the chief reason for my coming here

with the prince, as he is a general ---- in the service. I communicated

my design to him during one of our walks together. He disapproved of

it, and it would have been actual madness not to have listened to his

reasons.

June 11.

Say what you will, I can remain here no longer. Why should I remain?

Time hangs heavy upon my hands. The prince is as gracious to me as any

one could be, and yet I am not at my ease. There is, indeed, nothing in

common between us. He is a man of understanding, but quite of the

ordinary kind. His conversation affords me no more amusement than I

should derive from the perusal of a well-written book. I shall remain

here a week longer, and then start again on my travels. My drawings are

the best things I have done since I came here. The prince has a taste

for the arts, and would improve if his mind were not fettered by cold

rules and mere technical ideas. I often lose patience, when, with a

glowing imagination, I am giving expression to art and nature, he

interferes with learned suggestions, and uses at random the technical

phraseology of artists.

July 16.

Once more I am a wanderer, a pilgrim, through the world. But what else

are you!

July 18.

Whither am I going? I will tell you in confidence. I am obliged to

continue a fortnight longer here, and then I think it would be better

for me to visit the mines in ----. But I am only deluding myself thus.

The fact is, I wish to be near Charlotte again,--that is all. I smile

at the suggestions of my heart, and obey its dictates.

July 29.

No, no! it is yet well--all is well! I her husband! O God, who gave

me being, if thou hadst destined this happiness for me, my whole

life would have been one continual thanksgiving! But I will not

murmur,--forgive these tears, forgive these fruitless wishes. She--my

wife! Oh, the very thought of folding that dearest of Heaven's

creatures in my arms! Dear Wilhelm, my whole frame feels convulsed when

I see Albert put his arms round her slender waist!

And shall I avow it? Why should I not, Wilhelm? She would have been

happier with me than with him. Albert is not the man to satisfy the

wishes of such a heart. He wants a certain sensibility; he wants--in

short, their hearts do not beat in unison. How often, my dear friend,

in reading a passage from some interesting book, when my heart and

Charlotte's seemed to meet, and in a hundred other instances when our

sentiments were unfolded by the story of some fictitious character,

have I felt that we were made for each other! But, dear Wilhelm, he

loves her with his whole soul; and what does not such a love deserve?

I have been interrupted by an insufferable visit. I have dried my

tears, and composed my thoughts. Adieu, my best friend!

Aug. 4.

I am not alone unfortunate. All men are disappointed in their hopes,

and deceived in their expectations. I have paid a visit to my good old

woman under the lime-trees. The eldest boy ran out to meet me: his

exclamation of joy brought out his mother, but she had a very

melancholy look. Her first word was: "Alas! dear sir, my little John is

dead." He was the youngest of her children. I was silent. "And my

husband has returned from Switzerland without any money; and if some

kind people had not assisted him, he must have begged his way home. He

was taken ill with fever on his journey." I could answer nothing, but

made the little one a present. She invited me to take some fruit. I

complied, and left the place with a sorrowful heart.

Aug. 21.

My sensations are constantly changing. Sometimes a happy prospect

opens before me; but alas! it is only for a moment; and then, when

I am lost in reverie, I cannot help saying to myself, "If Albert were

to die?--Yes, she would become--and I should be"--and so I pursue a

chimera, till it leads me to the edge of a precipice at which I

shudder.

When I pass through the same gate, and walk along the same road which

first conducted me to Charlotte, my heart sinks within me at the change

that has since taken place. All, all is altered! No sentiment, no

pulsation of my heart, is the same. My sensations are such as would

occur to some departed prince whose spirit should return to visit the

superb palace which he had built in happy times, adorned with costly

magnificence, and left to a beloved son, but whose glory he should find

departed, and its halls deserted and in ruins.

Sept. 3.

I sometimes cannot understand how she can love another, how she dares

love another, when I love nothing in this world so completely, so

devotedly, as I love her, when I know only her, and have no other

possession than her in the world.

Sept. 4.

It is even so! As Nature puts on her autumn tints, it becomes autumn

with me and around me. My leaves are sear and yellow, and the

neighbouring trees are divested of their foliage. Do you remember my

writing to you about a peasant-boy shortly after my arrival here? I

have just made inquiries about him in Walheim. They say he has been

dismissed from his service, and is now avoided by every one. I met him

yesterday on the road, going to a neighbouring village. I spoke to him,

and he told me his story. It interested me exceedingly, as you will

easily understand when I repeat it to you. But why should I trouble

you? Why should I not reserve all my sorrow for myself? Why should I

continue to give you occasion to pity and blame me? But no matter: this

also is part of my destiny.

At first the peasant-lad answered my inquiries with a sort of subdued

melancholy, which seemed to me the mark of a timid disposition; but as

we grew to understand each other, he spoke with less reserve, and

openly confessed his faults, and lamented his misfortune. I wish, my

dear friend, I could give proper expression to his language. He told

me, with a sort of pleasurable recollection, that after my departure

his passion for his mistress increased daily, until at last he neither

knew what he did nor what he said, nor what was to become of him. He

could neither eat nor drink nor sleep: he felt a sense of suffocation;

he disobeyed all orders, and forgot all commands involuntarily; he

seemed as if pursued by an evil spirit, till one day, knowing that his

mistress had gone to an upper chamber, he had followed, or rather, been

drawn after her. As she proved deaf to his entreaties, he had recourse

to violence. He knows not what happened; but he called God to witness

that his intentions to her were honourable, and that he desired nothing

more sincerely than that they should marry, and pass their lives

together. When he had come to this point, he began to hesitate, as if

there was something which he had not courage to utter, till at length

he acknowledged with some confusion certain little confidences she had

encouraged, and liberties she had allowed.

He broke off two or three times in his narration, and assured me most

earnestly that he had no wish to make her bad, as he termed it, for he

loved her still as sincerely as ever; that the tale had never before

escaped his lips, and was only now told to convince me that he was not

utterly lost and abandoned. And here, my dear friend, I must commence

the old song which you know I utter eternally. If I could only

represent the man as he stood, and stands now before me,--could I only

give his true expressions, you would feel compelled to sympathise in

his fate. But enough: you, who know my misfortune and my disposition,

can easily comprehend the attraction which draws me towards every

unfortunate being, but particularly towards him whose story I have

recounted.

On perusing this letter a second time, I find I have omitted the

conclusion of my tale; but it is easily supplied. She became reserved

towards him, at the instigation of her brother who had long hated him,

and desired his expulsion from the house, fearing that his sister's

second marriage might deprive his children of the handsome fortune they

expected from her; as she is childless. He was dismissed at length; and

the whole affair occasioned so much scandal that the mistress dared not

take him back, even if she had wished it. She has since hired another

servant, with whom, they say, her brother is equally displeased, and

whom she is likely to marry; but my informant assures me that he

himself is determined not to survive such a catastrophe.

This story is neither exaggerated nor embellished; indeed, I have

weakened and impaired it in the narration, by the necessity of using

the more refined expressions of society.

This love, then, this constancy, this passion, is no poetical fiction.

It is actual, and dwells in its greatest purity amongst that class of

mankind whom we term rude, uneducated. We are the educated, not the

perverted! But read this story with attention, I implore you. I am

tranquil to-day, for I have been employed upon this narration: you see

by my writing that I am not so agitated as usual. Read and reread this

tale, Wilhelm: it is the history of your friend! My fortune has been

and will be similar; and I am neither half so brave nor half so

determined as the poor wretch with whom I hesitate to compare myself.

Sept. 5.

Charlotte had written a letter to her husband in the country, where he

was detained by business. It commenced, "My dearest love, return as

soon as possible: I await you with a thousand raptures." A friend who

arrived, brought word that, for certain reasons, he could not return

immediately. Charlotte's letter was not forwarded, and the same evening

it fell into my hands. I read it, and smiled. She asked the reason.

"What a heavenly treasure is imagination!" I exclaimed; "I fancied for

a moment that this was written to me."

She paused, and seemed displeased. I was silent.

Sept. 6.

It cost me much to part with the blue coat which I wore the first time

I danced with Charlotte. But I could not possibly wear it any longer.

But I have ordered a new one, precisely similar, even to the collar and

sleeves, as well as a new waistcoat and pantaloons.

But it does not produce the same effect upon me. I know not how it is,

but I hope in time I shall like it better.

Sept. 12.

She has been absent for some days. She went to meet Albert. To-day I

visited her: she rose to receive me, and I kissed her hand most

tenderly.

A canary at the moment flew from a mirror, and settled upon her

shoulder. "Here is a new friend," she observed, while she made him

perch upon her hand: "he is a present for the children. What a dear he

is! Look at him! When I feed him, he flutters with his wings, and pecks

so nicely. He kisses me, too,--only look!"

She held the bird to her mouth; and he pressed her sweet lips with so

much fervour that he seemed to feel the excess of bliss which he

enjoyed.

"He shall kiss you too," she added; and then she held the bird towards

me. His little beak moved from her mouth to mine, and the delightful

sensation seemed like the forerunner of the sweetest bliss.

"A kiss," I observed, "does not seem to satisfy him: he wishes for

food, and seems disappointed by these unsatisfactory endearments."

"But he eats out of my mouth," she continued, and extended her lips to

him containing seed; and she smiled with all the charm of a being who

has allowed an innocent participation of her love.

I turned my face away. She should not act thus. She ought not to excite

my imagination with such displays of heavenly innocence and happiness,

nor awaken my heart from its slumbers, in which it dreams of the

worthlessness of life! And why not? Because she knows how much I love

her.

Sept. 15.

It makes me wretched, Wilhelm, to think that there should be men

incapable of appreciating the few things which possess a real value in

life. You remember the walnut-trees at S----, under which I used to sit

with Charlotte, during my visits to the worthy old vicar. Those

glorious trees, the very sight of which has so often filled my heart

with joy, how they adorned and refreshed the parsonage-yard, with their

wide-extended branches! and how pleasing was our remembrance of the

good old pastor, by whose hands they were planted so many years ago!

The schoolmaster has frequently mentioned his name. He had it from his

grandfather. He must have been a most excellent man; and, under the

shade of those old trees, his memory was ever venerated by me.

The schoolmaster informed us yesterday, with tears in his eyes, that

those trees had been felled. Yes, cut to the ground! I could, in my

wrath, have slain the monster who struck the first stroke. And I must

endure this!--I, who, if I had had two such trees in my own court, and

one had died from old age, should have wept with real affliction. But

there is some comfort left,--such a thing is sentiment,--the whole

village murmurs at the misfortune; and I hope the vicar's wife will

soon find, by the cessation of the villagers' presents, how much she

has wounded the feelings of the neighbourhood. It was she who did

it,--the wife of the present incumbent (our good old man is dead),--a

tall, sickly creature, who is so far right to disregard the world as

the world totally disregards her. The silly being affects to be

learned, pretends to examine the canonical books, lends her aid towards

the new-fashioned reformation of Christendom, moral and critical, and

shrugs up her shoulders at the mention of Lavater's enthusiasm. Her

health is destroyed, on account of which she is prevented from having

any enjoyment here below. Only such a creature could have cut down my

walnut-trees! I can never pardon it. Hear her reasons. The falling

leaves made the court wet and dirty; the branches obstructed the light;

boys threw stones at the nuts when they were ripe, and the noise

affected her nerves, and disturbed her profound meditations, when she

was weighing the difficulties of Kennicot, Semler, and Michaels.

Finding that all the parish, particularly the old people, were

displeased, I asked why they allowed it. "Ah, sir!" they replied, "when

the steward orders, what can we poor peasants do?" But one thing has

happened well. The steward and the vicar (who for once thought to reap

some advantage from the caprices of his wife) intended to divide the

trees between them. The revenue-office, being informed of it, revived

an old claim to the ground where the trees had stood, and sold them to

the best bidder. There they still lie on the ground. If I were the

sovereign, I should know how to deal with them all,--vicar, steward,

and revenue-office. Sovereign, did I say? I should in that case care

little about the trees that grew in the country.

Oct. 10.

Only to gaze upon her dark eyes is to me a source of happiness! And

what grieves me is that Albert does not seem so happy as he--hoped to

be--as I should have been--if-- I am no friend to these pauses, but

here I cannot express it otherwise; and probably I am explicit enough.

Oct. 12.

Ossian has superseded Homer in my heart. To what a world does the

illustrious bard carry me! To wander over pathless wilds, surrounded by

impetuous whirlwinds, where, by the feeble light of the moon, we see

the spirits of our ancestors; to hear from the mountain-tops, mid the

roar of torrents, their plaintive sounds issuing from deep caverns, and

the sorrowful lamentations of a maiden who sighs and expires on the

mossy tomb of the warrior by whom she was adored. I meet this bard with

silver hair; he wanders in the valley; he seeks the footsteps of his

fathers, and, alas! he finds only their tombs. Then, contemplating the

pale moon, as she sinks beneath the waves of the rolling sea, the

memory of bygone days strikes the mind of the hero,--days when

approaching danger invigorated the brave, and the moon shone upon his

bark laden with spoils, and returning in triumph. When I read in his

countenance deep sorrow, when I see his dying glory sink exhausted into

the grave, as he inhales new and heart-thrilling delight from his

approaching union with his beloved, and he casts a look on the cold

earth and the tall grass which is so soon to cover him, and then

exclaims, "The traveller will come,--he will come who has seen my

beauty, and he will ask, 'Where is the bard,--where is the illustrious

son of Fingal?' He will walk over my tomb, and will seek me in vain!"

Then, O my friend, I could instantly, like a true and noble knight,

draw my sword, and deliver my prince from the long and painful languor

of a living death, and dismiss my own soul to follow the demigod whom

my hand had set free!

Oct. 19.

Alas! the void--the fearful void, which I feel in my bosom! Sometimes I

think, if I could only once--but once, press her to my heart, this

dreadful void would be filled.

Oct. 26.

Yes, I feel certain, Wilhelm, and every day I become more certain, that

the existence of any being whatever is of very little consequence. A

friend of Charlotte's called to see her just now. I withdrew into a

neighbouring apartment, and took up a book; but, finding I could not

read, I sat down to write. I heard them converse in an undertone: they

spoke upon indifferent topics, and retailed the news of the town. One

was going to be married; another was ill, very ill,--she had a dry

cough, her face was growing thinner daily, and she had occasional fits.

"N---- is very unwell, too," said Charlotte. "His limbs begin to swell

already," answered the other; and my lively imagination carried me at

once to the beds of the infirm. There I see them struggling against

death, with all the agonies of pain and horror; and these women,

Wilhelm, talk of all this with as much indifference as one would

mention the death of a stranger. And when I look around the apartment

where I now am,--when I see Charlotte's apparel lying before me, and

Albert's writings, and all those articles of furniture which are so

familiar to me, even to the very inkstand which I am using,--when I

think what I am to this family--everything. My friends esteem me; I

often contribute to their happiness, and my heart seems as if it could

not beat without them; and yet--if I were to die, if I were to be

summoned from the midst of this circle, would they feel--or how long

would they feel--the void which my loss would make in their existence?

How long! Yes, such is the frailty of man, that even there, where he

has the greatest consciousness of his own being, where he makes the

strongest and most forcible impression, even in the memory, in the

heart of his beloved, there also he must perish,--vanish,--and that

quickly.

Oct. 27.

I could tear open my bosom with vexation to think how little we are

capable of influencing the feelings of each other. No one can

communicate to me those sensations of love, joy, rapture, and delight

which I do not naturally possess; and though my heart may glow with the

most lively affection, I cannot make the happiness of one in whom the

same warmth is not inherent.

Oct. 27: Evening.

I possess so much, but my love for her absorbs it all. I possess so

much, but without her I have nothing.

Oct. 30.

One hundred times have I been on the point of embracing her. Heavens!

what a torment it is to see so much loveliness passing and repassing

before us, and yet not dare to lay hold of it! And laying hold is the

most natural of human instincts, Do not children touch everything they

see? And I!

Nov. 3.

Witness, Heaven, how often I lie down in my bed with a wish, and even a

hope, that I may never awaken again' And in the morning, when I open my

eyes, I behold the sun once more, and am wretched. If I were whimsical,

I might blame the weather, or an acquaintance, or some personal

disappointment, for my discontented mind; and then this insupportable

load of trouble would not rest entirely upon myself. But, alas! I feel

it too sadly; I am alone the cause of my own woe, am I not? Truly, my

own bosom contains the source of all my sorrow, as it previously

contained the source of all my pleasure. Am I not the same being who

once enjoyed an excess of happiness, who at every step saw paradise

open before him, and whose heart was ever expanded towards the whole

world? And this heart is now dead; no sentiment can revive it. My eyes

are dry; and my senses, no more refreshed by the influence of soft

tears, wither and consume my brain. I suffer much, for I have lost the

only charm of life: that active, sacred power which created worlds

around me,--it is no more. When I look from my window at the distant

hills, and behold the morning sun breaking through the mists, and

illuminating the country around, which is still wrapped in silence,

whilst the soft stream winds gently through the willows, which have

shed their leaves; when glorious Nature displays all her beauties

before me, and her wondrous prospects are ineffectual to extract one

tear of joy from my withered heart,--I feel that in such a moment I

stand like a reprobate before heaven, hardened, insensible, and

unmoved. Oftentimes do I then bend my knee to the earth, and implore

God for the blessing of tears, as the desponding labourer in some

scorching climate prays for the dews of heaven to moisten his parched

corn.

But I feel that God does not grant sunshine or rain to our importunate

entreaties. And oh, those bygone days, whose memory now torments me!

why were they so fortunate? Because I then waited with patience for the

blessings of the Eternal, and received his gifts with the grateful

feelings of a thankful heart.

Nov. 8.

Charlotte has reproved me for my excesses, with so much tenderness and

goodness! I have lately been in the habit of drinking more wine than

heretofore. "Don't do it," she said; "think of Charlotte!" "Think of

you!" I answered; "need you bid me do so? Think of you--I do not think

of you: you are ever before my soul! This very morning I sat on the

spot where, a few days ago, you descended from the carriage, and--" She

immediately changed the subject to prevent me from pursuing it farther.

My dear friend, my energies are all prostrated; she can do with me what

she pleases.

Nov. 15.

I thank you, Wilhelm, for your cordial sympathy, for your excellent

advice; and I implore you to be quiet. Leave me to my sufferings. In

spite of my wretchedness, I have still strength enough for endurance. I

revere religion,--you know I do. I feel that it can impart strength to

the feeble and comfort to the afflicted; but does it affect all men

equally? Consider this vast universe: you will see thousands for whom

it has never existed, thousands for whom it will never exist, whether

it be preached to them or not; and must it, then, necessarily exist for

me? Does not the Son of God himself say that they are his whom the

Father has given to him? Have I been given to Him? What if the Father

will retain me for himself, as my heart sometimes suggests? I pray you,

do not misinterpret this. Do not extract derision from my harmless

words. I pour out my whole soul before you. Silence were otherwise

preferable to me, but I need not shrink from a subject of which few

know more than I do myself. What is the destiny of man, but to fill up

the measure of his sufferings, and to drink his allotted cup of

bitterness? And if that same cup proved bitter to the God of heaven,

under a human form, why should I affect a foolish pride, and call it

sweet? Why should I be ashamed of shrinking at that fearful moment when

my whole being will tremble between existence and annihilation; when a

remembrance of the past, like a flash of lightning, will illuminate the

dark gulf of futurity; when everything shall dissolve around me, and

the whole world vanish away? Is not this the voice of a creature

oppressed beyond all resource, self-deficient, about to plunge into

inevitable destruction, and groaning deeply at its inadequate strength:

"My God! my God! why hast thou forsaken me?" And should I feel ashamed

to utter the same expression? Should I not shudder at a prospect which

had its fears even for him who folds up the heavens like a garment?

Nov. 21.

She does not feel, she does not know that she is preparing a poison

which will destroy us both; and I drink deeply of the draught which is

to prove my destruction. What mean those looks of kindness with which

she often--often? no, not often, but sometimes--regards me, that

complacency with which she hears the involuntary sentiments which

frequently escape me, and the tender pity for my sufferings which

appears in her countenance?

Yesterday, when I took leave, she seized me by the hand, and said,

"Adieu, dear Werther." Dear Werther! It was the first time she ever

called me "dear:" the sound sunk deep into my heart. I have repeated it

a hundred times; and last night, on going to bed, and talking to myself

of various things, I suddenly said, "Good night, dear Werther!" and

then could not but laugh at myself.

Nov. 22.

I cannot pray, "Leave her to me!" and yet she often seems to belong to

me. I cannot pray, "Give her to me!" for she is another's. In this way

I affect mirth over my troubles; and if I had time, I could compose a

whole litany of antitheses.

Nov. 24.

She is sensible of my sufferings. This morning her look pierced my very

soul. I found her alone, and she was silent; she steadfastly surveyed

me. I no longer saw in her face the charms of beauty or the fire of

genius; these had disappeared. But I was affected by an expression much

more touching,--a look of the deepest sympathy and of the softest pity.

Why was I afraid to throw myself at her feet? Why did I not dare to

take her in my arms, and answer her by a thousand kisses? She had

recourse to her piano for relief, and in a low and sweet voice

accompanied the music with delicious sounds. Her lips never appeared so

lovely: they seemed but just to open, that they might imbibe the sweet

tones which issued from the instrument, and return the heavenly

vibration from her lovely mouth. Oh, who can express my sensations! I

was quite overcome, and bending down, pronounced this vow: "Beautiful

lips, which the angels guard, never will I seek to profane your purity

with a kiss." And yet, my friend, oh, I wish--but my heart is darkened

by doubt and indecision--could I but taste felicity, and then die to

expiate the sin! What sin?

Nov. 26.

Oftentimes I say to myself, "Thou alone art wretched: all other mortals

are happy; none are distressed like thee." Then I read a passage in an

ancient poet, and I seem to understand my own heart! I have so much to

endure! Have men before me ever been so wretched?

Nov. 30.

I shall never be myself again! Wherever I go, some fatality occurs to

distract me. Even to-day--alas, for our destiny! alas, for human

nature!

About dinner-time I went to walk by the river-side, for I had no

appetite. Everything around seemed gloomy; a cold and damp easterly

wind blew from the mountains, and black, heavy clouds spread over the

plain. I observed at a distance a man in a tattered coat; he was

wandering among the rocks, and seemed to be looking for plants. When I

approached, he turned round at the noise; and I saw that he had an

interesting countenance, in which a settled melancholy, strongly marked

by benevolence, formed the principal feature. His long black hair was

divided, and flowed over his shoulders. As his garb betokened a person

of the lower order, I thought he would not take it ill if I inquired

about his business; and I therefore asked what he was seeking. He

replied, with a deep sigh, that he was looking for flowers, and could

find none. "But it is not the season," I observed, with a smile. "Oh,

there are so many flowers!" he answered, as he came nearer to me. "In

my garden there are roses and honeysuckles of two sorts: one sort was

given to me by my father; they grow as plentifully as weeds. I have

been looking for them these two days, and cannot find them. There are

flowers out there, yellow, blue, and red; and that centaury has a very

pretty blossom: but I can find none of them." I observed his

peculiarity, and therefore asked him, with an air of indifference, what

he intended to do with his flowers. A strange smile overspread his

countenance. Holding his finger to his mouth, he expressed a hope that

I would not betray him; and he then informed me that he had promised to

gather a nosegay for his mistress. "That is right," said I. "Oh!" he

replied, "she possesses many other things as well; she is very rich."

"And yet," I continued, "she likes your nosegays." "Oh, she has jewels

and crowns!" he exclaimed. I asked who she was. "If the states-general

would but pay me," he added, "I should be quite another man. Alas!

there was a time when I was so happy; but that is past, and I am now--"

He raised his swimming eyes to heaven. "And you were happy once?" I

observed. "Ah, would I were so still!" was his reply. "I was then as

gay and contented as a man can be." An old woman, who was coming

towards us, now called out: "Henry, Henry! where are you? We have been

looking for you everywhere. Come to dinner." "Is he your son?" I

inquired, as I went towards her. "Yes," she said; "he is my poor,

unfortunate son. The Lord has sent me a heavy affliction." I asked

whether he had been long in this state. She answered: "He has been as

calm as he is at present for about six months. I thank Heaven that he

has so far recovered. He was for one whole year quite raving, and

chained down in a madhouse. Now he injures no one, but talks of nothing

else than kings and queens. He used to be a very good, quiet youth, and

helped to maintain me; he wrote a very fine hand. But all at once he

became melancholy, was seized with a violent fever, grew distracted,

and is now as you see. If I were only to tell you, sir--" I interrupted

her by asking what period it was in which he boasted of having been so

happy. "Poor boy!" she exclaimed, with a smile of compassion, "he means

the time when he was completely deranged,--a time he never ceases to

regret,--when he was in the madhouse, and unconscious of everything." I

was thunderstruck. I placed a piece of money in her hand, and hastened

away.

"You were happy!" I exclaimed, as I returned quickly to the town, "'as

gay and contented as a man can be!'" God of heaven! and is this the

destiny of man? Is he only happy before he has acquired his reason or

after he has lost it? Unfortunate being! And yet I envy your fate; I

envy the delusion to which you are a victim. You go forth with joy to

gather flowers for your princess in winter, and grieve when you can

find none, and cannot understand why they do not grow. But I wander

forth without joy, without hope, without design; and I return as I

came. You fancy what a man you would be if the states-general paid you.

Happy mortal, who can ascribe your wretchedness to an earthly cause!

You do not know, you do not feel, that in your own distracted heart and

disordered brain dwells the source of that unhappiness which all the

potentates on earth cannot relieve.

Let that man die unconsoled who can deride the invalid for undertaking

a journey to distant, healthful springs,--where he often finds only a

heavier disease and a more painful death,--or who can exult over the

despairing mind of a sinner who, to obtain peace of conscience and an

alleviation of misery, makes a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre. Each

laborious step which galls his wounded feet in rough and untrodden

paths pours a drop of balm into his troubled soul, and the journey of

many a weary day brings a nightly relief to his anguished heart.

Will you dare call this enthusiasm, ye crowd of pompous declaimers?

Enthusiasm? O God! thou seest my tears. Thou hast allotted us our

portion of misery; must we also have brethren to persecute us, to

deprive us of our consolation, of our trust in thee and in thy love and

mercy? For our trust in the virtue of the healing root or in the

strength of the vine,--what is it else than a belief in thee, from whom

all that surrounds us derives its healing and restoring powers. Father,

whom I know not,--who wert once wont to fill my soul, but who now

hidest thy face from me,--call me back to thee; be silent no longer!

Thy silence shall not delay a soul which thirsts after thee. What man,

what father, could be angry with a son for returning to him suddenly,

for falling on his neck, and exclaiming, "I am here again, my father!

Forgive me if I have anticipated my journey, and returned before the

appointed time! The world is everywhere the same,--a scene of labour

and pain, of pleasure and reward; but what does it all avail? I am

happy only where thou art, and in thy presence am I content to suffer

or enjoy." And wouldst thou, Heavenly Father, banish such a child from

thy presence?

Dec. 1.

Wilhelm, the man about whom I wrote to you,--that man so enviable in

his misfortunes,--was secretary to Charlotte's father; and an unhappy

passion for her, which he cherished, concealed, and at length

discovered, caused him to be dismissed from his situation. This made

him mad. Think, whilst you peruse this plain narration, what an

impression the circumstance has made upon me! But it was related to me

by Albert with as much calmness as you will probably peruse it.

Dec. 4.

I implore your attention. It is all over with me. I can support this

state no longer. To-day I was sitting by Charlotte. She was playing

upon her piano a succession of delightful melodies, with such intense

expression! Her little sister was dressing her doll upon my lap. The

tears came into my eyes. I leaned down, and looked intently at her

wedding-ring; my tears fell--immediately she began to play that

favourite, that divine air which has so often enchanted me. I felt

comfort from a recollection of the past, of those bygone days when that

air was familiar to me; and then I recalled all the sorrows and the

disappointments which I had since endured. I paced with hasty strides

through the room, my heart became convulsed with painful emotions. At

length I went up to her, and exclaimed with eagerness, "For Heaven's

sake, play that air no longer!" She stopped, and looked steadfastly at

me. She then said, with a smile which sunk deep into my heart:

"Werther, you are ill; your dearest food is distasteful to you. But go,

I entreat you, and endeavour to compose yourself." I tore myself away.

God, thou seest my torments, and wilt end them!

Dec. 6.

How her image haunts me! Waking or asleep, she fills my entire soul!

Soon as I close my eyes, here, in my brain, where all the nerves of

vision are concentrated, her dark eyes are imprinted. Here--I do not

know how to describe it; but if I shut my eyes, hers are immediately

before me: dark as an abyss they open upon me, and absorb my senses.

And what is man,--that boasted demigod? Do not his powers fail when he

most requires their use? And whether he soar in joy or sink in sorrow,

is not his career in both inevitably arrested? And whilst he fondly

dreams that he is grasping at infinity, does he not feel compelled to

return to a consciousness of his cold, monotonous existence?

THE EDITOR TO THE READER

It is a matter of extreme regret that we want original evidence of the

last remarkable days of our friend; and we are, therefore, obliged to

interrupt the progress of his correspondence, and to supply the

deficiency by a connected narration.

I have felt it my duty to collect accurate information from the mouths

of persons well acquainted with his history. The story is simple; and

all the accounts agree, except in some unimportant particulars. It is

true that, with respect to the characters of the persons spoken of,

opinions and judgments vary.

We have only, then, to relate conscientiously the facts which our

diligent labour has enabled us to collect, to give the letters of the

deceased, and to pay particular attention to the slightest fragment

from his pen, more especially as it is so difficult to discover the

real and correct motives of men who are not of the common order.

Sorrow and discontent had taken deep root in Werther's soul, and

gradually imparted their character to his whole being. The harmony of

his mind became completely disturbed; a perpetual excitement and mental

irritation, which weakened his natural powers, produced the saddest

effects upon him, and rendered him at length the victim of an

exhaustion against which he struggled with still more painful efforts

than he had displayed, even in contending with his other misfortunes.

His mental anxiety weakened his various good qualities; and he was soon

converted into a gloomy companion,--always unhappy and unjust in his

ideas, the more wretched he became. This was, at least, the opinion of

Albert's friends. They assert, moreover, that the character of Albert

himself had undergone no change in the meantime; he was still the same

being whom Werther had loved, honoured, and respected from the

commencement. His love for Charlotte was unbounded; he was proud of

her, and desired that she should be recognised by every one as the

noblest of created beings. Was he, however, to blame for wishing to

avert from her every appearance of suspicion? or for his unwillingness

to share his rich prize with another, even for a moment, and in the

most innocent manner? It is asserted that Albert frequently retired

from his wife's apartment during Werther's visits; but this did not

arise from hatred or aversion to his friend, but only from a feeling

that his presence was oppressive to Werther.

Charlotte's father, who was confined to the house by indisposition, was

accustomed to send his carriage for her, that she might make excursions

in the neighbourhood. One day the weather had been unusually severe,

and the whole country was covered with snow.

Werther went for Charlotte the following morning, in order that, if

Albert were absent, he might conduct her home.

The beautiful weather produced but little impression on his troubled

spirit. A heavy weight lay upon his soul, deep melancholy had taken

possession of him, and his mind knew no change save from one painful

thought to another.

As he now never enjoyed internal peace, the condition of his

fellow-creatures was to him a perpetual source of trouble and distress.

He believed he had disturbed the happiness of Albert and his wife; and

whilst he censured himself strongly for this, he began to entertain a

secret dislike to Albert.

His thoughts were occasionally directed to this point. "Yes," he would

repeat to himself, with ill-concealed dissatisfaction,--"yes, this is,

after all, the extent of that confiding, dear, tender, and sympathetic

love, that calm and eternal fidelity! What do I behold but satiety and

indifference? Does not every frivolous engagement attract him more than

his charming and lovely wife? Does he know how to prize his happiness?

Can he value her as she deserves? He possesses her, it is true,--I know

that, as I know much more,--and I have become accustomed to the thought

that he will drive me mad, or, perhaps, murder me. Is his friendship

towards me unimpaired? Does he not view my attachment to Charlotte as

an infringement upon his rights, and consider my attention to her as a

silent rebuke to himself? I know, and indeed feel, that he dislikes

me,--that he wishes for my absence,--that my presence is hateful to

him."

He would often pause when on his way to visit Charlotte, stand still as

though in doubt, and seem desirous of returning, but would nevertheless

proceed; and, engaged in such thoughts and soliloquies as we have

described, he finally reached the hunting-lodge, with a sort of

involuntary consent.

Upon one occasion he entered the house; and, inquiring for Charlotte,

he observed that the inmates were in a state of unusual confusion. The

eldest boy informed him that a dreadful misfortune had occurred at

Walheim,--that a peasant had been murdered! But this made little

impression upon him. Entering the apartment, he found Charlotte engaged

reasoning with her father, who, in spite of his infirmity, insisted on

going to the scene of the crime, in order to institute an inquiry. The

criminal was unknown; the victim had been found dead at his own door

that morning. Suspicions were excited; the murdered man had been in the

service of a widow, and the person who had previously filled the

situation had been dismissed from her employment.

As soon as Werther heard this, he exclaimed with great excitement, "Is

it possible! I must go to the spot,--I cannot delay a moment!" He

hastened to Walheim. Every incident returned vividly to his

remembrance; and he entertained not the slightest doubt that that man

was the murderer to whom he had so often spoken, and for whom he

entertained so much regard. His way took him past the well-known

lime-trees, to the house where the body had been carried; and his

feelings were greatly excited at the sight of the fondly recollected

spot. That threshold where the neighbours' children had so often played

together was stained with blood; love and attachment, the noblest

feelings of human nature, had been converted into violence and murder.

The huge trees stood there leafless and covered with hoar-frost; the

beautiful hedgerows which surrounded the old churchyard wall were

withered; and the gravestones, half covered with snow, were visible

through the openings.

As he approached the inn, in front of which the whole village was

assembled, screams were suddenly heard. A troop of armed peasants was

seen approaching, and every one exclaimed that the criminal had been

apprehended. Werther looked, and was not long in doubt. The prisoner

was no other than the servant, who had been formerly so attached to the

widow, and whom he had met prowling about, with that suppressed anger

and ill-concealed despair which we have before described.

"What have you done, unfortunate man?" inquired Werther, as he advanced

towards the prisoner. The latter turned his eyes upon him in silence,

and then replied with perfect composure, "No one will now marry her,

and she will marry no one." The prisoner was taken in the inn, and

Werther left the place.

The mind of Werther was fearfully excited by this shocking occurrence.

He ceased, however, to be oppressed by his usual feeling of melancholy,

moroseness, and indifference to everything that passed around him. He

entertained a strong degree of pity for the prisoner, and was seized

with an indescribable anxiety to save him from his impending fate. He

considered him so unfortunate, he deemed his crime so excusable, and

thought his own condition so nearly similar, that he felt convinced he

could make every one else view the matter in the light in which he saw

it himself. He now became anxious to undertake his defence, and

commenced composing an eloquent speech for the occasion; and, on his

way to the hunting-lodge, he could not refrain from speaking aloud the

statement which he resolved to make to the judge.

Upon his arrival, he found Albert had been before him: and he was a

little perplexed by this meeting; but he soon recovered himself, and

expressed his opinion with much warmth to the judge. The latter shook

his head doubtingly; and although Werther urged his case with the

utmost zeal, feeling, and determination in defence of his client, yet,

as we may easily suppose, the judge was not much influenced by his

appeal. On the contrary, he interrupted him in his address, reasoned

with him seriously, and even administered a rebuke to him for becoming

the advocate of a murderer. He demonstrated that, according to this

precedent, every law might be violated, and the public security utterly

destroyed. He added, moreover, that in such a case he could himself do

nothing, without incurring the greatest responsibility; that everything

must follow in the usual course, and pursue the ordinary channel.

Werther, however, did not abandon his enterprise, and even besought the

judge to connive at the flight of the prisoner. But this proposal was

peremptorily rejected. Albert, who had taken some part in the

discussion, coincided in opinion with the judge. At this Werther became

enraged, and took his leave in great anger, after the judge had more

than once assured him that the prisoner could not be saved.

The excess of his grief at this assurance may be inferred from a note

we have found amongst his papers, and which was doubtless written upon

this very occasion.

"You cannot be saved, unfortunate man! I see clearly that we cannot be

saved!"

Werther was highly incensed at the observations which Albert had made

to the judge in this matter of the prisoner. He thought he could detect

therein a little bitterness towards himself personally; and although,

upon reflection, it could not escape his sound judgment that their view

of the matter was correct, he felt the greatest possible reluctance to

make such an admission.

A memorandum of Werther's upon this point, expressive of his general

feelings towards Albert, has been found amongst his papers.

"What is the use of my continually repeating that he is a good and

estimable man? He is an inward torment to me, and I am incapable of

being just towards him."

One fine evening in winter, when the weather seemed inclined to thaw,

Charlotte and Albert were returning home together. The former looked

from time to time about her, as if she missed Werther's company. Albert

began to speak of him, and censured him for his prejudices. He alluded

to his unfortunate attachment, and wished it were possible to

discontinue his acquaintance. "I desire it on our own account," he

added; "and I request you will compel him to alter his deportment

towards you, and to visit you less frequently. The world is censorious,

and I know that here and there we are spoken of." Charlotte made no

reply, and Albert seemed to feel her silence. At least, from that time,

he never again spoke of Werther; and when she introduced the subject,

he allowed the conversation to die away, or else he directed the

discourse into another channel.

The vain attempt Werther had made to save the unhappy murderer was the

last feeble glimmering of a flame about to be extinguished. He sank

almost immediately afterwards into a state of gloom and inactivity,

until he was at length brought to perfect distraction by learning that

he was to be summoned as a witness against the prisoner, who asserted

his complete innocence.

His mind now became oppressed by the recollection of every misfortune

of his past life. The mortification he had suffered at the

ambassador's, and his subsequent troubles, were revived in his memory.

He became utterly inactive. Destitute of energy, he was cut off from

every pursuit and occupation which compose the business of common life;

and he became a victim to his own susceptibility, and to his restless

passion for the most amiable and beloved of women, whose peace he

destroyed. In this unvarying monotony of existence his days were

consumed; and his powers became exhausted without aim or design, until

they brought him to a sorrowful end.

A few letters which he left behind, and which we here subjoin, afford

the best proofs of his anxiety of mind and of the depth of his passion,

as well as of his doubts and struggles, and of his weariness of life.

Dec. 12.

Dear Wilhelm, I am reduced to the condition of those unfortunate

wretches who believe they are pursued by an evil spirit. Sometimes I am

oppressed, not by apprehension or fear, but by an inexpressible

internal sensation, which weighs upon my heart, and impedes my breath!

Then I wander forth at night, even in this tempestuous season, and feel

pleasure in surveying the dreadful scenes around me.

Yesterday evening I went forth. A rapid thaw had suddenly set in: I had

been informed that the river had risen, that the brooks had all

overflowed their banks, and that the whole vale of Walheim was under

water! Upon the stroke of twelve I hastened forth. I beheld a fearful

sight. The foaming torrents rolled from the mountains in the

moonlight,--fields and meadows, trees and hedges, were confounded

together; and the entire valley was converted into a deep lake, which

was agitated by the roaring wind! And when the moon shone forth, and

tinged the black clouds with silver, and the impetuous torrent at my

feet foamed and resounded with awful and grand impetuosity, I was

overcome by a mingled sensation of apprehension and delight. With

extended arms I looked down into the yawning abyss, and cried,

"Plunge!" For a moment my senses forsook me, in the intense delight of

ending my sorrows and my sufferings by a plunge into that gulf! And

then I felt as if I were rooted to the earth, and incapable of seeking

an end to my woes! But my hour is not yet come; I feel it is not. Oh,

Wilhelm, how willingly could I abandon my existence to ride the

whirlwind, or to embrace the torrent! and then might not rapture

perchance be the portion of this liberated soul?

I turned my sorrowful eyes towards a favourite spot, where I was

accustomed to sit with Charlotte beneath a willow after a fatiguing

walk. Alas! it was covered with water, and with difficulty I found even

the meadow. And the fields around the hunting-lodge, thought I. Has our

dear bower been destroyed by this unpitying storm? And a beam of past

happiness streamed upon me, as the mind of a captive is illumined by

dreams of flocks and herds and bygone joys of home! But I am free from

blame. I have courage to die! Perhaps I have,--but I still sit here,

like a wretched pauper, who collects fagots, and begs her bread from

door to door, that she may prolong for a few days a miserable existence

which she is unwilling to resign.

Dec. 15.

What is the matter with me, dear Wilhelm? I am afraid of myself!

Is not my love for her of the purest, most holy, and most brotherly

nature? Has my soul ever been sullied by a single sensual desire?

But I will make no protestations. And now, ye nightly visions, how

truly have those mortals understood you, who ascribe your various

contradictory effects to some invincible power! This night--I tremble

at the avowal--I held her in my arms, locked in a close embrace: I

pressed her to my bosom, and covered with countless kisses those dear

lips which murmured in reply soft protestations of love. My sight

became confused by the delicious intoxication of her eyes. Heavens! is

it sinful to revel again in such happiness, to recall once more those

rapturous moments with intense delight? Charlotte! Charlotte! I am

lost! My senses are bewildered, my recollection is confused, mine

eyes are bathed in tears--I am ill; and yet I am well--I wish for

nothing--I have no desires--it were better I were gone.

Under the circumstances narrated above, a determination to quit this

world had now taken fixed possession of Werther's soul. Since

Charlotte's return, this thought had been the final object of all his

hopes and wishes; but he had resolved that such a step should not be

taken with precipitation, but with calmness and tranquillity, and with

the most perfect deliberation.

His troubles and internal struggles may be understood from the

following fragment, which was found, without any date, amongst his

papers, and appears to have formed the beginning of a letter to

Wilhelm:

"Her presence, her fate, her sympathy for me, have power still to

extract tears from my withered brain.

"One lifts up the curtain, and passes to the other side,--that is all!

And why all these doubts and delays? Because we know not what is

behind,--because there is no returning,--and because our mind infers

that all is darkness and confusion, where we have nothing but

uncertainty."

His appearance at length became quite altered by the effect of his

melancholy thoughts; and his resolution was now finally and irrevocably

taken, of which the following ambiguous letter which he addressed to

his friend, may appear to afford some proof:--

Dec. 20.

I am grateful to your love, Wilhelm, for having repeated your advice so

seasonably. Yes, you are right: it is undoubtedly better that I should

depart. But I do not entirely approve your scheme of returning at once

to your neighbourhood; at least, I should like to make a little

excursion on the way, particularly as we may now expect a continued

frost, and consequently good roads. I am much pleased with your

intention of coming to fetch me; only delay your journey for a

fortnight, and wait for another letter from me. One should gather

nothing before it is ripe, and a fortnight sooner or later makes a

great difference. Entreat my mother to pray for her son, and tell her I

beg her pardon for all the unhappiness I have occasioned her. It has

ever been my fate to give pain to those whose happiness I should have

promoted. Adieu, my dearest friend. May every blessing of heaven attend

you! Farewell.

We find it difficult to express the emotions with which Charlotte's

soul was agitated during the whole of this time, whether in relation to

her husband or to her unfortunate friend; although we are enabled, by

our knowledge of her character, to understand their nature.

It is certain that she had formed a determination by every means in her

power to keep Werther at a distance; and if she hesitated in her

decision, it was from a sincere feeling of friendly pity, knowing how

much it would cost him,--indeed, that he would find it almost

impossible to comply with her wishes. But various causes now urged her

to be firm. Her husband preserved a strict silence about the whole

matter; and she never made it a subject of conversation, feeling bound

to prove to him by her conduct that her sentiments agreed with his.

The same day, which was the Sunday before Christmas, after Werther had

written the last-mentioned letter to his friend, he came in the evening

to Charlotte's house, and found her alone. She was busy preparing some

little gifts for her brothers and sisters, which were to be distributed

to them on Christmas Day. He began talking of the delight of the

children, and of that age when the sudden appearance of the

Christmas-tree, decorated with fruit and sweetmeats, and lighted up

with

wax candles, causes such transports of joy. "You shall have a gift,

too,

if you behave well," said Charlotte, hiding her embarrassment under a

sweet smile. "And what do you call behaving well? What should I do,

what can I do, my dear Charlotte?" said he. "Thursday night," she

answered, "is Christmas Eve. The children are all to be here, and my

father too: there is a present for each; do you come likewise, but do

not come before that time." Werther started. "I desire you will not: it

must be so," she continued. "I ask it of you as a favour, for my own

peace and tranquillity. We cannot go on in this manner any longer." He

turned away his face, walked hastily up and down the room, muttering

indistinctly, "We cannot go on in this manner any longer!" Charlotte,

seeing the violent agitation into which these words had thrown him,

endeavoured to divert his thoughts by different questions, but in vain.

"No, Charlotte!" he exclaimed; "I will never see you anymore!" "And why

so?" she answered. "We may--we must see each other again; only let it

be with more discretion. Oh! why were you born with that excessive,

that ungovernable passion for everything that is dear to you?" Then,

taking his hand, she said: "I entreat of you to be more calm: your

talents, your understanding, your genius, will furnish you with a

thousand resources. Be a man, and conquer an unhappy attachment towards

a creature who can do nothing but pity you." He bit his lips, and

looked at her with a gloomy countenance. She continued to hold his

hand. "Grant me but a moment's patience, Werther," she said. "Do you

not see that you are deceiving yourself, that you are seeking your own

destruction? Why must you love me, me only, who belong to another? I

fear, I much fear, that it is only the impossibility of possessing me

which makes your desire for me so strong." He drew back his hand,

whilst he surveyed her with a wild and angry look. "Tis well!" he

exclaimed, "'tis very well! Did not Albert furnish you with this

reflection? It is profound, a very profound remark." "A reflection that

any one might easily make," she answered; "and is there not a woman in

the whole world who is at liberty, and has the power to make you happy?

Conquer yourself: look for such a being, and believe me when I say that

you will certainly find her. I have long felt for you, and for us all:

you have confined yourself too long within the limits of too narrow a

circle. Conquer yourself; make an effort: a short journey will be of

service to you. Seek and find an object worthy of your love; then

return hither and let us enjoy together all the happiness of the most

perfect friendship."

"This speech," replied Werther, with a cold smile,--"this speech should

be printed, for the benefit of all teachers. My dear Charlotte, allow

me but a short time longer, and all will be well." "But, however,

Werther," she added, "do not come again before Christmas." He was about

to make some answer, when Albert came in. They saluted each other

coldly, and with mutual embarrassment paced up and down the room.

Werther made some common remarks; Albert did the same, and their

conversation soon dropped. Albert asked his wife about some household

matters; and, finding that his commissions were not executed, he used

some expressions which, to Werther's ear, savoured of extreme

harshness. He wished to go, but had not power to move; and in this

situation he remained till eight o'clock, his uneasiness and discontent

continually increasing. At length the cloth was laid for supper, and he

took up his hat and stick. Albert invited him to remain; but Werther,

fancying that he was merely paying a formal compliment, thanked him

coldly and left the house.

Werther returned home, took the candle from his servant, and retired to

his room alone. He talked for some time with great earnestness to

himself, wept aloud, walked in a state of great excitement through his

chamber; till at length, without undressing, he threw himself on the

bed, where he was found by his servant at eleven o'clock, when the

latter ventured to enter the room and take off his boots. Werther did

not prevent him, but forbade him to come in the morning till he should

ring.

On Monday morning, the 21st of December, he wrote to Charlotte the

following letter, which was found, sealed, on his bureau after his

death, and was given to her. I shall insert it in fragments; as it

appears, from several circumstances, to have been written in that

manner.

"It is all over, Charlotte: I am resolved to die! I make this

declaration deliberately and coolly, without any romantic passion, on

this morning of the day when I am to see you for the last time. At the

moment you read these lines, O best of women, the cold grave will hold

the inanimate remains of that restless and unhappy being who in the

last moments of his existence knew no pleasure so great as that of

conversing with you! I have passed a dreadful night,--or rather, let me

say, a propitious one; for it has given me resolution, it has fixed my

purpose. I am resolved to die. When I tore myself from you yesterday,

my senses were in tumult and disorder; my heart was oppressed, hope and

pleasure had fled from me forever, and a petrifying cold had seized my

wretched being. I could scarcely reach my room. I threw myself on my

knees, and Heaven, for the last time, granted me the consolation of

shedding tears. A thousand ideas, a thousand schemes, arose within my

soul; till at length one last, fixed, final thought took possession of

my heart. It was to die. I lay down to rest; and in the morning, in the

quiet hour of awakening, the same determination was upon me. To die! It

is not despair: it is conviction that I have filled up the measure of

my sufferings, that I have reached my appointed term, and must

sacrifice myself for thee. Yes, Charlotte, why should I not avow it?

One of us three must die: it shall be Werther. O beloved Charlotte!

this heart, excited by rage and fury, has often conceived the horrid

idea of murdering your husband--you--myself! The lot is cast at length.

And in the bright, quiet evenings of summer, when you sometimes wander

towards the mountains, let your thoughts then turn to me: recollect how

often you have watched me coming to meet you from the valley; then bend

your eyes upon the churchyard which contains my grave, and, by the

light of the setting sun, mark how the evening breeze waves the tall

grass which grows above my tomb. I was calm when I began this letter,

but the recollection of these scenes makes me weep like a child."

About ten in the morning, Werther called his servant, and, whilst he

was dressing told him that in a few days he intended to set out upon a

journey, and bade him therefore lay his clothes in order, and prepare

them for packing up, call in all his accounts, fetch home the books he

had lent, and give two months' pay to the poor dependants who were

accustomed to receive from him a weekly allowance.

He breakfasted in his room, and then mounted his horse, and went to

visit the steward, who, however, was not at home. He walked pensively

in the garden, and seemed anxious to renew all the ideas that were most

painful to him.

The children did not suffer him to remain alone long. They followed

him, skipping and dancing before him, and told him that after

to-morrow--and to-morrow--and one day more, they were to receive

their Christmas gift from Charlotte; and they then recounted all the

wonders of which they had formed ideas in their child imaginations.

"Tomorrow--and to-morrow," said he, "and one day more!" And he kissed

them tenderly. He was going; but the younger boy stopped him, to

whisper something in his ear. He told him that his elder brothers had

written splendid New Year's wishes--so large!--one for papa, and

another for Albert and Charlotte, and one for Werther; and they were to

be presented early in the morning, on New-Year's Day. This quite

overcame him. He made each of the children a present, mounted his

horse, left his compliments for papa and mama, and, with tears in his

eyes, rode away from the place.

He returned home about five o'clock, ordered his servant to keep up his

fire, desired him to pack his books and linen at the bottom of the

trunk, and to place his coats at the top. He then appears to have made

the following addition to the letter addressed to Charlotte.--

"You do not expect me. You think I will obey you, and not visit you

again till Christmas Eve. Oh, Charlotte, to-day or never! On Christmas

Eve you will hold this paper in your hand; you will tremble, and

moisten it with your tears. I will--I must! Oh, how happy I feel to be

determined!"

In the mean time Charlotte was in a pitiable state of mind. After her

last conversation with Werther, she found how painful to herself it

would be to decline his visits, and knew how severely he would suffer

from their separation.

She had, in conversation with Albert, mentioned casually that Werther

would not return before Christmas Eve; and soon afterwards Albert went

on horseback to see a person in the neighbourhood, with whom he had to

transact some business which would detain him all night.

Charlotte was sitting alone. None of her family were near, and she gave

herself up to the reflections that silently took possession of her

mind. She was forever united to a husband whose love and fidelity she

had proved, to whom she was heartily devoted, and who seemed to be a

special gift from Heaven to insure her happiness. On the other hand,

Werther had become dear to her. There was a cordial unanimity of

sentiment between them from the very first hour of their acquaintance,

and their long association and repeated interviews had made an

indelible impression upon her heart. She had been accustomed to

communicate to him every thought and feeling which interested her, and

his absence threatened to open a void in her existence which it might

be impossible to fill. How heartily she wished that she might change

him into her brother,--that she could induce him to marry one of her

own friends, or could reestablish his intimacy with Albert.

She passed all her intimate friends in review before her mind, but

found something objectionable in each, and could decide upon none to

whom she would consent to give him.

Amid all these considerations she felt deeply but indistinctly that her

own real but unexpressed wish was to retain him for herself, and her

pure and amiable heart felt from this thought a sense of oppression

which seemed to forbid a prospect of happiness. She was wretched: a

dark cloud obscured her mental vision.

It was now half-past six o'clock, and she heard Werther's step on the

stairs. She at once recognised his voice, as he inquired if she were

at home. Her heart beat audibly--we could almost say for the first

time--at his arrival. It was too late to deny herself; and as he

entered, she exclaimed, with a sort of ill-concealed confusion, "You

have not kept your word!" "I promised nothing," he answered. "But you

should have complied, at least for my sake," she continued. "I implore

you, for both our sakes."

She scarcely knew what she said or did, and sent for some friends, who

by their presence might prevent her being left alone with Werther. He

put down some books he had brought with him, then made inquiries about

some others, until she began to hope that her friends might arrive

shortly, entertaining at the same time a desire that they might stay

away.

At one moment she felt anxious that the servant should remain in the

adjoining room, then she changed her mind. Werther, meanwhile, walked

impatiently up and down. She went to the piano, and determined not to

retire. She then collected her thoughts, and sat down quietly at

Werther's side, who had taken his usual place on the sofa.

"Have you brought nothing to read?" she inquired. He had nothing.

"There in my drawer," she continued, "you will find your own

translation of some of the songs of Ossian. I have not yet read them,

as I have still hoped to hear you recite them; but, for some time past,

I have not been able to accomplish such a wish." He smiled, and went

for the manuscript, which he took with a shudder. He sat down: and,

with eyes full of tears, he began to read.

"Star of descending night! fair is thy light in the west! thou liftest

thy unshorn head from thy cloud; thy steps are stately on thy hill.

What dost thou behold in the plain? The stormy winds are laid. The

murmur of the torrent comes from afar. Roaring waves climb the distant

rock. The flies of evening are on their feeble wings: the hum of their

course is on the field. What dost thou behold, fair light? But thou

dost smile and depart. The waves come with joy around thee: they bathe

thy lovely hair. Farewell, thou silent beam! Let the light of Ossian's

soul arise!

"And it does arise in its strength? I behold my departed friends. Their

gathering is on Lora, as in the days of other years. Fingal comes like

a watery column of mist! his heroes are around; and see the bards of

song,--gray-haired Ullin! stately Ryno! Alpin with the tuneful voice!

the soft complaint of Minona! How are ye changed, my friends, since the

days of Selma's feast, when we contended, like gales of spring as they

fly along the hill, and bend by turns the feebly whistling grass!

"Minona came forth in her beauty, with downcast look and tearful eye.

Her hair was flying slowly with the blast that rushed unfrequent from

the hill. The souls of the heroes were sad when she raised the tuneful

voice. Oft had they seen the grave of Salgar, the dark dwelling of

white-bosomed Colma. Colma left alone on the hill with all her voice of

song! Salgar promised to come; but the night descended around. Hear the

voice of Colma, when she sat alone on the hill!

"_Colma_. It is night: I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The

wind is heard on the mountain. The torrent is howling down the rock. No

hut receives me from the rain: forlorn on the hill of winds!

"Rise, moon, from behind thy clouds! Stars of the night, arise I Lead

me, some light, to the place where my love rests from the chase alone!

His bow near him unstrung, his dogs panting around him! But here I must

sit alone by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the wind roar

aloud. I hear not the voice of my love! Why delays my Salgar; why the

chief of the hill his promise? Here is the rock, and here the tree;

here is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here.

Ah! whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly from my father,

with thee from my brother of pride. Our race have long been foes: we

are not foes, O Salgar!

"Cease a little while, O winds! stream, be thou silent awhile! Let my

voice be heard around; let my wanderer hear me! Salgar! it is Colma who

calls. Here is the tree and the rock. Salgar, my love, I am here! Why

delayest thou thy coming? Lo! the calm moon comes forth. The flood is

bright in the vale; the rocks are gray on the steep. I see him not on

the brow. His dogs come not before him with tidings of his near

approach. Here I must sit alone!

"Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love and my brother? Speak

to me, O my friends! To Colma they give no reply. Speak to me: I am

alone! My soul is tormented with fears. Ah, they are dead! Their swords

are red from the fight. Oh, my brother! my brother! why hast thou slain

my Salgar? Why, O Salgar! hast thou slain my brother? Dear were ye both

to me! what shall I say in your praise? Thou wert fair on the hill

among thousands! he was terrible in fight! Speak to me! hear my voice!

hear me, sons of my love! They are silent, silent forever! Cold, cold,

are their breasts of clay! Oh, from the rock on the hill, from the top

of the windy steep, speak, ye ghosts of the dead! Speak, I will not be

afraid! Whither are ye gone to rest? In what cave of the hill shall I

find the departed? No feeble voice is on the gale: no answer half

drowned in the storm!

"I sit in my grief: I wait for morning in my tears! Rear the tomb, ye

friends of the dead. Close it not till Colma come. My life flies away

like a dream. Why should I stay behind? Here shall I rest with my

friends, by the stream of the sounding rock. When night comes on the

hill,--when the loud winds arise, my ghost shall stand in the blast,

and mourn the death of my friends. The hunter shall hear from his

booth; he shall fear, but love my voice! For sweet shall my voice be

for my friends: pleasant were her friends to Colma.

"Such was thy song, Minona, softly blushing daughter of Torman. Our

tears descended for Colma, and our souls were sad! Ullin came with his

harp; he gave the song of Alpin. The voice of Alpin was pleasant; the

soul of Ryno was a beam of fire! But they had rested in the narrow

house: their voice had ceased in Selma! Ullin had returned one day from

the chase before the heroes fell. He heard their strife on the hill:

their song was soft, but sad! They mourned the fall of Morar, first of

mortal men! His soul was like the soul of Fingal; his sword like the

sword of Oscar. But he fell, and his father mourned; his sister's eyes

were full of tears. Minona's eyes were full of tears, the sister of

car-borne Morar. She retired from the song of Ullin, like the moon in

the west, when she foresees the shower, and hides her fair head in a

cloud. I touched the harp with Ullin: the song of mourning rose!

"_Ryno_. The wind and the rain are past; calm is the noon of day. The

clouds are divided in heaven. Over the green hills flies the inconstant

sun. Red through the stony vale comes down the stream of the hill.

Sweet are thy murmurs, O stream! but more sweet is the voice I hear. It

is the voice of Alpin, the son of song, mourning for the dead! Bent is

his head of age; red his tearful eye. Alpin, thou son of song, why

alone on the silent hill? why complainest thou, as a blast in the

wood,--as a wave on the lonely shore?

"_Alpin_. My tears, O Ryno! are for the dead,--my voice for those that

have passed away. Tall thou art on the hill; fair among the sons of the

vale. But thou shall fall like Morar; the mourner shall sit on thy

tomb. The hills shall know thee no more; thy bow shall lie in thy hall

unstrung!

"Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a roe on the desert; terrible as a meteor

of fire. Thy wrath was as the storm; thy sword in battle as lightning

in the field. Thy voice was a stream after rain, like thunder on

distant bills. Many fell by thy arm: they were consumed in the flames

of thy wrath. But when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was thy

brow! Thy face was like the sun after rain, like the moon in the

silence of night; calm as the breast of the lake when the loud wind is

laid.

"Narrow is thy dwelling now! dark the place of thine abode! With three

steps I compass thy grave, O thou who wast so great before! Four

stones, with their heads of moss, are the only memorial of thee. A tree

with scarce a leaf, long grass which whistles in the wind, mark to the

hunter's eye the grave of the mighty Morar. Morar! thou art low indeed.

Thou hast no mother to mourn thee, no maid with her tears of love. Dead

is she that brought thee forth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglan.

"Who on his staff is this? Who is this whose head is white with age,

whose eyes are red with tears, who quakes at every step? It is thy

father, O Morar! the father of no son but thee. He heard of thy fame in

war, he heard of foes dispersed. He heard of Morar's renown; why did he

not hear of his wound? Weep, thou father of Morar! Weep, but thy son

heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of the dead,--low their pillow of

dust. No more shall he hear thy voice,--no more awake at thy call. When

shall it be morn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake? Farewell,

thou bravest of men! thou conqueror in the field! but the field shall

see thee no more, nor the dark wood be lightened with the splendour of

thy steel. Thou hast left no son. The song shall preserve thy name.

Future times shall hear of thee,--they shall hear of the fallen Morar!

"The grief of all arose, but most the bursting sigh of Armin. He

remembers the death of his son, who fell in the days of his youth.

Carmor was near the hero, the chief of the echoing Galmal. Why burst

the sigh of Armin? he said. Is there a cause to mourn? The song comes

with its music to melt and please the soul. It is like soft mist that,

rising from a lake, pours on the silent vale; the green flowers are

filled with dew, but the sun returns in his strength, and the mist is

gone. Why art thou sad, O Armin, chief of sea-surrounded Gorma?

"Sad I am! nor small is my cause of woe! Carmor, thou hast lost no son;

thou hast lost no daughter of beauty. Colgar the valiant lives, and

Annira, fairest maid. The boughs of thy house ascend, O Carmor! but

Armin is the last of his race. Dark is thy bed, O Daura! deep thy sleep

in the tomb! When shalt thou wake with thy songs,--with all thy voice

of music?

"Arise, winds of autumn, arise; blow along the heath! Streams of the

mountains, roar; roar, tempests in the groves of my oaks! Walk through

broken clouds, O moon! show thy pale face at intervals; bring to my

mind the night when all my children fell.--when Arindal the mighty

fell, when Daura the lovely failed. Daura, my daughter, thou wert

fair,--fair as the moon on Fura, white as the driven snow, sweet as the

breathing gale. Arindal, thy bow was strong, thy spear was swift on the

field, thy look was like mist on the wave, thy shield a red cloud in a

storm! Armar, renowned in war, came and sought Daura's love. He was not

long refused: fair was the hope of their friends.

"Erath, son of Odgal, repined: his brother had been slain by Armar. He

came disguised like a son of the sea: fair was his cliff on the wave,

white his locks of age, calm his serious brow. Fairest of women, he

said, lovely daughter of Armin! a rock not distant in the sea bears a

tree on its side: red shines the fruit afar. There Armar waits for

Daura. I come to carry his love! She went,--she called on Armar. Naught

answered, but the son of the rock. Armar, my love, my love! why

tormentest thou me with fear? Hear, son of Arnart, hear! it is Daura

who calleth thee. Erath, the traitor, fled laughing to the land. She

lifted up her voice,--she called for her brother and her father.

Arindal! Armin! none to relieve you, Daura.

"Her voice came over the sea. Arindal, my son, descended from the hill,

rough in the spoils of the chase. His arrows rattled by his side: his

bow was in his hand, five dark-gray dogs attended his steps. He saw

fierce Erath on the shore; he seized and bound him to an oak. Thick

wind the thongs of the hide around his limbs; he loads the winds with

his groans. Arindal ascends the deep in his boat to bring Daura to

land. Armar came in his wrath, and let fly the gray-feathered shaft. It

sung, it sunk in thy heart, O Arindal, my son! for Erath the traitor

thou diest. The oar is stopped at once: he panted on the rock and

expired. What is thy grief, O Daura, when round thy feet is poured thy

brother's blood? The boat is broken in twain. Armar plunges into the

sea to rescue his Daura, or die. Sudden a blast from a hill came over

the waves; he sank, and he rose no more.

"Alone, on the sea-beat rock, my daughter was heard to complain;

frequent and loud were her cries. What could her father do? All night I

stood on the shore: I saw her by the faint beam of the moon. All night

I heard her cries. Loud was the wind; the rain beat hard on the hill.

Before morning appeared, her voice was weak; it died away like the

evening breeze among the grass of the rocks. Spent with grief, she

expired, and left thee, Armin, alone. Gone is my strength in war,

fallen my pride among women. When the storms aloft arise, when the

north lifts the wave on high, I sit by the sounding shore, and look on

the fatal rock.

"Often by the setting moon I see the ghosts of my children; half

viewless they walk in mournful conference together."

A torrent of tears which streamed from Charlotte's eyes, and gave

relief to her bursting heart, stopped Werther's recitation. He threw

down the book, seized her hand, and wept bitterly Charlotte leaned upon

her hand, and buried her face in her handkerchief: the agitation of

both was excessive. They felt that their own fate was pictured in the

misfortunes of Ossian's heroes,--they felt this together, and their

tears redoubled. Werther supported his forehead on Charlotte's arm: she

trembled, she wished to be gone; but sorrow and sympathy lay like a

leaden weight upon her soul. She recovered herself shortly, and begged

Werther, with broken sobs, to leave her,--implored him with the utmost

earnestness to comply with her request. He trembled; his heart was

ready to burst: then taking up the book again, he recommenced reading,

in a voice broken by sobs.

"Why dost thou waken me, O Spring. Thy voice woos me, exclaiming, I

refresh thee with heavenly dews; but the time of my decay is

approaching, the storm is nigh that shall wither my leaves. To-morrow

the traveller shall come,--he shall come, who beheld me in beauty: his

eye shall seek me in the field around, but he shall not find me."

The whole force of these words fell upon the unfortunate Werther. Full

of despair, he threw himself at Charlotte's feet, seized her hands, and

pressed them to his eyes and to his forehead. An apprehension of his

fatal project now struck her for the first time. Her senses were

bewildered: she held his hands, pressed them to her bosom; and, leaning

towards him with emotions of the tenderest pity, her warm cheek touched

his. They lost sight of everything. The world disappeared from their

eyes. He clasped her in his arms, strained her to his bosom, and

covered her trembling lips with passionate kisses. "Werther!" she cried

with a faint voice, turning herself away; "Werther!" and, with a feeble

hand, she pushed him from her. At length, with the firm voice of

virtue, she exclaimed, "Werther!" He resisted not, but, tearing himself

from her arms, fell on his knees before her. Charlotte rose, and with

disordered grief, in mingled tones of love and resentment, she

exclaimed, "It is the last time, Werther! You shall never see me any

more!" Then, casting one last, tender look upon her unfortunate lover,

she rushed into the adjoining room, and locked the door. Werther held

out his arms, but did not dare to detain her. He continued on the

ground, with his head resting on the sofa, for half an hour, till he

heard a noise which brought him to his senses. The servant entered. He

then walked up and down the room; and when he was again left alone, he

went to Charlotte's door, and, in a low voice, said, "Charlotte,

Charlotte! but one word more, one last adieu!" She returned no answer.

He stopped, and listened and entreated; but all was silent. At length

he tore himself from the place, crying, "Adieu, Charlotte, adieu

forever!"

Werther ran to the gate of the town. The guards, who knew him, let him

pass in silence. The night was dark and stormy,--it rained and snowed.

He reached his own door about eleven. His servant, although seeing him

enter the house without his hat, did not venture to say anything; and

as he undressed his master, he found that his clothes were wet. His hat

was afterwards found on the point of a rock overhanging the valley; and

it is inconceivable how he could have climbed to the summit on such a

dark, tempestuous night without losing his life.

He retired to bed, and slept to a late hour. The next morning his

servant, upon being called to bring his coffee, found him writing. He

was adding, to Charlotte, what we here annex.

"For the last, last time, I open these eyes. Alas! they will behold the

sun no more. It is covered by a thick, impenetrable cloud. Yes, Nature!

put on mourning; your child, your friend, your lover, draws near his

end! This thought, Charlotte, is without parallel: and yet it seems

like a mysterious dream when I repeat--This is my last day! The last!

Charlotte, no word can adequately express this thought. The last!

To-day I stand erect in all my strength,--to-morrow, cold and stark, I

shall lie extended upon the ground. To die! What is death? We do but

dream in our discourse upon it. I have seen many human beings die; but,

so straitened is our feeble nature, we have no clear conception of the

beginning or the end of our existence. At this moment I am my own,--or

rather I am thine, thine, my adored!--and the next we are parted,

severed--perhaps forever! No, Charlotte, no! How can I, how can you, be

annihilated? We exist. What is annihilation? A mere word, an unmeaning

sound, that fixes no impression on the mind. Dead, Charlotte! laid in

the cold earth, in the dark and narrow grave! I had a friend once who

was everything to me in early youth. She died. I followed her hearse; I

stood by her grave when the coffin was lowered; and when I heard the

creaking of the cords as they were loosened and drawn up, when the

first shovelful of earth was thrown in, and the coffin returned a

hollow sound, which grew fainter and fainter till all was completely

covered over, I threw myself on the ground; my heart was smitten,

grieved, shattered, rent--but I neither knew what had happened nor what

was to happen to me. Death! the grave! I understand not the words.

Forgive, oh, forgive me! Yesterday--ah, that day should have been the

last of my life! Thou angel!--for the first--first time in my

existence, I felt rapture glow within my inmost soul. She loves, she

loves me! Still burns upon my lips the sacred fire they received from

thine. New torrents of delight overwhelm my soul. Forgive me, oh,

forgive!

"I knew that I was dear to you; I saw it in your first entrancing look,

knew it by the first pressure of your hand; but when I was absent from

you, when I saw Albert at your side, my doubts and fears returned.

"Do you remember the flowers you sent me, when at that crowded assembly

you could neither speak nor extend your hand to me? Half the night I

was on my knees before those flowers, and I regarded them as the

pledges of your love; but those impressions grew fainter, and were at

length effaced.

"Everything passes away; but a whole eternity could not extinguish the

living flame which was yesterday kindled by your lips, and which now

burns within me. She loves me! These arms have encircled her waist,

these lips have trembled upon hers. She is mine! Yes, Charlotte, you

are mine forever!

"And what do they mean by saying Albert is your husband? He may be so

for this world; and in this world it is a sin to love you, to wish to

tear you from his embrace. Yes, it is a crime; and I suffer the

punishment, but I have enjoyed the full delight of my sin. I have

inhaled a balm that has revived my soul. From this hour you are mine;

yes, Charlotte, you are mine! I go before you. I go to my Father and to

your Father. I will pour out my sorrows before him, and he will give me

comfort till you arrive. Then will I fly to meet you. I will claim you,

and remain in your eternal embrace, in the presence of the Almighty.

"I do not dream, I do not rave. Drawing nearer to the grave, my

perceptions become clearer. We shall exist; we shall see each other

again; we shall behold your mother; I shall behold her, and expose to

her my inmost heart. Your mother--your image!"

About eleven o'clock Werther asked his servant if Albert had returned.

He answered, "Yes;" for he had seen him pass on horseback: upon which

Werther sent him the following note, unsealed:--

"Be so good as to lend me your pistols for a journey. Adieu."

Charlotte had slept little during the past night. All her apprehensions

were realised in a way that she could neither foresee nor avoid. Her

blood was boiling in her veins, and a thousand painful sensations rent

her pure heart. Was it the ardour of Werther's passionate embraces that

she felt within her bosom? Was it anger at his daring? Was it the sad

comparison of her present condition with former days of innocence,

tranquillity, and self-confidence? How could she approach her husband,

and confess a scene which she had no reason to conceal, and which she

yet felt, nevertheless, unwilling to avow? They had preserved so long a

silence towards each other--and should she be the first to break it by

so unexpected a discovery? She feared that the mere statement of

Werther's visit would trouble him, and his distress would be heightened

by her perfect candour. She wished that he could see her in her true

light, and judge her without prejudice; but was she anxious that he

should read her inmost soul? On the other hand, could she deceive a

being to whom all her thoughts had ever been exposed as clearly as

crystal, and from whom no sentiment had ever been concealed? These

reflections made her anxious and thoughtful. Her mind still dwelt on

Werther, who was now lost to her, but whom she could not bring herself

to resign, and for whom she knew nothing was left but despair if she

should be lost to him forever.

A recollection of that mysterious estrangement which had lately

subsisted between herself and Albert, and which she could never

thoroughly understand, was now beyond measure painful to her. Even the

prudent and the good have, before now, hesitated to explain their

mutual differences, and have dwelt in silence upon their imaginary

grievances, until circumstances have become so entangled that in that

critical juncture, when a calm explanation would have saved all

parties, an understanding was impossible. And thus if domestic

confidence had been earlier established between them, if love and kind

forbearance had mutually animated and expanded their hearts, it might

not, perhaps, even yet have been too late to save our friend.

But we must not forget one remarkable circumstance. We may observe,

from the character of Werther's correspondence, that he had never

affected to conceal his anxious desire to quit this world. He had often

discussed the subject with Albert; and between the latter and Charlotte

it had not unfrequently formed a topic of conversation. Albert was so

opposed to the very idea of such an action, that, with a degree of

irritation unusual in him, he had more than once given Werther to

understand that he doubted the seriousness of his threats, and not only

turned them into ridicule, but caused Charlotte to share his feelings

of incredulity. Her heart was thus tranquillised when she felt disposed

to view the melancholy subject in a serious point of view, though she

never communicated to her husband the apprehensions she sometimes

experienced.

Albert, upon his return, was received by Charlotte with ill-concealed

embarrassment. He was himself out of humour: his business was

unfinished; and he had just discovered that the neighbouring official,

with whom he had to deal, was an obstinate and narrow-minded personage.

Many things had occurred to irritate him.

He inquired whether anything had happened during his absence, and

Charlotte hastily answered that Werther had been there on the evening

previously. He then inquired for his letters, and was answered that

several packages had been left in his study. He thereon retired,

leaving Charlotte alone.

The presence of the being she loved and honoured produced a new

impression on her heart. The recollection of his generosity, kindness,

and affection had calmed her agitation: a secret impulse prompted her

to follow him; she took her work and went to his study, as was often

her custom. He was busily employed opening and reading his letters. It

seemed as if the contents of some were disagreeable. She asked some

questions: he gave short answers, and sat down to write.

Several hours passed in this manner, and Charlotte's feelings became

more and more melancholy. She felt the extreme difficulty of explaining

to her husband, under any circumstances, the weight that lay upon her

heart; and her depression became every moment greater, in proportion as

she endeavoured to hide her grief and to conceal her tears.

The arrival of Werther's servant occasioned her the greatest

embarrassment. He gave Albert a note, which the latter coldly handed to

his wife, saying, at the same time, "Give him the pistols. I wish

him a pleasant journey," he added, turning to the servant. These

words fell upon Charlotte like a thunder-stroke: she rose from her seat

half-fainting, and unconscious of what she did. She walked mechanically

towards the wall, took down the pistols with a trembling hand, slowly

wiped the dust from them, and would have delayed longer, had not Albert

hastened her movements by an impatient look. She then delivered the

fatal weapons to the servant, without being able to utter a word. As

soon as he had departed, she folded up her work, and retired at once to

her room, her heart overcome with the most fearful forebodings. She

anticipated some dreadful calamity. She was at one moment on the point

of going to her husband, throwing herself at his feet, and acquainting

him with all that had happened on the previous evening, that she might

acknowledge her fault, and explain her apprehension; then she saw that

such a step would be useless, as she would certainly be unable to

induce Albert to visit Werther. Dinner was served; and a kind friend

whom she had persuaded to remain assisted to sustain the conversation,

which was carried on by a sort of compulsion, till the events of the

morning were forgotten.

When the servant brought the pistols to Werther, the latter received

them with transports of delight upon hearing that Charlotte had given

them to him with her own hand. He ate some bread, drank some wine, sent

his servant to dinner, and then sat down to write as follows:

"They have been in your hands--you wiped the dust from them. I kiss

them a thousand times--you have touched them. Yes, Heaven favours my

design--and you, Charlotte, provide me with the fatal instruments. It

was my desire to receive my death from your hands, and my wish is

gratified. I have made inquiries of my servant. You trembled when you

gave him the pistols, but you bade me no adieu. Wretched, wretched that

I am,--not one farewell! How could you shut your heart against me in

that hour which makes you mine forever? Oh, Charlotte, ages cannot

efface the impression,--I feel you cannot hate the man who so

passionately loves you!"

After dinner he called his servant, desired him to finish the packing

up, destroyed many papers, and then went out to pay some trifling

debts. He soon returned home, then went out again notwithstanding the

rain, walked for some time in the count's garden, and afterwards

proceeded farther into the country. Towards evening he came back once

more, and resumed his writing.

"Wilhelm, I have for the last time beheld the mountains, the forests,

and the sky. Farewell! And you, my dearest mother, forgive me! Console

her, Wilhelm. God bless you! I have settled all my affairs! Farewell!

We shall meet again, and be happier than ever."

"I have requited you badly, Albeit; but you will forgive me. I have

disturbed the peace of your home. I have sowed distrust between you.

Farewell! I will end all this wretchedness. And oh that my death may

render you happy! Albert, Albert! make that angel happy, and the

blessing of Heaven be upon you!"

He spent the rest of the evening in arranging his papers; he tore and

burned a great many; others he sealed up, and directed to Wilhelm. They

contained some detached thoughts and maxims, some of which I have

perused. At ten o'clock he ordered his fire to be made up, and a bottle

of wine to be brought to him. He then dismissed his servant, whose

room, as well as the apartments of the rest of the family, was situated

in another part of the house. The servant lay down without undressing,

that he might be the sooner ready for his journey in the morning, his

master having informed him that the post-horses would be at the door

before six o'clock.

"Past eleven o'clock! All is silent around me, and my soul is calm. I

thank thee, O God, that thou bestowest strength and courage upon me in

these last moments! I approach the window, my dearest of friends; and

through the clouds, which are at this moment driven rapidly along by

the impetuous winds, I behold the stars which illumine the eternal

heavens. No, you will not fall, celestial bodies: the hand of the

Almighty supports both you and me! I have looked for the last time upon

the constellation of the Greater Bear: it is my favourite star; for

when I bade you farewell at night, Charlotte, and turned my steps from

your door, it always shone upon me. With what rapture have I at times

beheld it! How often have I implored it with uplifted hands to witness

my felicity! and even still--But what object is there, Charlotte, which

fails to summon up your image before me? Do you not surround me on all

sides? and have I not, like a child, treasured up every trifle which

you have consecrated by your touch?

"Your profile, which was so dear to me, I return to you; and I pray you

to preserve it. Thousands of kisses have I imprinted upon it, and a

thousand times has it gladdened my heart on departing from and

returning to my home.

"I have implored your father to protect my remains. At the corner

of the churchyard, looking towards the fields, there are two

lime-trees,--there I wish to lie. Your father can, and doubtless will,

do thus much for his friend. Implore it of him. But perhaps pious

Christians will not choose that their bodies should be buried near the

corpse of a poor, unhappy wretch like me. Then let me be laid in some

remote valley, or near the highway, where the priest and Levite may

bless themselves as they pass by my tomb, whilst the Samaritan will

shed a tear for my fate.

"See, Charlotte, I do not shudder to take the cold and fatal cup, from

which I shall drink the draught of death. Your hand presents it to me,

and I do not tremble. All, all is now concluded: the wishes and the

hopes of my existence are fulfilled. With cold, unflinching hand I

knock at the brazen portals of Death.

"Oh that I had enjoyed the bliss of dying for you! how gladly would I

have sacrificed myself for you, Charlotte! And could I but restore

peace and joy to your bosom, with what resolution, with what joy, would

I not meet my fate! But it is the lot of only a chosen few to shed

their blood for their friends, and by their death to augment a thousand

times the happiness of those by whom they are beloved.

"I wish, Charlotte, to be buried in the dress I wear at present: it has

been rendered sacred by your touch. I have begged this favour of your

father. My spirit soars above my sepulchre. I do not wish my pockets to

be searched. The knot of pink ribbon which you wore on your bosom the

first time I saw you, surrounded by the children--Oh, kiss them a

thousand times for me, and tell them the fate of their unhappy friend!

I think I see them playing around me. The dear children! How warmly

have I been attached to you, Charlotte! Since the first hour I saw you,

how impossible have I found it to leave you! This ribbon must be buried

with me: it was a present from you on my birthday. How confused it all

appears! Little did I then think that I should journey this road! But

peace! I pray you, peace!

"They are loaded--the clock strikes twelve. I say amen. Charlotte,

Charlotte! farewell, farewell!"

A neighbor saw the flash, and heard the report of the pistol; but as

everything remained quiet, he thought no more of it.

In the morning, at six o'clock, the servant went into Werther's room

with a candle. He found his master stretched upon the floor, weltering

in his blood, and the pistols at his side. He called, he took him in

his arms, but received no answer. Life was not yet quite extinct. The

servant ran for a surgeon, and then went to fetch Albert. Charlotte

heard the ringing of the bell; a cold shudder seized her. She wakened

her husband and they both rose. The servant, bathed in tears, faltered

forth the dreadful news. Charlotte fell senseless at Albert's feet.

When the surgeon came to the unfortunate Werther, he was still lying on

the floor; and his pulse beat, but his limbs were cold. The bullet,

entering the forehead over the right eye, had penetrated the skull. A

vein was opened in his right arm; the blood came, and he still

continued to breathe.

From the blood which flowed from the chair, it could be inferred that

he had committed the rash act sitting at his bureau, and that he

afterwards fell upon the floor. He was found lying on his back near the

window. He was in full-dress costume.

The house, the neighbourhood, and the whole town were immediately in

commotion. Albert arrived. They had laid Werther on the bed. His head

was bound up, and the paleness of death was upon his face. His limbs

were motionless; but he still breathed, at one time strongly, then

weaker,--his death was momently expected.

He had drunk only one glass of the wine. "Emilia Galotti" lay open upon

his bureau.

I shall say nothing of Albert's distress or of Charlotte's grief.

The old steward hastened to the house immediately upon hearing the

news; he embraced his dying friend amid a flood of tears. His eldest

boys soon followed him on foot. In speechless sorrow they threw

themselves on their knees by the bedside, and kissed his hands and

face. The eldest, who was his favourite, hung over him till he expired;

and even then he was removed by force. At twelve o'clock Werther

breathed his last. The presence of the steward, and the precautions he

had adopted, prevented a disturbance; and that night, at the hour of

eleven, he caused the body to be interred in the place which Werther

had selected for himself.

The steward and his sons followed the corpse to the grave. Albert was

unable to accompany them. Charlotte's life was despaired of. The body

was carried by labourers. No priest attended.

THE BANNER OF THE UPRIGHT

SEVEN

BY

GOTTFRIED KELLER

TRANSLATED BY

MURIEL ALMON

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

Gottfried Keller was born in Zurich on July 19, 1819. His father, who

was a turner, died when his son was only five; but his energetic and

devoted mother contrived to provide Gottfried with a good elementary

education. When he was fifteen he was expelled from school for taking

part in a boyish conspiracy against a teacher, and he at once set about

becoming a painter. Finding it difficult to obtain proper instruction

in Zurich, he went in 1840 to Munich; but though the opportunities of

the Bavarian capital were important for his general development, he

returned home in 1842 without assurance of making a success in his art.

The next six years, spent at home with his mother and sister, saw his

gradual turning from painting to literature; and in 1846 he issued a

volume of poems to which little attention was paid. When he was

twenty-nine, the government of the canton gave him a scholarship of

eight hundred francs for foreign study, and with this he went to

Heidelberg, where, in spite of the confusion of the revolution of 1848,

he made friends of men like Henle the pathologist, Hettner the literary

historian, and Feuerbach the philosopher, all of whom had a profound

effect upon his thinking. From Heidelberg he went to Berlin, where he

hoped to equip himself as a dramatist; and there in 1854-5 he published

his great autobiographical novel, "Green Henry." This work was

appreciated by his friends and brought him some money, though at the

time no very wide reputation, and after six years of semi-starvation in

the Prussian capital he again went home to his mother's house. "The

People of Seldwyla," a collection of admirable short stories, was

issued in 1856, but still he made no great popular success.

But at last fortune favored him when, in 1861, he was appointed Clerk

of the Canton of Zurich, a position he filled efficiently for fifteen

years. In 1872 appeared his "Seven Legends," the whimsical humor and

mock realism of which brought general recognition. Five years later

came the historical stories called "Zurich Novels"; in 1881 "The

Epigram"; in 1883 "Collected Poems," establishing his place as a lyric

poet of high rank; and in 1886 "Martin Salander," a novel of

contemporary Switzerland. His genius was now generally recognized both

at home and abroad; and when he died on July 15, 1890, he stood at the

head of German letters. He was never married.

Keller was a writer of great independence, and cannot be classed with

any of the schools. The closeness of his observation and his fidelity

in rendering both the good and the bad sides of life ally him with the

realists; but his imagination was too much alive to allow of his being

properly described by their label. He knew the Swiss of his own time

intimately, and he has portrayed them in their homely provincialism as

well as in their sturdy self-respect and love of freedom.

"The Banner of the Upright Seven," one of the stories from "The People

of Seldwyla," is an excellent example of the faculty which made him the

greatest of German humorists. The story has genuine sentiment, but

sentiment restrained as always in his books; it has sympathy for

youthful ambition and youthful love, as well as for the political

enthusiasm of the delightful old fellows whose name it bears; but both

sentiment and sympathy are overshadowed by the rich humor which

pervades the whole. Pure Swiss it no doubt is, but its appeal is to all

hearts open to wholesome human affection and aspirations.

W. A. N.

CRITICISMS AND INTERPRETATIONS

I

By John Firman Coar

Schiller has been criticised for letting the Swiss peasants in "William

Tell" speak as they do. What peasants, it is asked, would utter such

thoughts? The peasants and simple burghers of the life that Keller

studied and depicted is the reply. To a German these peasants seem

curiously unreal. But Keller was no idealist when he depicted peasant

and burgher life. His people speak as they think and they think as they

speak, and they do both as Keller knew them to do it in everyday life.

Theirs was the inestimable benefit of democratic government and

democratic culture. A compact nationality, self-educated to the duties

and privileges of citizenship, leaders in the widest possible

dissemination of knowledge as the best guaranty of civic progress and

justice--could Keller, a Swiss, depict the life of this people as

anything else than a civic and intellectual democracy?

This perspective gives to situations, characters, and actions their

true proportions. They are supremely real. His individuals are not

equal in civic worth and intellectual capacity, but shade off in

wonderfully fine lines, thereby enhancing the effect. Paragons and

deep-dyed villains do not challenge our credulity, nor are we wearied

by the persistent greetings of familiar faces in new garments. One of

the triumphs of Keller's art is the ever new form in which humanity

presents itself. And this is the glory of his social democracy, that it

recognizes the inviolable right of individuality, since it founds state

and society upon the achievement of individual worth. Ethic manhood is

something that neither state nor society can impart. It lies in the

power of the individual to make or unmake his life, and he alone can

solve the secret of his personality. Easier it is for him to do so amid

surroundings that open his heart to the great glory of life, but still

he alone can do so. That is Keller's doctrine.

Keller grew to manhood in surroundings which were as nearly identical

with Schiller's philosophic ideal of freedom as human conditions can

well be. The Switzerland of his manhood days was the best possible

justification of the ideal picture that Schiller drew in "William

Tell." Therefore the optimism of Keller is so sturdy, so free from

sentimentality, and so thoroughly human. His poetry is the noblest

consummation of Heine's gospel of the divine beauty of life.

Keller believed with all his soul in the self-redemption of society,

and used the word society in its broadest signification. And his belief

was vitalized by that which he saw in Swiss life. The germs of the past

were bearing fruit in the present, and in the present the germs of a

future harvest were swelling. He was not one of those complacent

optimists who cannot discern with critical eye and whose complacency

deadens the best impulses and stands in the way of energetic striving.

Swiss life in his stories is by no means a paradise. His words to B.

Auerbach (June 25, 1860) betoken the attitude he took toward this life,

as they also reveal the genuine democracy of his artistic striving:

"Here in Switzerland we have, to be sure, many good qualities, and in

respect to public character, evidently at present an honest purpose to

acquire respectable and inspiriting forms of living, and the people is

proving itself plastic (mobile), happy, and buoyant; but all is not

gold that glitters by any means. However, I consider it the duty of a

poet not merely to glorify the past, but to strengthen the present, the

germs of the future, and beautify it in such a manner that people may

still be able to believe: yes, we are like that, and that is the course

of our life. If poets do this with a certain measure of kindly irony

which deprives their productions of false pathos, then I am convinced

that the people will come to be in fact and in appearance what it

good-naturedly imagines itself to be and what even now it really is in

its inmost disposition."--From "Studies in German Literature" (1903).

II

By Calvin Thomas

Up to a dozen years before his death Keller had received little

attention in Germany; to-day there is a library of books about him, and

he is universally considered a fixed star of high magnitude. While he

was an ardent Swiss republican, and while the life that he depicts is

almost exclusively Swiss, the Germans of the empire have pretty

generally accepted him as their greatest master of prose fiction since

Goethe.

Keller was a romantic realist with the soul of a poet, the eye of a man

of science, and the temperament of an artist who loves life in all its

manifestations. But this leaves his humour out of the account, and his

humour is precisely the best part of him. In a broad sense he is

didactic--like Goethe; that is, he felt that it was his mission to

comprehend and describe the character of his Swiss countrymen, to the

end of furthering them toward higher ideals of communal life. But this

attitude never clouds his vision for the facts. He sees at every pore,

as Emerson said of Goethe. He does not select ugliness for special or

angry scrutiny, any more than he avoids it through excess of

daintiness, but takes all things as they come. What he offers is not

medicine but food--the nourishment of sane and delightful art. But no

one should go to him for an exciting narrative. His spell is not in his

plot. In "Green Henry," particularly, his pace is so very leisurely

that one sometimes wishes there were not so many little things to be

taken note of by the way.--From "A History of German Literature"

(1909).

THE BANNER OF THE

UPRIGHT SEVEN

Kaspar Hediger, master tailor of Zurich, had reached the age at which

an industrious craftsman begins to allow himself a brief hour of rest

after dinner. So it happened that one beautiful March day he was

sitting not in his manual but in his mental workshop, a small, separate

room which for years he had reserved for himself. He was glad that the

weather was warm enough for him to occupy it again. In winter neither

the old customs of his class nor his income permitted him to have an

extra room heated simply that he might sit there to read. And this was

at a time when there were already tailors who went shooting and rode

their horses daily, so closely do the gradations of culture dovetail

into one another.

Master Hediger, however, might have been proud of the appearance he

presented in his neatly kept little back room. He looked almost more

like an American settler than a tailor. A strong and intelligent face

with heavy whiskers, surmounted by a powerful, bald dome was bending

over "The Swiss Republican," while he read the leading article with a

critical expression. There were at least twenty-five well-bound folio

volumes of this "Republican" in a little walnut bookcase with a

glass door, and they contained scarcely anything that Hediger, for

twenty-five years, had not lived and fought through. The case also held

Rotteck's "Universal History," a Swiss history by Johannes Mueller, and

a handful of political brochures and such like; a geographical atlas

and a portfolio full of caricatures and pamphlets--mementoes of

bitterly passionate days--lay on the lowest shelf. The wall of the

little room was adorned with the portraits of Columbus, Zwingli,

Hutten, Washington, and Robespierre; for Hediger was not to be trifled

with and sanctioned the Reign of Terror, after it was over. Besides

these world-famous heroes, there were portraits of several progressive

Swiss to which were affixed in their own handwriting highly edifying

and discursive inscriptions, regular little essays. Leaning against the

bookcase was a well-kept, shining musket with a short side-arm hanging

on it and a cartridge-pouch in which, at all times, there were thirty

cartridges. That was his fowling-piece with which he went out, not for

hares and partridges, but for aristocrats and Jesuits, for breakers of

the constitution and traitors to the people. Until now his lucky star

had kept him from shedding any blood, owing to lack of opportunity;

nevertheless more than once he had seized his musket and hurried to the

square. That was at the time of the riots, when he kept the gun

standing between the bed and the wardrobe and would not allow it to be

moved, "for," he used to say, "no government and no battalions can

protect justice and liberty where a citizen is not able to step out of

doors and see what is going on."

While the stout-hearted master was absorbed in his article, now nodding

approvingly, now shaking his head, his youngest son Karl, a fledgling

clerk in a government office, came in.

"What do you want?" asked Master Hediger harshly, for he did not like

to be disturbed in his little den.

Karl, somewhat uncertain as to the success of his request, asked

whether he might have his father's gun and cartridge-pouch for the

afternoon as he had to go to the drill-ground.

"No use to ask, I won't hear of it!" said Hediger shortly.

"But why not? I won't hurt it," his son continued humbly and still

insistently, because he simply had to have a gun if he did not want to

be marched off to the detention room. But the old man only repeated in

a louder tone:

"Won't hear of it! I can only wonder at the persistence of these

gentlemen sons of mine who show so little persistence in other things

that not one of them has stuck to the occupation which I allowed him to

learn of his own free choice. You know that your three older brothers,

one after another, as soon as they had to begin to drill, wanted my gun

and that they none of them got it. And yet now here you come slinking

along after it. You have your own fair pay, no one to support--get your

own weapons, as becomes a man of honor. This gun doesn't leave its

place except when I need it myself."

"But it's only for a few times. You surely don't expect me to buy an

infantry rifle when I'm going to join the sharpshooters later and shall

have to get myself a carbine."

"Sharpshooters! That's good too! I should only like to know why you

feel it to be so necessary to join the sharpshooters when you've never

yet fired a single shot. In my day a man had to have burnt a good deal

of powder before he might make such an application. Nowadays a man

turns sharpshooter haphazard, and there are fellows wearing the green

coat who couldn't bring down a cat off the roof, but who, to be sure,

can smoke cigars and act the gentleman. It's no concern of mine."

"Oh," said the boy almost whimpering, "give it to me just this once.

I'll see about getting another to-morrow, but it's impossible for me to

do anything today, it's too late."

"I will not give my gun to anyone," replied Master Hediger, "who does

not know how to handle it. If you can take the lock off this gun and

take it apart properly you can have it, otherwise it stays here."

With that he hunted in a drawer for a screwdriver, handed it to his son

and pointed to the gun. In desperation Karl tried his luck and began to

loosen the screws in the lock. His father watched him scornfully and it

was not long before he cried:

"Don't let the screwdriver slip so; you'll spoil the whole thing.

Partly loosen all the screws and then take them out, it's easier that

way. There, at last!"

Karl now held the lock in his hand but didn't know what next to do with

it, so he laid it down with a sigh, already, in imagination, seeing

himself in the detention room. But old Hediger, once interested, now

picked up the lock to give his son a lesson, explaining it as he took

it apart.

"You see," he said, "first you remove the plunger-spring with this

spring-hook--like this; then comes the screw of the sear-spring, you

only unscrew that half way, then knock the sear-spring like this so

that the pin here comes out of the hole; now you take the screw out

entirely. Now the sear-spring, then the sear-pin, the sear; now then,

the bridle-screw and here the bridle-hammer; next the tumbler-pin, the

trigger, and finally the tumbler; this is the tumbler. Hand me the

neat's-foot oil out of the little cupboard there; I'll oil the screws a

bit while I have them here."

He had laid all the parts on the newspaper. Karl watched him eagerly

and handed him the little bottle, thinking that the atmosphere had

cleared. But after his father had wiped off the parts of the lock and

oiled them afresh, instead of putting them together again he threw them

promiscuously into the cover of a little box and said,

"We'll put the thing together again this evening; now I will finish

reading my paper."

Disappointed and savage, Karl went out to complain to his mother. He

stood in intense awe of the state authority whose school he was now to

enter as a recruit. He had never been punished since he had outgrown

school and not during his last years there either, and now the thing

was to begin again on a higher plane, merely because he had depended

upon his father's gun.

His mother said: "Your father is really quite right. All you four boys

earn more than he does, and that thanks to the education he gave you;

but not only do you spend all your money on yourselves, you keep on

coming all the time to annoy your father by borrowing all sorts of

things: his dress-coat, field-glass, drawing instruments, razor, hat,

gun, and sabre. The things that he takes such good care of you borrow

and bring back ruined. It seems as if the whole year round you are busy

thinking up something else to borrow from him; but he, on his part,

never asks anything of you, although you owe him your life and

everything else. Just this once more I will help you."

Hereupon she went in to Master Hediger and said: "I forgot to tell you

that Frymann the carpenter sent a message to say that the Band of Seven

would meet this evening to discuss certain matters, something

political, I think." He was at once pleasantly affected.

"Is that so?" he said, rose, and began to walk up and down; "I am

surprised that Frymann didn't come himself to speak with me first about

it, to consult me." After a few minutes he dressed quickly, put on his

hat, and left with the words,

"Wife, I am going out now at once, I must find out what it's about. I

haven't been out of the house this spring anyway, and it's such a

beautiful day to-day. Good-bye!"

"There! Now he won't be home before ten o'clock tonight," said Mrs.

Hediger laughing, and she bade Karl take the gun, be careful of it and

bring it home early.

"Take it!" lamented her son, "why he's got the lock all apart and I

can't put it together again."

"Well, I can," answered his mother and went into the little room with

her son. She turned the parts of the lock out of the cover, sorted out

the springs and screws and very skilfully began to put them together.

"Where the devil did you learn that, mother?" cried Karl, amazed.

"I learnt it in my father's house," she replied. "My father and my

seven brothers used to make me clean all their guns and rifles when

they had been shooting. I often cried as I did it, but I was finally

able to handle them like a gunsmith's apprentice. The whole village

called me 'Gunsmithy,' and I nearly always had dirty hands and a black

smudge on the tip of my nose. My brothers shot and drank us out of

house and home, so that I, poor child, was glad enough that your

father, the tailor, married me."

While she talked her dexterous fingers had really put the lock together

and fastened it to the stock. Karl hung the shining cartridge-pouch

over his shoulder, took the gun and hurried off as fast as he could go

to the drill-ground, where he arrived only just in time. Soon after six

o'clock he brought the things back again, succeeded to taking the lock

apart himself, and mixed the parts together in the box-cover.

By the time he had finished supper it had grown dark. He went to the

boat-landing, hired a boat and rowed along the shore till he came to

that part of the lake where carpenters and stone-cutters had their

yards. It was a glorious evening; a mild south wind gently rippled the

water, the full moon shone on the distant stretches of the lake and

sparkled brightly on the little waves near by, and the stars burned

brilliantly in the sky. The snow mountains, their presence felt rather

than seen, looked down on the lake like pale spectres. All industrial

litter, the petty and restless outline of the buildings, disappeared in

the darkness and were transformed by the moonlight into great calm

masses--in short, the landscape was appropriately set for the coming

scene.

Karl Hediger rowed rapidly on until he was close to a large

lumber-yard; there he softly sang the first verse of a little song a

couple of times, and then rowed slowly and easily out from the shore. A

slender girl rose from where she had been sitting among the piles of

lumber, untied a skiff, stepped into it and rowed deliberately, making

a few turns as she went, after the soft-voiced boatman. When she caught

up with him the young people greeted each other and rowed on without

stopping, gunwale to gunwale, far out into the liquid silver of the

lake. With youthful vigor they described a wide curve with several

spirals, the girl leading and the boy following with gentle strokes of

his oar, without leaving her side, and one could see that the couple

were not unpractised in rowing together. When they found themselves in

absolute silence and solitude, the young woman pulled in her oars and

stopped. That is, she shipped only one oar and continued to hold the

other over the gunwale as if playing with it, but not without a

purpose, for when Karl, who had also stopped, tried to approach quite

close to her, to board her skiff in fact, she was most skilful in

keeping his boat off by giving it a single push with her oar every now

and then. Nor did this man[oe]uvre seem to be new, for the young man

soon resigned himself and sat still in his little boat.

Now they began to chat, and Karl said:

"Dear Hermine! Now I can really turn the proverb about and say: what I

had in abundance in my youth I wish for in old age, but in vain. How

often we used to kiss when I was ten and you were seven, and now that I

am twenty I mayn't even kiss your finger-tips."

"Once for all, I never want to hear another word of those impudent

lies!" cried the girl half angrily, half laughing. "You've made it all

up and it's false, I certainly don't remember any such familiarity."

"Unfortunately!" cried Karl; "but I remember it so much the better. And

I remember too that it was you who began it and were the temptress."

"Karl, how horrid of you!" interrupted Hermine, but he went on

unrelentingly:

"You must remember how often, when we were tired helping the poor

children fill their broken baskets with shavings--and how cross it

always made your carpenters--I used to have to build a little hut out

of ends of boards, hidden away in among the big piles of lumber, a

little hut with a roof and a door and a bench in it. And then when we

sat on the little bench, with the door shut, and I might at last sit

idle a minute, who was it that used to throw her arms around my neck

and kiss me more times than I could count?"

At these words he nearly pitched into the water, for as he had tried

again to approach unnoticed as he talked, she suddenly gave his little

boat such a violent push that it almost upset. Her clear laugh rang out

as his left arm slipped into the water to the elbow and he swore.

"Just you wait," he said; "I'll pay you out for this some day!"

"There's time enough ahead," she replied, "you needn't be in too much

of a hurry, my dear sir." Then she continued somewhat more seriously,

"Father has found out about our intentions; I didn't deny them, in the

main; he won't hear of such a thing, and forbids us ever to think of it

again. So that is how we stand now."

"And do you intend to bow to your father's decree as dutifully and

unresistingly as you seem to?"

"At least I shall never do the exact opposite of his wishes, and still

less would I dare to stand in open hostility to him, for you know that

he bears a grudge a long time, and is capable of a deep, slow-consuming

anger. You know too, that, although he has been a widower for five

years, he has not married again on my account; that is something that a

daughter ought certainly to consider. And, now that we are on this

subject, I must tell you too, that, under these circumstances, I don't

think it proper for us to see each other so often. It's bad enough for

a child to be disobedient in her heart; but there would be something

hateful in our actually doing things every day that would displease our

parents if they knew about them, and so I don't want to meet you alone

oftener than once a month at the most, instead of nearly every day as

we have been doing. And for the rest just let time go on."

"Let time go on! And you really can and will let things go like this?"

"Why not? Are they so important? It is possible that we may have each

other after all, it is also possible that we may not. But the world

will go on just the same, perhaps we will forget each other of our own

accord, for we are still young; in any case, it doesn't seem to me that

we've any reason to make a great to-do."

The seventeen-year-old beauty delivered this speech in an apparently

cold and matter-of-fact tone, at the same time picking up her oars and

heading for the shore. Karl rowed beside her full of anxiety and

apprehension, and no less full of vexation at Hermine's words. She was

half glad to know that the hot-headed fellow had something to worry

about, but at the same time, the conversation had made her, too,

pensive, and particularly the separation of four weeks which she had

imposed on herself.

Thus Karl finally succeeded in taking her by surprise and bringing his

boat up against hers with a sudden pull. In an instant he held her

slender body in his arms, and drew her part way towards him, so that

they both leaned over the deep water, their boats tipped away over

threatening to overturn at the slightest movement. Hence the girl was

helpless and had to submit when Karl pressed seven or eight passionate

kisses on her lips. Then gently and carefully he righted her and her

boat. She stroked her hair back out of her face, seized her oars,

panted, and, with tears in her eyes, cried angrily and threateningly:

"Just wait, you scamp, till I hold the reins! Heaven knows, I'll make

you feel that you've got a wife!"

With that she rowed rapidly, without looking round at him again,

towards her father's yard and home.

Karl, however, filled with triumph and bliss, called after her, "Good

night, Miss Hermine Frymann; that tasted good."

Mrs. Hediger had told her husband nothing but the truth when she caused

him to go out. She had merely saved up the message to use when she

thought best, and then had done so at the right moment. A meeting

really was held, a meeting of the Band of Seven, or of the Staunch, or

of the Upright, or of the Lovers of Liberty, as they interchangeably

called themselves. They were simply a circle of seven old and tried

friends, all master-craftsmen, patriots, arch-politicians and stern

domestic tyrants after the pattern of Master Hediger. Born, one and

all, in the previous century, they, as children, had seen the downfall

of the old regime, and then for many years had lived through the storms

and birth-pangs of the new period, until, with the clearing of the

political atmosphere in the late forties, Switzerland once more came

into power and unity. Several of them came from the common domains, the

former subject-land of the Swiss Confederates, and they remembered how,

as peasant children, they had been obliged to kneel by the roadside

when a coach with Confederate barons and the court-usher came driving

by. Others were distant relatives or connections of captive or executed

revolutionaries; in short, they were all filled with an unquenchable

hatred of all aristocracy, which, since the downfall of the latter, had

merely turned to bitter scorn. But when later the same thing reappeared

in democratic garb, and, combined with the old usurpers of power, the

priests, stirred up a struggle that lasted for several years, there was

added to their hatred of the aristocracy a hatred of the "blackcoats";

indeed their belligerent temper now turned not only against lords and

priests, but even against their own kind, against entire masses of the

excited populace. This demanded of them in their old age an unexpected,

composite expenditure of power, which test, however, they stood

bravely.

These seven men were anything but insignificant. In all popular

assemblies, meetings and such like, they helped to form a solid centre,

stuck to their posts indefatigably, and were ready day and night to do

for their party errands and business which could not be trusted to paid

workers, but only to those who were absolutely reliable. The party

leaders often consulted them and took them into their confidence, and

if a sacrifice was required, the seven men were always the first to

contribute their mite. For all this they desired no other reward but

the triumph of their cause, and their clear conscience; never did one

of them put himself forward, or strive for his own advantage or aspire

to an office, and their greatest honor was, on occasion, to shake the

hand of this or that "famous Confederate"; but he must be the right

sort and "clean above the loins" as they put it.

These stout-hearted citizens had grown accustomed to one another

through decades of intimacy, called one another by their Christian

names, and finally came to form a strong private society, but without

any other statutes than those they bore in their hearts. They met twice

a week, and as, even in this small band, there were two inn-keepers,

the meetings were held alternately at their houses. Those were very

pleasant and informal times; quiet and grave as the Seven were in

larger assemblies, they were equally noisy and merry among themselves;

none of them made any pretences, and none beat round the bush;

sometimes they all talked at once, sometimes they listened attentively

to one of their number, according to their humor and mood. Not only

politics was the subject of their conversations, but also their

domestic life. If one of them was in trouble and anxiety, he laid

before the others whatever oppressed him; the cause was discussed, and

its remedy was made a common matter; if one of them felt himself

injured by another, he would bring his complaint to the Seven, who

would sit in judgment and admonish the offender. During these

proceedings they were alternately very passionate, or very quiet and

dignified, or even ironical. Twice, traitors, crooked fellows, had

sneaked in among them, been recognized and in solemn assembly condemned

and turned out, that is, beaten black and blue by the fists of the

doughty greybeards. If a real misfortune overtook the party to which

they were attached that entirely eclipsed any domestic misfortune, they

would hide singly in the darkness and shed bitter tears.

The most eloquent and prosperous among them was Frymann, the carpenter,

a veritable Croesus with an imposing establishment. The most

impecunious was Hediger, the tailor; but his opinion was only second in

importance to Frymann's. His political fanaticism had long since lost

him his best customers; nevertheless he had educated his sons well, and

so had no means left. The other five men were well situated; they

listened more than they talked when important matters were under

discussion by the Band of Seven, but made up for that by the

weightiness of their words at home, and among their neighbors.

To-day there were really important transactions on hand, which Frymann

and Hediger had already discussed. The period of unrest, of struggle

and of political effort, was past for these stout-hearted citizens, and

their long experiences seemed for once to have come to an end with the

conditions that they had attained. "All's well that ends well," they

might say, and they felt themselves to be victorious and content. And

so, as the shades of evening were falling on their political life, they

felt that they might indulge in a crowning festivity, and, as the Band

of Seven, attend in a body the first national shooting match to be held

since the adoption of the new constitution of 1848, which was to take

place at Aarau the following summer.

Now most of them had long since become members of the Swiss Shooting

Association, and they all, except Hediger, who contented himself with

his musket, possessed good rifles, with which in former years they had

sometimes gone shooting on Sunday. Singly, they had also already

attended other festivals, so that there seemed to be nothing so very

unusual in their present purpose. But a spirit of outward pomp had

taken possession of some of them, and the proposal made was really

nothing less than that they should appear in Aarau with their own

banner, bringing a handsome trophy as a gift.

When the little company had drunk a few glasses of wine and were in

good spirits, Frymann and Hediger came out with the proposal, which

somewhat surprised their modest fellow-members nevertheless, so that

they wavered irresolutely for some minutes. For the idea of attracting

so much attention and marching out with a banner did not quite appeal

to them. But as they had long since forgotten how to refuse their

support to any bold stroke or undertaking with a real meaning, they

resisted only long enough for the speakers to paint to them in glowing

colors the banner as a symbol, and their procession as a triumph of

true and tried friendship, and to show them that the appearance of

seven old greybeards such as they, with a banner of friendship, would

certainly make good sport. Only a little banner should be made, of

green silk, with the Swiss coat of arms and a fitting inscription.

Once the question of the banner was settled, the trophy was taken up;

its value was fixed fairly easily at about two hundred francs, old

style. But the choice of the object itself caused a lengthier and

almost heated discussion. Frymann opened the general inquiry and

invited Kuser, the silversmith, as a man of taste, to give his opinion.

Kuser gravely drank a good draught, coughed, thought a while, and said

it was fortunate that he just happened to have a beautiful silver cup

in his shop, which, if that were agreeable to the others, he could

thoroughly recommend, and would let them have at the very lowest price.

Hereupon followed a general silence broken only by brief remarks such

as "That might do!" or "Why not?" Then Hediger asked whether anyone

else wished to propose anything. Whereupon Syfrig, the skilful smith,

took a swallow, plucked up courage, and said:

"If it is agreeable to you all, I will also express an idea now. I have

forged a very practical plough of solid iron, which, as you know, won

praise at the agricultural exhibition. I am prepared to part with this

fine piece of work for two hundred francs, although that would not pay

for the labor of making it; but it is my opinion that this tool and

symbol of agriculture would be the kind of prize that would most

suitably represent the common people. Not that I wish to reflect on

other proposals."

During this speech Buergi, the crafty cabinet-maker, had also been

thinking the matter over, and when again a short silence ensued and the

silversmith began to pull a long face, the cabinet-maker unburdened

himself thus:

"An idea has occurred to me too, dear friends, which would probably

give rise to a great deal of fun. Years ago I had an order from a

couple from out of town who were about to be married, for a double

canopy bed of the finest walnut, with bird's-eye maple veneer; the

young couple hung round my workshop every day measuring the length and

the breadth, and billing and cooing before the journeymen and

apprentices, minding neither their jokes nor their insinuations. But

when the time came for the wedding they suddenly parted, hating each

other as a cat hates a dog, not a soul knew why; one went this way, one

went that, and the bedstead was left standing as immovable as a rock.

At cost price it's worth a hundred and eighty francs, but I'll gladly

lose eighty and let it go for a hundred. Then we can have a mattress

made for it and set it up in the trophy hall, fully made up, with the

inscription: 'For a single Confederate, as an encouragement!' How's

that?"

Merry laughter rewarded this idea; only the smiles of the silversmith

and the blacksmith were faint and wry; but Pfister, the inn-keeper,

immediately raised his hearty voice and said with his accustomed

frankness:

"Well gentlemen, if it's the programme for each of us to bring his own

pig to market, then I know of something better than anything yet

proposed. I have in my cellar a well-sealed cask of '34 claret,

so-called Swiss blood, which I bought myself in Basle more than twelve

years ago. You are all so temperate and modest in your demands, that I

have never ventured to tap the wine, and yet I have two hundred francs

tied up in it, for there are just a hundred measures. I will give you

the wine for what it cost, and reckon the cask as cheaply as possible,

glad if I can only make room for something that will sell better, and

may I never leave this place if such a gift wouldn't do us honor."

This speech, during which the three who had made their suggestions had

already began to murmur, was scarcely ended, when Erismann, the other

inn-keeper, took the floor and said:

"If this is the way it's going, I won't be left behind either, but am

ready to declare that I think I have the best thing for our purpose,

and that is my young milch cow, a thoroughbred Oberland, that I am just

ready to sell if I can find a good purchaser. If we tie a bell round

the neck of this handsome animal, a milking stool between her horns,

adorn her with flowers--"

"And put her under a glass globe in the trophy hall!" interrupted

Pfister, irritated; and with that, one of those thunderstorms broke

that sometimes made the meetings of the Seven tempestuous, but only to

be succeeded by sunshine that was all the brighter for what had passed.

They all talked at once, defended their own proposals, attacked those

of the others and accused one another of selfish motives. For they

always came right out with what they thought, and settled matters by

means of the plain truth, not by dissimulation and covering up, as a

kind of false culture often leads men to do.

When the noise had become almost deafening Hediger tapped his glass

loudly, and, raising his voice, said:

"Men! Don't get excited but let us proceed calmly to our goal. As

trophies there have been suggested a cup, a plough, a complete canopy

bed, a cask of wine and a cow. Permit me to examine your proposals more

closely. Your cup, my dear Ruedi, I know well; it is a fixture in your

shop, has been there in your show window for years and years; in fact,

I believe it was once your masterpiece. Nevertheless, its antiquated

form would forbid our choosing it and presenting it as new. Your

plough, Chueri Syfrig, seems to be not absolutely practical after all,

otherwise you would certainly have sold it three years ago. But we must

bear in mind that our prize ought to give real pleasure to whoever wins

it. Your canopy bed, on the contrary, Henry, is a novel and certainly a

delightful idea, and it would undoubtedly occasion remarks of a very

popular character. But to carry it out properly, would require plenty

of fine bedding and that would exceed the sum we have fixed by too much

for only seven people. Your 'Swiss blood' Lienert Pfister is good, and

it will be still better if you will give us a cheaper price, and

finally tap the cask for us so that we can have it to drink on our

anniversaries. Finally, against your cow, Felix Erismann, there is

nothing to be said except that she kicks over the pail regularly

whenever she is milked. That is why you want to sell her; for, to be

sure, that is not a pleasing habit. But what do you think? Would it be

right if some honest young peasant won the animal, took it joyfully

home to his wife, who would joyfully start to milk it, and then would

see the sweet, frothy milk upset on the ground? Think of the poor

woman's disgust, vexation, and disappointment, and of the embarrassment

of the good marksman after this scene had been repeated two or three

times. Yes, my dear friends, don't take it amiss, but it must be said:

all our proposals have the common fault of thoughtlessly and hastily

seeking to make the honor of the fatherland a source of profit and

calculation. What if the same thing has been done thousands of times by

high and low, we, in our circle, have not done it, and we wish so to

continue. So let every man bear the cost of the gift without ulterior

motive, so that it may really be a trophy of honor!"

The five profit-seekers who had hung their heads in shame, now cried in

one voice, "Well said! Kaspar has spoken well," and they demanded that

he himself should propose something. But Frymann took the floor and

said:

"It seems to me that a silver cup is more suitable than anything else

to be given as a trophy. It retains its value, cannot be used up, and

is a handsome reminder of happy days and of the valiant men of the

house. The house in which a silver cup is preserved can never quite

decay, and who can say whether much else is not also preserved for the

sake of such a memorial. And is not art given the opportunity by

fashioning ever new and pleasing forms, to increase the variety of

these vessels, and thus to exercise its creative power and to bear a

ray of beauty into the most distant valley, so that gradually a vast

treasure of precious prize-cups will accumulate in our fatherland,

precious alike in form and metal? And how fitting it is that these

treasures, scattered over the whole country, cannot be made to serve

the common uses of every-day life, but in their pure brilliance, in

their chaste forms, continue to keep the higher things before our eyes,

and thus seem to hold fast the idea of unity and the sunlight of days

ideally spent. Away then with the trash that is beginning to pile up in

our trophy-halls, a prey to moths and to the most ordinary uses, and

let us hold fast to the venerable old drinking-cup! Truly, if I were

living in the days when all that is Swiss was drawing to its end, I

could not imagine a more uplifting crowning festivity than to gather

together the thousands and tens of thousands of cups of all sorts and

shapes belonging to all the clubs, societies and individuals, in all

their radiance of by-gone days, with all their memories, and to drink a

last toast to the declining fatherland--"

"Hush, churlish guest! What unworthy thoughts!" cried the Upright and

Staunch, and shuddered. But Frymann continued:

"As it becomes a man in the vigor of his prime sometimes to think of

death, so, too, in a meditative hour he may turn his gaze on the

certain end of his fatherland, that he may love its present all the

more fervently, for everything is transitory and subject to change on

this earth. Have not much greater nations than we perished? Or would

you linger on like the Wandering Jew who cannot die, serving in turn

all the new nations as they arise, he who buried the Egyptians, the

Greeks, and the Romans? No, a nation that knows that a time will come

when it will no longer be makes all the more intense use of its days,

lives so much the longer, and leaves a glorious memory; for it will not

rest until it has brought to light and exercised the capabilities that

lie within it, like a man who knows no rest until he has set his house

in order before he leaves this life. That, in my opinion, is the chief

thing. Once a nation has performed its task, what do a few longer or

shorter days of existence matter? New figures are already waiting at

the portals of their time. And so I must confess that once a year,

during some sleepless night, or on quiet paths, I fall a prey to such

thoughts, and try to imagine what the nation will be like that will

some day hold sway in these mountains after we are gone. And each time

I return to my work with greater energy, as if I could thus hasten the

work of my nation so that that people of the future will walk over our

graves with respect.

"But away with these thoughts and back to our joyful prospects! I would

suggest that we order a new cup from our master silversmith, on which

he promises to make no profit, but to give as much value as possible.

For this purpose let us have an artist make a good design which shall

depart from the ordinary meaningless pattern, but because of our

limited means let him pay more attention to the proportions, to the

form and simple grace of the whole, than to rich ornamentation and,

after this design, Master Kuser will furnish us with a pleasing and

substantial piece of work."

This proposal was accepted and the business disposed of. Frymann,

however, immediately took the floor again and began:

"Now that we have settled these matters of general interest, my

friends, permit me to bring up another special question, and to make a

complaint that we may adjust it together in friendly fashion according

to our old custom. You know that our good friend, Kaspar Hediger, is

the father of four lively boys whose desire to marry as youngsters

makes the whole-neighborhood unsafe. In fact, three of them already

have wives and children, although the eldest is not yet twenty-seven.

There remains the youngest, just turned twenty, and what is he doing?

Running after my only daughter and turning her head. Thus these

diabolical marriage-fiends have penetrated into the circle of intimate

friendship, and now threaten to cloud it. Apart from the fact that the

children are much too young, I frankly confess here that such a

marriage would be contrary, to my wishes and intentions. I have a large

business and a considerable fortune; therefore, when the time comes, I

shall seek a son-in-law who is a business man with a capital

corresponding to mine, and thus able to carry on the building

enterprises that I have in mind; for you know that I have bought up

extensive building lots, and am convinced that Zurich will grow

considerably larger. But your son, my good Kaspar, is a government

clerk, and has nothing but his scanty salary, and even if he rises it

will never be much bigger, and his income is fixed once for all with no

way of augmenting it. Let him stick to his position, he is provided for

for life, if he is economical; but he doesn't need a rich wife. A rich

official is an absurdity, taking the bread out of other people's

mouths, and I certainly would not give my money for a fellow to loaf

on, or, in his inexperience, to use for all sorts of experiments. In

addition to all this, it would go against the grain with me to have

the true and tried friendship that exists between Kaspar and me

transformed into a relationship. What, are we to burden ourselves with

family trials and mutual dependence? No, my friends, let us remain

closely united until death, but independent of each other, free and

answerable to none for our actions, and let us hear nothing of 'son's

father-in-law' and 'daughter's father-in-law' and all such titles. And

so I call upon you, Kaspar, to declare in this intimate circle of

friends that you will support me in my purpose and will oppose your

son's course. And no offense, we all know one another."

"We know one another, that is well said," said Hediger solemnly after

slowly taking a pinch of snuff. "You all know what bad luck I have had

with my sons, although they are smart and lively lads. I had them

taught everything that I wish I myself had learnt. They all knew

something of languages, could write a good composition, were splendid

at figures and had sufficient grounding in other branches of knowledge

to keep, with a little effort, from ever relapsing into complete

ignorance. Thank God, I used to think, that we are at last able to

educate our boys to be citizens who can't be made to believe that black

is white. And then I allowed each one to learn the trade he chose. But

what happened? Scarcely did they have their indentures in their pockets

and had looked about them a little, when the hammer got too heavy for

them, they thought themselves too clever for artisans and began to look

for clerical jobs. The devil knows how they did it, but the young

scamps went like hot cakes. Well, apparently they do their work

satisfactorily. One's in the post office, two are employed by railroad

companies and the fourth sits in an office and maintains that he's a

government official. After all, it's none of my business. He who

doesn't want to be a master must remain a journeyman and work under

others all his life. But, as money passes through their hands, all

these young gentlemen clerks had to give security; I have no property

myself, and so you all, in turn, furnished security for my boys,

amounting to forty thousand francs; the old tradesmen, their father's

friends, were good enough for that! And now, how do you suppose I feel?

How would I stand in your eyes if only one out of the four should take

a false step, be guilty of some indiscretion or piece of carelessness?"

"Fiddlesticks!" cried the old men, "put all such nonsense out of your

head. If they hadn't been good boys we wouldn't have done it, you can

be sure."

"I know all that," replied Hediger, "but a year is a long time, and

when it's gone there's another to come. I can assure you that it

frightens me every time one of them comes into the house with a better

cigar than usual. Will he not fall a victim to habits of luxury and

self-indulgence? If I see one of their young wives coming along in a

new dress, I fear that she is plunging her husband into difficulties

and debt. If I see one of them talking in the street to a man who lives

beyond his means, a voice within me cries, 'Will he not lead him into

some piece of folly?' In short, you see that I feel myself humble and

dependent enough, and am far from wishing to add a feeling of

obligation towards a rich kinsman, and from turning a friend into a

master and patron. And why should I want my cocky young son to feel

rich and safe, and to run round under my eyes with the arrogance that

such a fellow assumes when he has never had the slightest experience of

life? Shall I help to close the school of life to him so that he shall

early become hard-hearted, an unmannerly and insolent duffer, who

doesn't know how to earn his bread, and still has a tremendous opinion

of himself? No, rest easy, my friend, here is my hand on it. No kith

and kin for us!"

The two old men shook hands, the others laughed, and Buergi said,

"Who would believe that you two who have just spoken such wise words in

the cause of the fatherland, and have rapped us so hard on the

knuckles, would turn round and do anything so foolish. Thank Heaven,

I've still a chance to dispose of my double bed and I propose that we

give it to the young couple for a wedding present."

"Voted!" cried the other four, and Pfister, the innkeeper, added,

"And I demand that my cask of Swiss blood be drunk at the wedding,

which we shall all attend."

"And I'll pay for it if there is a wedding," shouted Frymann angrily,

"but if not, as I know for certain will be the case, you pay for the

cask, and we'll drink it at our meetings until it's gone."

"We'll take the wager," they agreed; but Frymann and Hediger pounded

the table with their fists and continued to repeat:

"No kith and kinship for us! We don't want to be kinsmen, but

independent, good friends!"

This declaration brought the eventful meeting at last to an end, and

staunch and upright the Lovers of Liberty wandered to their homes.

The next day at dinner, after the journeymen had gone, Hediger informed

his son and his wife of the solemn decision of the day before, that

from now on no romance between Karl and the carpenter's daughter would

be tolerated. Mrs. Hediger, the "Gunsmithy," was so tempted to laugh by

this decree that the last drop of wine in her glass, which she was just

about to swallow, got into her windpipe and caused a terrible fit of

coughing.

"What is there to laugh at about that?" said Master Hediger

irritatedly.

His wife answered: "Oh, I can't help laughing because the adage 'a

cobbler should stick to his last' fits your club so well. Why don't you

stick to politics instead of meddling with love affairs?"

"You laugh like a woman and talk like a woman," replied Hediger, very

much in earnest, "it is just in the family that true politics begin; we

are political friends, it is true, but in order to remain so it is

necessary that we should not mix our families up, and treat the wealth

of one as common property. I am poor and Frymann is rich, and so it

shall remain; we enjoy our inward equality so much the more. And now,

shall a marriage be the means of my sticking my finger into his house

and his affairs, and arousing jealousy and embarrassment? Far be it

from me!"

"Oh my, my, what wonderful principles!" answered Mrs. Hediger; "that's

a fine friendship when one friend won't give his daughter to the son of

the other! And since when has it meant treating wealth as common

property when prosperity is brought into a family through marriage? Is

it a reprehensible policy when a fortunate son succeeds in winning a

rich and beautiful girl, because he thus attains to property and

prominence, and is able to assist his aged parents and brothers, and

help them to a place in the sun? For where once good fortune has

entered it easily spreads, and without doing any damage to the one, the

others can skilfully throw out their hooks in his shade. Not that I am

looking for a life of luxury! But there are very many cases in which it

is right and proper that a man who has become rich should be consulted

by his poor relatives. We old people shall need nothing more; on the

other hand, the time might come perhaps, when one or another of Karl's

brothers might venture on a promising enterprise, or make a fortunate

change if someone would lend him the means. And one or another of them

will have a talented son who would rise to great things, if there was

money enough to send him to the university. One might perhaps become a

popular physician, another a prominent lawyer or even a judge, another

an engineer or an artist, and all of them, once they had got so far,

would find it easy to marry well, and so at last would form a

respected, numerous, and happy family. What could be more natural than

to have a prosperous uncle who, without harming himself, could throw

open the doors of the world to his industrious but poor relatives? For

how often does it happen that, owing to the presence in a family of one

fortunate member, all the others get a taste of the world and grow

wise? And will you drive in the bung on all these things and seal good

fortune at its source?"

Hediger gave a laugh, full of annoyance, and cried,

"Castles in the air! You talk like the peasant woman with her milk

pail! I see a different picture of the man who has become rich among

his poor relatives. He, it is true, denies himself nothing and has

always thousands of ideas and desires which he gratifies, and which

lead him to spend money on thousands of occasions. But let his parents

and his brothers come to him, down he sits at his account book, looking

important and vexed, sighs, and says, with his pen between his teeth:

'Thank God that you haven't the trouble and burden of administering

such a fortune. I'd rather herd goats than watch a pack of spiteful and

procrastinating debtors! No money coming in from any of them, and all

of them trying to get out of paying and slip through my fingers. Day

and night you have to be on the lookout that you are not cheated right

and left. And if ever you do get a scoundrel by the collar, he sets up

such a howl that you have to let him go in a hurry, or be decried as a

usurer and a monster. Every official paper, every notice of days of

expiration, every announcement, every advertisement has to be read over

and over, or you will miss some petition or overlook some term. And

there's never any money on hand. If someone repays a loan, he lays his

money bag on the table in all the taverns in town and announces with a

swagger that he's paid, and before he's out of the house there are

three others waiting to borrow the money, one of whom even wants it

without giving security! And then the demands made on you by the

community, the charitable institutions, public enterprises,

subscription lists of all kinds--they can't be avoided, your position

demands it; but I can tell you, you often don't know whether you are

standing on your head or your heels. This year I'm harder pressed even

than usual; I've had my garden improved and a balcony built on to the

house, my wife has been wanting to have it done for a long time, and

now here are the bills. My physician has advised me a hundred times to

keep a saddle horse--I can't even think of it, for new expenses keep

coming up to prevent. Look there, see the little winepress, of the most

modern construction, that I had built so that I could press out the

Muscatel grapes that I grow on trellises--God knows, I can't pay for it

this year. Well, my credit is still good, thank Heaven.'

"That is the way he talks with a cruel boast underlying all his words

and thus so intimidates his poor brothers and his old father that they

say nothing about their request, and take themselves off again after

admiring his garden and his balcony and his ingenious wine-press. And

they go to strangers for help and gladly pay higher interest simply to

avoid listening to so much chatter. His children are handsomely and

expensively dressed, and tread the streets daintily; they bring their

poor cousins little presents and come twice a year to invite them to

dinner, and that is a great lark for the rich children; but when the

guests lose their shyness and even begin to be noisy, their pockets are

filled with apples and they are sent home. There they tell all that

they have seen and what they had to eat and everything is criticized;

for rancor and envy fill the hearts of the poor sisters-in-law who

flatter the prosperous member of the family notwithstanding, and are

eloquent in their praise of her fine clothes. Finally some misfortune

overtakes the father or the brothers and, whether he will or not, the

rich man has to step into the breach for the sake of the family

reputation. And he does so without much persuasion; but now the bond of

brotherly equality and love is completely severed. The poorer brothers

and their children are now the servants and slave-children of the

master; year in, year out they are nagged at and corrected, they have

to wear coarse clothing and eat black bread in order to make up a small

part of the damage. The children are sent to orphan asylums and schools

for the poor, and if they are strong enough they have to work in the

master's house and sit at the lower end of the table in silence."

"Phew!" cried Mrs. Hediger, "what a tale! And do you really think that

your own son here would be such a scoundrel? And has Fate ordained that

just his brothers should meet with misfortunes that would make them his

servants? They, who have always managed to take care of themselves till

now? No, for the honor of our own blood I believe that a rich marriage

would not turn all our heads like that, but that, on the contrary, my

view would prove to be right."

"I don't mean to assert," replied Hediger, "that it would be just that

way with us; but in our family too we should introduce outward

differences and in time they would be followed by inward inequality; he

who aspires to wealth, aspires to rise above his equals--"

"Bosh!" interrupted his wife, taking up the table cloth and shaking it

out the window; "has Frymann, who actually owns the property that we

are quarrelling about, grown any different from the rest of you? Aren't

you of one mind and one heart and always putting your heads together?"

"That's different," cried her husband, "entirely different. He didn't

get his property by scheming, nor win it in the lottery, but acquired

it slowly franc by franc through the toil of forty years. And then we

are not brothers, he and I, and are not concerned in each other's

affairs, and that's the way we want it to continue, that's the point.

And finally, he is not like other people, he is still one of the

Staunch and Upright. But don't let us keep on considering only these

petty personal affairs. Fortunately there are no tremendously rich

people among us, prosperity is fairly well distributed; but let men

with many millions spring up, men with political ambition, and you'll

see how much mischief they do. There is the well-known spinner-king; he

really has millions and is often accused of being an indifferent

citizen and a miser, because he doesn't concern himself with public

matters. On the contrary, he is a good citizen who consistently lets

everyone go his own way, governs himself, and lives like any other man.

But let this goldbug be a politically ambitious genius, give him some

amiability, pleasure in ostentation and love of all sorts of theatrical

pomp, let him build palaces and institutions and then see what harm he

would do in the community, and how he would ruin the character of the

people. There will come a time when, in our country, as elsewhere,

large masses of money will accumulate without having been honestly

earned and saved; then it will be for us to show our teeth to the

devil; then it will be seen whether the bunting of our flag is made of

fast colors and strong thread. To put it briefly, I don't see why a son

of mine should stretch out his hand for another's goods, without having

done a stroke to earn them. That's a fraud as much as anything is!"

"It's a fraud that's as old as the world," said his wife, laughing,

"for two people who love each other to want to marry. All your long and

high-sounding words won't change that. Moreover, you are the only one

to be made a fool of; for Master Frymann is wisely trying to prevent

your children from becoming equal to his. But the children will have a

policy of their own and will carry it out if there's anything in the

affair, and that I don't know."

"Let them," said Master Hediger; "that's their business; mine is, not

to favor anything of the sort, and in any case to refuse my consent as

long as Karl is a minor."

With this diplomatic declaration and the latest number of the

"Republican" he withdrew to his study. Mrs. Hediger, on the contrary,

now wanted to get hold of her son and satisfy her curiosity by calling

him to account; but she suddenly discovered that he had made off, as

the whole discussion seemed to him to be absolutely superfluous and

useless, and he did not care, in any case, to talk over his love

affairs with his parents.

So much the earlier did he get into his little boat that evening and

row out to where he had been on many previous evenings. But he sang his

little song once and twice, and even through to the last verse without

anyone showing herself, and after rowing up and down in front of the

lumber yard for more than an hour in vain, he went back puzzled and

depressed, and thought his affair was really in a bad way. On the

following four or five evenings he had the same experience, and then

gave up trying to meet the faithless girl, as he took her to be; for

although he remembered her resolution only to see him once in four

weeks, he thought that to be merely the preparation for a final

rupture, and fell into indignant sadness. Hence the practice period for

the sharpshooter recruits, which was just about to begin, came at a

very welcome time. On several afternoons beforehand he went out to the

range with an acquaintance who was a marksman to get at least a little

practice, and be able to show the number of hits necessary for his

application. His father looked on at this rather scornfully, and

unexpectedly came to the range himself to dissuade his son in time from

carrying out his foolish purpose, if, as he supposed, Karl knew nothing

about shooting.

But he happened to get there just as Karl, with half a dozen misses

behind him, was making a number of rather good shots.

"You needn't tell me," said Hediger astonished, "that you've never shot

before; you've secretly spent many a franc on it, that's sure."

"I have shot secretly, that's true, but at no cost. Do you know where,

father?"

"I thought as much!"

"Even as a boy I often watched the shooting, listened to what the men

said about it, and for years have so longed to do it that I used to

dream about it, and after I had gone to bed I used to spend hours

aiming at a target, and in that way I've fired hundreds of good shots."

"That's capital! At that rate, they'll order whole companies of

riflemen into bed in the future, and put them through such a mental

drill; that'll save powder and shoe leather."

"It's not so ridiculous as it sounds," said the experienced marksman

who was teaching Karl, "it is certain that, of two riflemen who are

equally gifted as regards eye and hand, the one who is accustomed to

reflection will outstrip the other. Pulling the trigger requires an

inborn knack and there are very peculiar things about it as there are

about all exercises."

The oftener and the better Karl shot, the more did old Hediger shake

his head; the world seemed to him to be turned upside down, for he

himself had only attained to what he was and knew how to do by industry

and strenuous practice; even his principles, which people often pack

into their minds as easily and numerously as herrings, had only been

acquired by persevering study in his little back room. Now, however, he

no longer ventured to interfere, and departed, not without inward

satisfaction at numbering among his sons one of his country's

sharpshooters; and by the time he had reached home he was resolved to

make Karl a well-fitting uniform of good cloth. "Of course, he will

have to pay for it," he said to himself, but he knew in his heart that

he never asked his sons to repay anything, and that they never offered

to do so. That is wholesome for parents, and enables them to reach a

good old age when they can see how their children in turn are merrily

fleeced by their grandchildren, and so it goes down from father to son,

and all survive and enjoy good appetites.

Karl now had to go into barracks for several weeks, and developed into

a good-looking and trained soldier who, although he was in love and

neither saw nor heard anything of his sweetheart, nevertheless

attentively and cheerfully performed his duties as long as the daylight

lasted; and at night the conversation and jokes of his comrades gave

him no chance to brood. There were a dozen of them, young fellows from

different districts, who exchanged the tricks and jokes of their homes

and continued to make the most of them long after the lights were out

and until midnight came on. There was only one from the city besides

Karl, and the latter knew him by name. He was a few years older than

Karl and had already served as a fusileer. A bookbinder by trade, he

had not done a stroke of work for a long time, but lived on the

inflated rents of old houses which he cleverly managed to buy without

capital. Sometimes he would sell one again to some simpleton at an

exorbitant price, then if the purchaser could not hold it he would

pocket the forfeit and the paid instalments and again take possession

of the house, at the same time raising the rents once more. He was also

skilful in making slight changes in the construction of the dwellings,

thus enlarging them by the addition of a tiny chamber or little room,

so that he might again raise the rent. These alterations were by no

means practical or planned for convenience, but quite arbitrary and

stupid; he knew, too, all the bunglers among the artisans, who did the

worst and cheapest work and with whom he could do as he liked. When he

could think of absolutely nothing else to do, he would have the outside

of one of his old buildings whitewashed and ask a still higher rent. By

these methods he enjoyed a good annual income without doing an hour's

actual work. His errands and appointments did not take long, and he

would spend as much time in front of other people's buildings as before

his own reconstructed shanties, play the expert and give advice about

everything. In all other matters he was the stupidest fellow in the

world. Hence he was considered a shrewd and prosperous young man who

would make an early success in life, and he denied himself nothing. He

considered himself too good for an infantry private and had wanted to

become an officer. But there he had failed owing to his laziness and

ignorance, and now by obstinate and importunate persistence he had got

into the sharpshooters.

Here he sought to force himself into a position of respect, without

exerting himself, solely with the aid of his money. He was forever

inviting the non-commissioned officers and his comrades to eat and

drink with him, and thought that by clumsy liberality he could obtain

privileges and freedom. But he only succeeded in making himself a

laughing-stock, though, to be sure, he did enjoy a sort of indulgence,

in that the others soon gave up trying to make anything out of him and

let him go his own way as long as he did not bother the rest.

A single recruit attached himself to him and acted as his servant,

cleaned his arms and clothes and spoke in his defence. This was the

tight-fisted son of a rich peasant, who had always a frightful appetite

for food and drink whenever he could satisfy it at another's expense.

He thought heaven would be his reward if he could carry back home all

his shining silver and still be able to say he had lived merrily during

his service and caroused like a true sharpshooter; at the same time he

was jolly and good-natured and entertained his patron, who had much

less voice than he, with his thin falsetto in which, from behind his

bottle, he sang all sorts of popular country songs very oddly indeed;

for he was a merry miser. And so Ruckstuhl, the young extortioner, and

Spoerri, the young skinflint, lived on in glorious friendship. The

former always had meat and wine before him and did as he chose, and the

latter left him as little as possible, sang and cleaned his boots and

did not even scorn the tips that the other gave.

Meanwhile the others made fun of them and agreed among themselves that

they would not tolerate Ruckstuhl in any company. This did not apply to

his factotum, however, for, strangely enough, he was a good shot, and

anyone who knows his business is welcome in the army whether he be a

Philistine or a scamp.

Karl was foremost in making fun of the pair; but one night he lost his

desire to joke, when the wine-gladdened Ruckstuhl boasted to his

follower, after the room had grown quiet, of what a fine gentleman he

was and of how he soon expected to marry a rich wife, the daughter of

the carpenter Frymann, whom, if he read the signs aright, he could not

fail to get.

Karl's peace of mind was now gone, and the next day, as soon as he had

a free hour, he went to his parents to find out, by listening, what was

going on. But as he did not care to introduce the subject himself, he

heard nothing of Hermine until just before he went, when his mother

told him she had wanted to be remembered to him.

"Why, where did you see her?" he asked as indifferently as he could.

"Oh, she comes to the market every day now with the maid to learn how

to buy supplies. She always asks me for advice when we meet and then we

make the rounds of the market and find a lot to laugh at; for she's

always in good spirits."

"Oh, ho!" said Hediger, "so that's why you stay out so long sometimes!

And it's match-making that you are up to? Do you think it's fitting for

a mother to behave like that, running around with people who are

forbidden to her son, and carrying messages?"

"Forbidden people! Nonsense! Haven't I known the dear child since she

was a baby and I carried her in my arms? And now I'm not to associate

with her! And why shouldn't she ask to be remembered to the people in

our house? And why shouldn't a mother take such a message? And may not

a mother be allowed to make a match for her child? It seems to me that

she's the very person to do it! But we never talk about such things, we

women are not half so keen about you ill-mannered men, and if Hermine

takes my advice she won't marry anyone."

Karl did not wait for the end of the conversation, but went his way;

for she had sent him a message and there had been no mention of any

suspicious news. Only he did tap his forehead, puzzled by Hermine's

good spirits, for it was not like her to laugh so much. He finally

decided it was a sign in his favor and she had been merry because she

had met his mother. So he resolved to keep quiet, have faith in the

girl, and let things take their course.

A few days later Hermine came to visit Mrs. Hediger, bringing her

knitting with her, and there was so much cordiality, talking, and

laughing that Hediger, cutting out a frock coat in his workshop, was

almost disturbed and wondered what old gossip could be there. Still, he

did not pay much attention to it till finally he heard his wife go to a

cupboard and begin to rattle the blue coffee set. For the "Gunsmithy"

was making as good a pot of coffee as she had ever brewed; she also

took a good handful of sage leaves, dipped them in an egg-batter and

fried them in butter, thus making so-called little mice, since the

stems of the leaves looked like mouse-tails. They rose beautifully and

made a heaping dish full, the fragrance of which, together with that of

the fresh coffee ascended to Master Hediger above. When, finally, he

heard her pounding sugar he became highly impatient to be called to the

table; but he would not have gone one moment earlier, for he belonged

to the Staunch and Upright. As he now entered the room he saw his wife

and the graceful "forbidden person" sitting in close friendship behind

the coffee-pot and, moreover, it was the blue-flowered coffee-pot;

and besides the little mice there was butter on the table and the

blue-flowered pot full of honey; it was not real honey, to be sure, but

only cherry-jam, about the color of Herrnine's eyes; and it was

Saturday too, a day on which all respectable middle-class women scrub

and scour, clean and polish, and never cook a bite that's fit to eat.

Hediger looked very critically at the whole scene and his greeting was

rather stern; but Hermine was so charming and at the same time so

resolute that he sat there as if muzzled and ended by going himself to

get a "glass of wine" out of the cellar and even drawing it from the

small keg. Hermine responded to this mark of favor by declaring that

she must have a plate of mice kept for Karl, as he probably didn't get

very good things to eat in the barracks. She took her plate and pulled

out the finest mice by their tails with her own dainty fingers and kept

on piling them up till at last Karl's mother herself cried that it was

enough. Hermine then put the plate beside her, looked at it with

satisfaction from time to time, and occasionally picked out a piece and

ate it, saying that she was Karl's guest now; after which she would

conscientiously replace the plunder from the dish.

Finally it got to be too much for the worthy Hediger; he scratched his

head and, urgent though his work was, hastily put on his coat and

hurried forth to seek the father of the little sinner.

"We must look out," he said to him; "your daughter and my old woman are

sitting at home in all their glory, hand in glove, and it all looks

mighty suspicious to me; you know women are the very devil."

"Why don't you chase the young scallywag off?" said Frymann, annoyed.

"I chase her off? Not I; she's a regular witch! Just come along

yourself and attend to her."

"Good, I'll come along with you and make the girl thoroughly understand

how she's to behave."

When they got there, however, instead of Miss Hermine they found Karl,

the sharpshooter, who had unbuttoned his green waistcoat and was

enjoying his mice and what wine there was left all the more because his

mother had just happened to mention that Hermine was going rowing on

the lake again that evening as it would be bright moonlight and she

hadn't been on the lake for a month.

Karl started out on the lake all the earlier because he had to be back

in barracks at the sound of "taps," blown in heavenly harmonies by the

Zurich buglers on beautiful spring and summer evenings. It was not yet

quite dark when he reached the lumber yard; but alas, Master Frymann's

skiff was not floating in the water as usual; it lay bottom up, on two

blocks, about ten yards from the shore.

Was that a hoax, or a trick of the old man's, he wondered and,

disappointed and angry, he was just about to row off when the great,

golden moon rose out of the woods on Mt. Zurich and at the same time

Hermine stepped out from behind a blossoming willow that hung full of

yellow cattails.

"I didn't know that our boat was being freshly painted," she whispered,

"so I'll have to come into yours, row fast!" And she sprang lightly in,

and sat down at the other end of the skiff which was scarcely seven

feet long. They rowed out till they were beyond the range of any spying

eye and Karl began at once to call Hermine to account as regarded

Ruckstuhl, telling her of the latter's words and acts.

"I know," she said, "that this cavalier wants to marry me and that, in

fact, my father is not disinclined to consent; he has already spoken of

it."

"Is he possessed of the devil to want to give you to such a vagabond

and loafer? What's become of his weighty principles?"

Hermine shrugged her shoulders and said: "Father is full of the idea of

building a number of houses and speculating with them; for that reason,

he wants a son-in-law who can be of assistance to him in such matters,

particularly in speculating, and who will know that he is working for

his own advantage in furthering the whole enterprise. He has in mind

that he wants someone with whom he can take pleasure in working and

scheming, as he would have done with a son of his own, and now this

fellow appears to him to have just that kind of talent. All he needs,

father says, to make him a practical expert, is a thorough business

life. Father knows nothing of the foolish way he lives because he

doesn't watch other people's doings and never goes anywhere except to

his old friends. In short, as to-morrow is Sunday, Ruckstuhl has been

invited to dine with us, to strengthen the acquaintance, and I'm afraid

that he will plunge right into a proposal. Besides, I've heard that

he's a wretched flatterer and an impudent fellow when he's trying to

grab something that he wants."

"Oh well," said Karl, "you'll easily out-trump him."

"And I'll do it too; but it would be better if he didn't come at all

and left my papa in the lurch."

"Of course that would be better; but it's a pious wish, he'll take good

care not to stay away."

"I've thought of a plan, though it's rather a queer one to be sure.

Couldn't you lead him into doing something foolish to-day or early

to-morrow morning so that you'd both be sent to the guard-room for

twenty-four or forty-eight hours?"

"You're very kind to want to send me to the lock-up for a couple of

days just to spare you a refusal. Won't you do it cheaper?"

"It's necessary that you should share his suffering so that we may not

have too much on our consciences. As for my refusal, I don't want it to

come to the point where I shall have to say yes or no to the fellow;

it's bad enough that he should talk about me in the barracks. I don't

want him to get a step beyond that."

"You're right, sweetheart! Nevertheless I think the rascal will have to

be locked up alone; a scheme is beginning to dawn on me. But enough of

that, it's a pity to waste our precious time and the golden moonlight.

Doesn't it remind you of anything?"

"What should it remind me of?"

"Of the fact that we haven't seen each other for four weeks and that

you can hardly expect to set foot ashore again to-night unkissed."

"Oh, so you would like to kiss me?"

"Yes, even I; but there's no hurry, I know you can't escape. I want to

enjoy the anticipation a few minutes longer, perhaps five, or six at

the most."

"Oh, indeed! Is that the way you repay my confidence in you, and do you

really care much about it? Wouldn't you consider a bargain?"

"Not though you spoke with the eloquence of an angel, not for a minute!

There's no way out of it for you to-night, my lady."

"Then I will also make a declaration, my dear sir. If you so much as

touch me with the tips of your fingers to-night against my will, it's

all over between us and I will never see you again; I swear it by

Heaven and my own honor. For I am in earnest."

Her eyes sparkled as she spoke. "That will take care of itself,"

replied Karl, "I'm coming soon now, so keep still."

"Do as you like," said Hermine curtly and was silent.

But whether it was that he thought her capable of keeping her word, or

whether he himself did not want her to break her vow, he stayed

obediently in his seat and gazed at her with shining eyes, peering to

see by the moonlight if the corners of her mouth were not twitching and

she were not laughing at him.

"Then I shall have to console myself with the past again and let my

memories compensate me," he began after a brief silence; "who would

believe that those stern and firmly closed lips knew how to kiss so

sweetly years ago!"

"You mean to begin on your shameless inventions again, do you? But let

me tell you that I won't listen to such irritating nonsense any

longer."

"Be calm! Just this once more we will direct our gaze back to those

golden hours and more particularly to the last kiss that you gave me; I

remember the circumstances as clearly and distinctly as if it were

to-day, and I am sure that you do too. I was thirteen and you about ten

and it was several years since we had kissed each other, for we felt

very old and grown-up. But there was to be a pleasant ending after

all--or was it the lark, the herald of the morn? It was a beautiful

Whitmonday--"

"No, Ascension--" interrupted Hermine, but broke off in the middle of

the word.

"You are right, it was a glorious Ascension Day in the month of May and

we were on an excursion with a party of young people, we two being the

only children among them; you stuck close to the big girls and I to the

older boys and we disdained to play with each other or even to talk.

After we had walked hither and yon we sat down in a bright grove of

tall trees and began to play forfeits; for evening was coming on and

the party did not want to go home without a few kisses. Two of them

were condemned to kiss each other with flowers in their mouths without

dropping them. After they, and the couple that tried it after them, had

failed, you suddenly came running up to me without a trace of

embarrassment, with a lily-of-the-valley in your mouth, stuck another

between my lips and said, 'Try it!' Sure enough, both blossoms fell to

join their sisters on the ground, but, in your eagerness, you kissed me

all the same. It felt as if a beautiful, light-winged butterfly had

alighted, and involuntarily I put up two finger-tips to catch it. The

others thought I wanted to wipe my lips and laughed at me."

"Here we are at the shore," said Hermine and jumped out. Then she

turned round again pleasantly to Karl.

"Because you sat so still and treated my word with the respect due to

it," she said, "I will, if necessary, go out with you again before four

weeks have passed and will write you a note to say when. That will be

the first writing I have ever confided to you."

With that she hurried to the house. Karl rowed rapidly to the public

landing so as not to miss the blast of the worthy buglers that pierced

the mild air like a jagged razor.

On his way through the street he encountered Ruckstuhl and Spoerri who

were slightly tipsy; greeting them pleasantly and familiarly, he

grasped the former by the arm and began to praise and flatter him.

"What the devil have you been up to again? What new trick have you been

planning, you schemer? You're certainly the grandest sharpshooter in

the whole canton, in all Switzerland, I _should_ say."

"Thundering guns!" cried Ruckstuhl, highly flattered that someone else

besides Spoerri should make up to him and compliment him, "it's a shame

that we have to turn in so soon. Haven't we time to drink a bottle of

good wine together?"

"Sst! We can do that in our room. It's the custom among the

sharpshooters anyway to take in the officers, at least once during

their service and secretly carouse in their room all night. We're only

recruits, but we'll show them that we're worthy of the carbine."

"That would be a great lark! I'll pay for the wine as sure as my name

is Ruckstuhl! But we must be sly and crafty as serpents, or we'll do

for ourselves."

"Don't worry, we're just the boys for this sort of thing. We'll turn in

quite quietly and innocently and make no noise."

When they reached the barracks their room-mates were all in the canteen

drinking a night-cap. Karl confided in a few of them, who passed the

tidings on, and so each of them provided himself with a few bottles

which, one after the other, they carried out unnoticed and hid under

their cots. In their room they quietly went to bed at ten o'clock to

wait till the rounds had been made to see if the lights were out. They

then all got up again, hung coats over the windows, lighted the lights,

brought out the wine and began a regular drinking bout. Ruckstuhl felt

as if he were in paradise, for they all drank to him and toasted him as

a great man. His ardent desire to be considered somebody in military as

well as in civil life without doing anything to deserve it made him

stupider than he naturally was. When he and his henchman seemed to have

been put completely out of business, various drinking feats were

carried out. One of the men, while standing on his head, had to drink a

ladle of wine which someone else held to his lips; another, seated in a

chair, with a bullet suspended from the ceiling swinging round his

head, had to drink three glasses before the bullet touched his head; a

third had some other trick to perform, and on all who failed some droll

penalty was imposed. All this was done in perfect silence; whoever made

a noise also did penance, and they were all in their nightshirts so

that, if surprised, they could crawl quickly into bed. Now as the time

approached when the officer would make his rounds through the

corridors, the two friends were also assigned a drinking-feat. Each was

to balance a full glass on the flat of his sword and hold it to the

other's mouth and each had to drain the glass so held without spilling

a drop. They drew their short-swords with a swagger and crossed the

blades with the glasses on them; but they trembled so that both glasses

fell off and they did not get a drop. They were, therefore, sentenced

to stand guard outside the door, in "undress uniform," for fifteen

minutes, and this prank was admiringly said to be the boldest ever

carried out in those barracks within the memory of man. Their

haversacks and short-swords were hung crosswise over their shirts, they

were made to put on their shakoes and blue leggings, but no shoes, and

thus, their rifles in their hands, they were led out and posted one on

either side of the door. They were scarcely there before the others

bolted the door, removed all traces of the carousal, uncovered the

windows, put out the lights and slipped into bed as if they had been

asleep for hours. In the meantime the two sentries marched up and down

in the gleam of the corridor-lamp, their rifles on their shoulders, and

looked about them with bold glances. Spoerri, filled with bliss because

he had been able to get drunk at no expense, grew quite reckless and

suddenly began to sing, and that hastened the steps of the officer on

duty who was already on the way. As he approached they tried to slip

quickly into the room; but they couldn't open the door and before they

could think of anything else to do the enemy was upon them. Now

everything whirled through their heads in a mad dance. In their

confusion each placed himself at his post, presented arms and cried,

"Who goes there?"

"In the name of all that's holy, what does this mean? What are you

doing there?" cried the officer on duty, but without receiving a

sufficient answer, for the two clowns could not get out a sensible

word. The officer quickly opened the door and looked into the room, for

Karl who had been straining his ears, had hopped hastily out of bed,

pushed back the bolt and as hastily hopped in again. When the officer

saw that everything was dark and quiet and heard nothing but puffing

and snoring, he cried, "Hallo there, men!"

"Go to the devil!" cried Karl, "and get to bed, you drunkards!" The

others also pretended that they had been wakened and cried,

"Aren't those beasts in bed yet? Turn them out, call the guard!"

"He's here, I'm he," said the officer, "one of you light a light,

quick."

This was done, and when the light fell on the two buffoons peals of

laughter came from under all the bedclothes as if the entire company

were taken utterly by surprise. Ruckstuhl and Spoerri joined crazily in

the laughter and marched up and down holding their sides, for their

minds had now taken a tack in a different direction. Ruckstuhl

repeatedly snapped his fingers in the officer's face and Spoerri stuck

out his tongue at him. When the derided officer saw that there was

nothing to be done with the joyful pair, he took out his pad and wrote

down their names. Now, as ill-luck would have it, he happened to live

in one of Ruckstuhl's houses and had not yet paid the rent--due at

Easter which was just over--it might be because he was not in funds or

because he had been too busy while on military duty to attend to it. In

any case, Ruckstuhl's evil genius suddenly hit on this fact and,

reeling towards the officer, he laughed foolishly and stuttered,

"P-pay your d-debts fir-firsht, m-mister, before you t-ta-take down

peo-people's namesh. You know!"

Spoerri laughed still louder, lurched and staggered back like a crab

and, shaking his head, piped shrilly,

"P-p-pay your d-debts, mister, that-tha-that is well s-said."

"Four of you get up," said the officer quietly, "and take these men to

the guard-house, see that they're well locked up at once. In about

three days we'll see if they have slept this off yet. Throw their

cloaks over their shoulders and let them take their trousers on their

arms. March!"

"T-t-t-trousers," shouted Ruckstuhl, "th-that's what we need; there's

sh-sh-shtill s-something left to fa-fall out--if-you-shake-them."

"If you sh-sh-shake them, mister," repeated Spoerri and both of them

swung their trousers about till the coins jingled in the pockets. So

they marched off with their escort, laughing and shouting, through the

corridors and down the stairs and soon disappeared in a cellar-like

room in the basement, whereupon it grew quiet.

The following day at noon. Master Frymann's table was more elaborately

set than usual. Hermine filled the cut-glass decanters with the vintage

of '46, put a shining glass at every place, laid a handsome napkin on

every plate, and cut up a fresh loaf from the bakery at the sign of the

Hen where they baked an old-fashioned kind of bread for high days and

holidays, the delight of all the children in Zurich and of the women

who sat gossiping over their afternoon coffee-cups. She also sent an

apprentice, dressed in his Sunday best, to the pastry-cook's to fetch

the macaroni pie and the coffee cake, and finally she arranged the

dessert on a small side table: little curled cookies, and wafers, the

pound cake, the little "cocked hats," and the conical raisin loaf.

Frymann, pleasantly affected by the beautiful Sunday weather,

interpreted his daughter's zeal to mean that she did not intend

seriously to resist his plans, and he said to himself with amusement,

"They're all like that! As soon as an acceptable and definite

opportunity offers itself they make haste to seize it by the forelock!"

According to ancient custom Mr. Ruckstuhl was invited for twelve

o'clock sharp. When, at a quarter past, he was not yet there, Frymann

said,

"We will begin; we must accustom this cavalier to punctuality from the

start."

And when the soup was finished and Ruckstuhl had still not arrived the

master called in the apprentices and the maidservant who were eating by

themselves that day and had already half done, and said to them:

"Sit down and eat with us, we don't want to sit staring at all this

food. Pitch in and enjoy yourselves,

'Whoever late to dinner comes

Must eat what's left or suck his thumbs.'"

There was no need to ask them a second time, and they were jolly and in

good spirits, and Hermine was the merriest of all, and her appetite

grew better and better the more annoyed and displeased her father

became.

"The fellow seems to be a boor!" he growled to himself, but she heard

it and said:

"He probably couldn't get leave; we mustn't judge him too hastily."

"Not get leave! Are you ready to defend him already? Why shouldn't he

get leave if he cares anything about it?"

He finished his meal in the worst of humors and, contrary to his habit,

went at once to a coffee-house simply that he should not be at home if

the negligent suitor should finally come. Towards four o'clock, instead

of joining the Seven as usual, he came home again, curious to see

whether Ruckstuhl had put in an appearance. As he came through the

garden, there sat Mrs. Hediger with Hermine in the summer-house, as it

was a warm spring day, and they were drinking coffee and eating the

"cocked hats" and the raisin loaf and seemed to be in high spirits. He

said good afternoon to Mrs. Hediger, and although it annoyed him to see

her there, he asked her at once whether she had no news from the

barracks, and if all the sharpshooters had not perhaps gone on an

excursion.

"I think not," said Mrs. Hediger, "they were at church this morning and

afterwards Karl came home to dinner; we had roast mutton and that is a

dish he never deserts."

"Did he say nothing about Mr. Ruckstuhl or mention where he had gone?"

"Mr. Ruckstuhl? Yes, he and another recruit are in close confinement

for getting dreadfully intoxicated and insulting their superiors; they

say it was a most laughable scene."

"The devil take him!" said Frymann and straightway departed. Half an

hour later he was saying to Hediger:

"Now it's your wife who is sitting with my daughter in the garden and

rejoicing with her that my plan for a marriage has been wrecked."

"Why don't you drive her away? Why didn't you growl at her?"

"How can I, in view of our old friendship? You see, how these

confounded affairs are already confusing our relations with one

another. Therefore let us stand firm! No kinship for us!"

"No kinship indeed!" corroborated Hediger, and shook his friend by the

hand.

July, and with it the National Shooting Match of 1849, was now scarcely

a fortnight distant. The Seven held another meeting; for the cup and

banner were finished and had to be inspected and approved. The banner

was raised aloft and set up in the room, and in its shadow there now

took place the stormiest session that had ever stirred the Upright

Seven. For the fact suddenly became apparent that a banner carried in a

presentation procession involves a speaker, and it was the choice of

the latter that nearly wrecked the little boat with its crew of seven,

Each in turn was chosen thrice, and thrice did each in turn most

decisively decline. They were all indignant that none would consent,

and it made each of them angry to think that just he should be picked

out to bear this burden and do this unheard-of thing. As eagerly as

other men come forward when it's a question of taking the floor and

airing their view's, just so timidly did these men avoid speaking in

public, and each plead his unfitness, and declared that he had never in

his life done anything of the kind and never would. For they still

believed speechmaking to be an honorable art requiring both talent and

study, and they cherished an unreserved and honest respect for good

orators who could touch them, and accepted everything that such a man

said as true and sacred. They distinguished these orators sharply from

themselves and imposed upon themselves the meritorious duty of

attentive listeners, to consider conscientiously, to agree or to

reject, and this seemed to them a sufficiently honorable task.

So when it appeared that no speaker was procurable by vote, a tumult

and general uproar arose, in which each tried to convince another that

he was the man who should sacrifice himself. They picked out Hediger

and Frymann in particular and vigorously assaulted them. They, however,

resisted forcibly, and each tried to shift it to the other till Frymann

called for silence and said:

"My friends! We have made a thoughtless mistake and now we cannot fail

to see that, after all, we had better leave our banner-at home; so let

us quickly decide to do that and attend the festival without any fuss."

Heavy gloom settled down on them at these words.

"He's right!" said Kuser, the silversmith.

"There's nothing else for us to do," added Syfrig, the ploughmaker.

But Buergi cried: "We can't do that; people know what we intend to do

and that the banner is made. If we give it up the story will go down to

history."

"That's true, too," said Erismann, the innkeeper, "and our old

adversaries, the reactionaries, will know how to make the most of the

joke."

Their old bones thrilled with terror at such an idea, and once again

the company attacked the two most gifted members; they resisted anew

and finally threatened to withdraw.

"I am a simple carpenter and will never make a laughing stock of

myself," cried Frymann, to which Hediger rejoined:

"Then how can you expect me, a poor tailor, to do it? I should bring

ridicule on you all and harm myself, all to no purpose. I propose that

one of the innkeepers should be urged to undertake it; they are most

accustomed to crowds than any of the rest of us."

But the innkeepers protested vehemently, and Pfister suggested the

cabinet-maker because he was a wit and a joker.

"Joker! Not much!" cried Buergi, "do you call it a joke to address the

president of a national festival in the presence of a thousand people?"

A general sigh was the answer to this remark which made them realize

the difficulties of the task more vividly than ever.

After this several members rose one by one from the table, and there

was a running in and out and a whispering together in the corners.

Frymann and Hediger alone remained seated, with gloomy countenances,

for they divined that a fresh and deadly assault on them was being

planned. Finally, when they were all assembled again, Buergi stood up

before these two and said:

"Kaspar and Daniel! You have both so often spoken to our satisfaction

here, in this circle, that either of you, if he only will, can

perfectly well make a short, public address. It is the decision of the

society that you shall draw lots between you and that the result shall

be final. You must yield to a majority of five to two."

Renewed clamor supported these words; the two addressed, looked at each

other and finally bowed humbly to the decision, each in the hope that

the bitter lot might fall to the other. It fell to Frymann who, for the

first time, left a meeting of the Lovers of Liberty with a heavy heart,

while Hediger rubbed his hands with delight--so inconsiderate does

selfishness make the oldest of friends.

Frymann's pleasure in the approaching festival was now at an end and

his days were darkened. He thought constantly of his speech without

being able to find a single idea, because he kept seeking for something

remote instead of seizing upon what lay near at hand and using it as he

would have among his friends. The phrases in which he was accustomed to

address them seemed homely to him, and he hunted about in his mind for

something out of the ordinary and high-sounding, for a political

manifesto, and he did so not from vanity but from a bitter sense of

duty. Finally he began to cover a sheet of paper with writing, not

without many interruptions, sighs, and curses. With infinite pains he

wrote two pages, although he had intended to compose only a few lines;

for he could not find a conclusion, and the tortured phrases clung to

one another like sticky burrs and held the writer fast in a confused

tangle.

With the folded paper in his waistcoat pocket he went worriedly about

his business, occasionally stepping behind some shed to read it again

and shake his head. At last he confided in his daughter and read the

draft to her to see what effect it made. The speech was an accumulation

of words that thundered against Jesuits and aristocrats, richly larded

with such expressions as "freedom," "human rights," "servitude," and

"degradation"; in short it was a bitter and labored declaration of war,

in which there was no mention of the Seven and their little banner, and

moreover, the composition was clumsy and confused, whereas he usually

spoke easily and correctly.

Hermine said it was a very strong speech, but it seemed to her somewhat

belated, as the Jesuits and aristocrats had been conquered at last, and

she thought a bright and pleasant declaration would be more appropriate

since the people were contented and happy.

Frymann was somewhat taken aback and although, even as an old man, the

fire of passion was still strong within him, he rubbed his nose and

said:

"You may be right, but still you don't quite understand it. A man

must use forcible language in public and spread it on thick, like a

scene-painter, so to speak, whose work, seen close to, is a crude daub.

Still, perhaps I can soften an expression here and there."

"That will be better," continued Hermine, "for there are so many

'therefores' in it. Let me look at it a minute. See, 'therefore' occurs

in nearly every other line."

"It's the very devil," he cried, took the paper from her hand and tore

it into a hundred pieces. "That's the end of it! I can't do it and I

won't make a fool of myself."

But Hermine advised him not to try to write anything, to wait until

just about an hour before the presentation and then to settle on some

idea and make a brief speech about it on the spur of the moment, as if

he were at home.

"That will be best," he replied, "then if it's a failure, at least I

have made no false pretenses."

Nevertheless he could not help beginning at once to turn over and

torture the idea in his mind without succeeding in giving it form; he

went about preoccupied and worried, and Hermine watched him with great

satisfaction.

The festival week had come before they knew it, and one morning in the

middle of it, the Seven started for Aarau before daybreak in a special

omnibus drawn by four horses. The new banner fluttered brightly from

the box; on its green silk shone the words, "Friendship in Freedom!"

and all the old men were joyful and gay, serious and merry by turns,

and Frymann alone appeared to be depressed and dubious.

Hermine was already staying with friends in Aarau, for her father

rewarded her perfect housekeeping by taking her with him on all his

jaunts; and more than once she had adorned the joyful circle of

greybeards like a rosy hyacinth. Karl, too, was already there; although

his military service had made demands enough on his time and his money,

yet at Hermine's invitation he had gone to the festival on foot, and

oddly enough had found quarters near where she was staying; for they

had their affair to attend to, and no one could say whether they might

not be able to make favorable use of the festival. Incidentally, he

also wanted to shoot and, in accordance with his means, carried

twenty-five cartridges with him; these he intended to use, no more and

no fewer.

He had soon scented the arrival of the Upright Seven and followed them

at a distance as, with their little banner, they marched in close order

to the festival grounds. The attendance was larger on that day than on

any other in the week, the streets were full of people in their best

clothes, going and coming; large and small rifle clubs came along with

and without bands; but none was as small as that of the Seven. They

were obliged to wind their way through the crowd but, taking short

paces, they kept in step nevertheless; their fists were closed and

their arms hung straight at their sides in military fashion. Frymann

marched ahead with the banner, looking as if he were being led to

execution. Occasionally he looked from side to side to see if no escape

were possible; but his companions, glad that they were not in his

shoes, encouraged him and called out to him bracing and pithy words.

They were already nearing the festival grounds; the crackling

rifle-fire already sounded close by, and high in the air the national

marksmen's flag flew in sunny solitude and its silk now stretched out

quiveringly to all four corners, now snapped gracefully above the

people's heads, now hung down sanctimoniously, close to the staff, for

a moment--in short, it indulged in all the sport that a flag can think

of in a whole long week, and yet the sight of it stabbed the bearer of

the little green banner to the heart.

Karl, seeing the merry flag and stopping to watch it a moment, suddenly

lost sight of the little group and when he looked all round for it he

could not discover it anywhere; it seemed as if the earth had swallowed

it. Quickly he pressed through to the spot and then back to the

entrance of the grounds and looked there; no little green banner rose

from the throng. He turned to go back again, and in order to get ahead

faster he took a side way along the street. There stood a little

tavern, the proprietor of which had planted a few lean evergreens in

front of the door, put up a few tables and benches and spread a piece

of canvas above the whole, like a spider that spins her web close to a

large pot of honey, so as to catch a fly now and then. Through the

dirty window of this little house Karl happened to see the shining gilt

tip of a flag-pole; in he went at once and behold, there, in the

low-ceilinged room, sat his precious old men as if blown there by a

thunderstorm. They lay and lounged this way and that on chairs and

benches and hung their heads, and in the centre stood Frymann with the

banner and said:

"That's enough! I won't do it! I'm an old man and don't want to bear

the stigma of folly and a nickname for the rest of my days."

And with that he stood the banner in a corner with a bang. No answer

followed until the pleased innkeeper came and placed a huge bottle of

wine in front of the unexpected guests, although they had been too

upset to order anything. Hediger filled a glass, stepped up to Frymann

and said:

"Come, old friend and comrade, take a swallow of wine and brace up."

But Frymann shook his head and spoke not another word. They sat in

great distress, greater than they had ever known; all the riots,

counter-revolutions, and reactions that they had experienced were

child's play compared to this defeat at the gates of paradise.

"Then in God's name, let us turn round and drive home again," said

Hediger who feared that even now fate might turn against him. At that

Karl, who until now had stood on the threshold, stepped forward and

said gaily:

"Gentlemen, give me the banner! I will carry it and speak for you, I

don't mind doing it."

They all looked up in astonishment and a ray of relief and joy flashed

across their faces; but old Hediger said sternly:

"You! How did you come here? And how can an inexperienced young shaver

like you speak for us old fellows?"

But from all sides came cries of "Well done! Forward unfalteringly!

Forward with the lad!" And Frymann himself gave him the banner, for a

heavy weight had fallen from his heart and he was glad to see his old

friends saved from the distress into which he had led them. And forward

they went with renewed zest; Karl led, bearing the banner grandly

aloft, and in the rear the innkeeper looked sadly after the vanishing

mirage that had for a moment deceived him. Hediger alone was now gloomy

and unhappy, for he did not doubt that his son would lead them deeper

into the mire than ever. But they had already entered the grounds; the

Grisons were just marching off, a long brown procession, and, passing

them and in time to their music, the old men marched through the crowd,

keeping step as perfectly as they had ever done. Again they had to mark

time when three fortunate shots who had won cups crossed their path

with buglers and followers; but all that, together with the loud noise

of the shooting, only increased their festive intoxication and finally

they uncovered their heads at the sight of the trophy-temple which

blazed with treasures, and from the turrets of which a host of flags

fluttered showing the colors of all the cantons, towns, districts and

parishes. In their shade stood several gentlemen in black and one of

them held a brimming silver goblet in his hand ready to receive the

arrivals.

The seven venerable heads floated like a sunlit cake of ice in the dark

sea of the crowd, their scanty white hair fluttered in the gentle east

wind and streamed in the same direction as the red and white flag high

above them. By reason of their small number and their advanced age they

attracted general attention, people smiled not without respect, and

everyone was listening as the youthful standard-bearer stepped forward

and in a fresh clear voice delivered this address:

"Beloved Countrymen! Here we come with our little banner, eight of us

all told, seven greybeards with a young standard-bearer. As you see,

each carries his rifle, without claiming to be a remarkably good shot;

to be sure, none of us would miss the target and sometimes one of us

hits the bull's eye, but if that should occur you can swear that he

didn't mean to. So, as far as the silver is concerned that we shall

carry away from your trophy-hall, we might just as well have stayed at

home.

"Nevertheless, although we are not eminent marksmen, we couldn't keep

away; we have come not to win trophies, but to present a modest little

cup, an almost immodestly joyful heart, and a new banner that trembles

in my hand with eagerness to fly from your fortress of flags. But we

shall take our little banner home with us again, it is only here to

receive its consecration. See, what it bears in golden letters:

'Friendship in Freedom'! Yes, it is friendship personified so to speak,

that we bring to this festival, friendship based on patriotism,

friendship rooted in the love of liberty. Friendship it was that

brought together these seven hoary heads that glisten here in the

sunlight, thirty, no forty years ago, and it has held them together

through every storm, in good and evil days. It is a society that has no

name, no president and no statutes; its members neither bear titles nor

hold offices, it is unmarked timber from the forest depths of the

nation, and it now steps forth for a moment into the sunlight of the

national holiday only to return presently to its place, to rustle and

roar with thousands of other tree-tops in the hidden forest-dusk of the

people, where only a few can know and call each other by name, and yet

all are familiar and acquainted.

"Look at them, these old sinners! None of them stands in the odor of

particular sanctity! Rarely is one of them seen at church! They do not

speak well of ecclesiastical matters. But here, beneath the open sky, I

can confide something strange to you, my countrymen: as soon as their

fatherland is in danger they begin quite gradually to believe in God;

first each one cautiously in his own heart, then ever more boldly, till

one betrays his secret to another and they then, all together,

cultivate a remarkable theology, the first and only doctrine of which

is: 'God helps him who helps himself! On days of rejoicing too, like

this, when crowds of people are assembled and a clear blue sky smiles

above them, they again fall a prey to these religious thoughts and then

they imagine that God has hung the Swiss standard aloft and made the

beautiful weather especially for us. In both cases, in the hour of

danger and in the hour of joy, they are suddenly satisfied with the

words that begin our constitution: 'In the name of God Almighty'! And

such a gentle tolerance pervades them then--cross-grained though they

are at other times--that they do not even ask whether it is the Roman

Catholic or the Protestant God of Hosts that is meant.

"In short, a child who has been given a little Noah's ark filled with

painted animals and tiny men and women, cannot be more pleased with it

than they are with their beloved little fatherland and all the

thousands of good things that are in it, from the moss-covered old pike

lying at the bottom of its lakes to the wild bird that flutters round

its icy peaks. Oh, what different kinds of people swarm here in this

little space, manifold in their occupations, in manners and customs, in

costume and language! What sly rascals and what moonstruck fools we see

running around, what noble growth and what weeds thrive here merrily

side by side, and it is all good and fine and dear to our hearts, for

it is in our fatherland.

"So, considering and weighing the value of earthly things, they grow to

be philosophers; but they can never get beyond the wonderful fact of

the fatherland. True, they traveled in their youth and have seen many

countries, not with arrogance, but honoring every land in which they

found people of worth; but their motto remained ever the same: respect

every man's mother country, but love your own!

"And how graceful and rich it is! The closer one looks at it the finer

does its warp and woof appear, beautiful and durable, a model piece of

handiwork!

"How diverting it is that there is not just one monotonous type of

Swiss, but that there are various stamps of people from Zurich and

Bern, Unterwalden and Neuenburg, the Orisons and Basle, and even two

kinds of Baslers; and that Appenzell has a history of its own and

Geneva another! This variety in unity--which God preserve--is the

proper school in which to learn friendship, and it is only where

political homogeneousness is transformed into the personal friendship

of a whole people that the highest plane has been attained; for where

the sense of citizenship fails, friendship will be successful and both

will combine to form a single virtue.

"These old men have spent their years in toil and labor; they are

beginning to feel the frailty of all flesh, it pinches one in one

place, one in another. Yet, when summer comes, they go, not to the

baths, but to the national festival. The wine of the Swiss festival is

the healing spring that refreshes their hearts, the outdoor summer life

of the nation is the air that strengthens their old nerves, surging

waves of happy fellow-countrymen are the sea that bathes their stiff

limbs and makes them active again. You will presently see their white

heads disappear in this sea. So now, fellow Helvetians, give us the cup

of welcome! Long live friendship in the fatherland! Long live

friendship in freedom!"

"Long may it live! Bravo!" rang out from all sides, and the welcoming

speaker replied to the address and saluted the old men, who made an odd

and touching appearance as they stood before him.

"Yes," he concluded, "may our festivals never become anything worse

than a school of manners for the young, and, for the old, the reward of

a clear public conscience, of faithful civic loyalty, and a fountain of

pleasure! May they ever celebrate inviolable and vigorous friendship in

our country, between district and district and between man and man! May

your nameless and statuteless society, my venerable friends, live

long!"

Again the toast was echoed all around and amid general applause the

little banner was added to the others. Hereupon the little troop of the

Seven wheeled about and made straight for the great festival hall to

refresh themselves with a good luncheon and they were scarcely there

before they all shook hands with their speaker and cried:

"Spoken from our hearts! Hediger, Kaspar! your boy is made of good

stuff, he'll turn out well, let him go his own way. Just like us, but

cleverer, we are a lot of old donkeys; but steadfast and unflinching,

stand firm, Karl!" and so on.

But Frymann was quite dumbfounded; the boy had said just what he ought

to have thought of, instead of banging away at the Jesuits. He too gave

Karl his hand in friendship and thanked him for his help in time of

need. Last of all, old Hediger came up to his son, took his hand also,

fixed his eye keenly and firmly upon him and said:

"Son, you have revealed a fine but dangerous gift. Nurse it, cultivate

it with loyalty, with a sense of duty, with modesty. Never lend it to

the false and the unjust, to the vain and the trivial; for it may

become as a sword in your hand that turns against you yourself, or

against the good as well as the evil. Or it may become a mere fool's

bauble. Therefore, look straight ahead, be modest, studious, but firm

and unswerving. As you have done us honor to-day, remember always to do

honor to your fellow-citizens, to your country, to give them joy; think

of this and so you will be best preserved from false ambition!

Unswerving! Don't think that you must always speak, let some

opportunities pass, and never speak for your own sake, but always for

some worthy cause. Study men, not in order to outwit and plunder them,

but in order to awaken and set in motion the good in them, and, believe

me, many who listen to you will often be better and wiser than you who

speak. Never use sophisms and petty hair-splitting which only move the

chaff; the heart of the people can only be stirred by the full force of

truth. Do not, therefore, court the applause of the noisy and restless,

but fix your eye unswervingly on the cool-headed and the firm."

Scarcely had he finished this speech and released Karl's hand when

Frymann seized it and said:

"Try to acquire an equal knowledge of all branches and enrich your

store of principles that you may not sink into the use of empty

phrases. After this first dash allow considerable time to pass without

thinking of such things again. If you have a good idea, never speak

just in order to air it but rather lay it aside; the opportunity will

come more than once later for you to use it in a more developed and

better form. But should someone else forestall you in uttering it, be

glad instead of annoyed, for that is a proof that you have felt and

thought something universal. Train and develop your mind and watch over

your nature and study in other speakers the difference between a mere

tongue-warrior and a man of truthfulness and feeling. Do not travel

about the country nor rush through all the streets, but accustom

yourself to understand the course of the world from your own hearth, in

the midst of tried friends; then, when it is time for action, you will

come forward with more wisdom than the hounds and tramps. When you

speak, speak neither like a facetious hostler nor like a tragic actor,

but keep your own natural character unspoilt and then speak as it

dictates. Avoid affectation, don't strike attitudes, do not look about

you like a field marshal before you begin, or, worse, as if you were

lying in wait to spring upon the audience. Never say that you are not

prepared when you are, for people will know your style and will

perceive it at once. When you have done, do not walk about collecting

compliments, or beam with self-satisfaction, but sit quietly down in

your seat and listen attentively to the next speaker. Save your harsh

phrases as you would gold, so that when, on occasion, you use them in

just indignation, it will be an event, and they will strike your

opponent like a bolt from the blue. But if you think you may ever

associate with an opponent again and work with him, beware of letting

your anger carry you into the use of extreme expressions, that the

people may not say,

'Rascals fight, and when the fight is o'er,

They're greater friends than e'er before'."

Thus spake Frymann, and poor Karl sat astonished and bewildered by all

these speeches and did not know whether to laugh or to be puffed up.

But Syfrig, the smith, cried:

"Now look at these two who didn't want to speak for us and can talk

like books, as you see."

"Just so," said Buergi, "but that has been the means of our gaining new

growth; we have put forth a vigorous young shoot. I move that the lad

be taken into the circle of us old fellows and from now on attend our

meetings."

"So be it!" they all cried and clinked glasses with Karl, who somewhat

unthinkingly drained his to the bottom, which lapse however the old men

let pass without a murmur in view of the excitement of the moment.

When, thanks to a good lunch, the party felt sufficiently recovered

from its adventure, the members scattered. Some went to try a few

shots, some to see the trophy-hall and other arrangements, and Frymann

went to fetch his daughter and the women whose guest she was; for they

were all to meet again for dinner at the same table which stood nearly

in the centre of the hall and not far from the platform. They took note

of its number and separated in the best of spirits and free from all

care.

Exactly at twelve o'clock the dinner guests, who were different ones

every day and numbered several thousand people, sat down at the table.

Country and city people, men and women, old and young, scholars and the

unlearned--they all sat joyfully side by side and waited for the soup,

opening bottles and cutting bread meanwhile. Not a single malicious

face, not a scream or shrill laugh was seen or heard among them,

nothing but the steady hum of a glad wedding feast magnified a

hundredfold, the tempered wave-beat of a happy and self-contained

ocean. Here a long table filled with marksmen, there a double row of

blooming country girls, at a third table a meeting of so-called "old

fellows" from all parts of the country, who had finally passed their

examinations, and at a fourth a whole "immigrated" hamlet, men and

women together. Yet these seated hosts formed only half of the

assemblage; an equally numerous crowd of spectators streamed

uninterruptedly through the aisles and spaces and circled ceaselessly

about the diners. They--praise and thanks be to God!--were the careful

and economical ones who had counted the cost and satisfied their

hunger elsewhere for even less money, that half of the nation that

always manages things so much more cheaply and frugally, while the

other half flings away money right and left; then there were also the

over-fastidious ones who did not trust the cooking and thought the

forks were too cheap; and finally there were the poor and the children,

who were involuntary spectators. But the former made no unkind remarks

and the latter displayed neither torn clothes nor jealous looks; on the

contrary, the thrifty ones took pleasure in the spendthrifts, and the

super-refined who thought the dishes of green peas in July ridiculous,

walked about as good-humoredly as the poor who found their fragrance

most tempting. Here and there, to be sure, a piece of culpable

selfishness appeared as, for instance, when some tight-fisted young

peasant succeeded in slipping unseen into a vacated place and eating

away with the rest without having paid; and, what was still worse in

the eyes of those who love order and discipline, this reprehensible act

did not even result in an altercation and forcible ejection.

The head festival-host stood in front of the broad kitchen door and

blew on a hunting horn the signal for a course to be served, whereupon

a company of waiters rushed forward and dispersed to the right, to the

left and straight ahead, executing a well practised man[oe]uvre. One of

them found his way to the table at which sat the Upright and Staunch,

among them Karl, Hermine, and her friends, cousins or whatever they

were. The old men were just listening eagerly to one of the principal

speakers who had mounted the platform after a loud roll on the drum.

There they sat, grave and composed, with forks laid down, stiff and

upright, all their seven heads turned towards the platform. But they

blushed like young girls and looked at each other when the speaker

began with a phrase from Karl's speech, told of the coming of the seven

greybeards, and made that the starting-point for his own speech. Karl

alone heard nothing, for he was joking quietly with the women, until

his father nudged him and expressed his disapproval. As the orator

finished amid great applause, the old men looked at one another again;

they had been present at many assemblies, but for the first time they

themselves had been the subject of a speech and they dared not look

around, so embarrassed were they, though at the same time more than

happy. But, as the way of the world is, their neighbors all around did

not know them, nor suspect what prophets were in their midst, and so

their modesty was not offended. With all the greater satisfaction did

they press one another's hands after each of them had gently rubbed his

own to himself, and their eyes said: Forward unswervingly! That is the

sweet reward of virtue and enduring excellence!

After this Kuser cried: "Well, we have to thank our young Master Karl

for this pleasure. I think we shall have to promise him Buergi's canopy

bed after all and lay a certain doll in it for him. What do you think,

Daniel Frymann?"

"And I am afraid," said Pfister, "that he is going to lose his bet and

will have to buy my Swiss blood."

But Frymann suddenly frowned and said:

"A clever tongue alone isn't always rewarded with a wife! At least in

my house a skilful hand has to go with it. Come, my friends, don't let

us try to include in our jokes things that don't rightly belong there."

Karl and Hermine were blushing and looking away into the crowd with

embarrassment. Just then came the boom of the cannon-shot that

announced the recommencement of the shooting and for which a long line

of marksmen were waiting, rifle in hand. Immediately their rifle-fire

crackled all down the line; Karl rose from the table saying that he too

now wanted to try his luck, and betook himself to the range.

"And at least I want to watch him even if I can't have him," cried

Hermine jestingly, and followed him, accompanied by her friends.

But it happened that the women lost sight of one another in the crowd

and at last Hermine was left alone with Karl and went with him

faithfully from target to target. He began at the extreme end where

there was no crowd and, although he shot with no particular

earnestness, made two or three hits in succession. Turning round to

Hermine who stood behind him he said laughing:

"That's doing pretty well!" She laughed too, but only with her eyes,

while her lips said earnestly:

"You must win a cup."

"I can't do that," answered Karl, "to get twenty-five numbers I should

have to use at least fifty cartridges and I only have twenty-five with

me."

"Oh," she said, "there's powder and lead enough for sale here."

"But I don't want to buy any more; that would make the cup a pretty

expensive prize! Some fellows, to be sure, do spend more money on

powder than the trophy is worth, but I'm not such a fool."

"You're very high-principled and economical," she said almost tenderly,

"I like that. But it's the best fun of all to accomplish with a little

just as much as the others with their elaborate preparations and

terrible exertions. So pull yourself together and win with your

twenty-five cartridges. If I were a marksman I'd make myself succeed."

"Never! Such a thing never occurs, you little goose!"

"That's because you are all only Sunday marksmen. Go ahead, begin and

try it."

He shot again and got a number and then a second. Again he looked at

Hermine and she laughed still more with her eyes and said still more

earnestly:

"There, you see! It can be done, now go ahead."

He looked at her steadily, and could scarcely withdraw his gaze, for he

had never seen her eyes look as they did now; there was a stern and

tyrannical gleam in the smiling sweetness of her glance, two spirits

spoke eloquently out of its radiance: one was her commanding will, but

with that was fused the promise of reward and out of that fusion arose

a new mysterious being. "Do my will, I have more to give than you

suspect," said those eyes, and Karl gazed into them searchingly and

eagerly until he and the girl understood each other, there, surrounded

by the tumult and surge of the festival. When he had satisfied his eyes

with this radiance, he turned again, aimed calmly and scored once more.

Now he himself began to feel that it was possible; but as people were

beginning to gather about him, he went away and sought a quieter and

emptier range, and Hermine followed him. There he again made several

hits without wasting a shot; and so he began to handle his cartridges

as carefully as gold coins, and Hermine accompanied every one with

avaricious, shining eyes as it disappeared into the barrel; but each

time, before Karl took his aim without haste or agitation, he looked

into the beautiful face beside him. As soon as people began to notice

his luck and collect round him, he went on to another range; nor did he

stick the checks he received in his hatband, but gave them to his

companion to keep; she held the whole little pack and never did a

marksman have a more beautiful number-bearer. Thus he actually did

fulfill her wish and made such fortunate use of his twenty-five

cartridges that not one of them struck outside the prescribed circle.

They counted over the checks and found this rare good fortune

confirmed.

"I've done it once, but I'll never be able to again as long as I live,"

said Karl, "and it's you who are responsible, with your eyes. I am only

wondering what all else you intend to accomplish with them!"

"Wait and see," she answered, and now her lips laughed too.

"Now go back to the party," he said, "and ask them to come and fetch me

from the trophy-hall, so that I may have an escort, as there is no one

else with me, or do you want to march with me?"

"I'd almost like to," said she, but hurried away nevertheless.

The old men were sitting deep in pleasant conversation; most of the

crowd in the hall had changed but they stuck fast to their table and

let life surge about them. Hermine went up to them laughing and cried:

"Karl wants you to come and get him; he's won a cup!"

"What! How's that?" they cried and rejoiced loudly; "so that's what

he's up to?"

"Yes," said an acquaintance who had just come up, "and, moreover, he

won the cup with twenty-five shots, that doesn't happen every day! I

was watching the young couple and saw how they did it."

Master Frymann looked at his daughter in astonishment. "You didn't

shoot too, did you? I hope not. Women sharpshooters are all right in

general, but not in particular."

"Don't be alarmed," said Hermine, "I didn't shoot, I only ordered him

to shoot straight."

Hediger, however, paled with wonder and satisfaction to think that he

should have a son gifted with eloquence, and famous in the use of arms,

who would go forth with deeds and actions from his obscure tailor-shop

into the world. Inwardly he began to sing small, and decided that he

would no longer try to act the guardian. But now they all started for

the trophy-temple where they really found the young hero, standing

beside the buglers, the shining cup already in his hand, waiting for

them. And so to the tune of a merry march off they went with him to the

festival hall to christen the cup, as the saying goes, and again their

steps were short and firm, their fists were clenched and they looked

triumphantly about them. Arrived again at their headquarters, Karl

filled the cup, set it in the middle of the table and said,

"I herewith dedicate this cup to the Band of Seven, that it may never

leave their banner."

"Accepted!" they shouted. The cup began to go the round and new

merriment rejuvenated the old men, who had now been in good spirits

since dawn. The evening sun streamed in under the countless beams of

the hall and gilded thousands of faces already transfigured with

pleasure, while the resounding tones of the orchestra filled the room.

Hermine sat in the shadow of her father's broad shoulders, as modest

and quiet, as if she couldn't count three. But golden lights from the

sun, falling across the cup before her and flashing on its golden

lining and the wine, played about her rosy and glowing face and danced

with every movement of the wine when the old men in the heat of

discussion pounded on the table; and then one could not tell whether

she herself was smiling or only the playing lights. She was now so

beautiful that young men, looking about the hall, soon discovered her.

Merry groups settled themselves near her in order to keep her in sight

and people asked one another: "Where is she from? Who is the old man?

Doesn't anyone know him?" "She's from St. Gallen; they say she's a

Thurgovian," answered one. "No, all the people at that table are from

Zurich," said another. Wherever she looked, merry young fellows raised

their hats in respectful admiration and she smiled modestly and without

affectation. But when a long procession of young men passed the table

and all took off their hats she had to cast down her eyes, and still

more when a handsome student from Berne suddenly appeared beside her,

cap in hand, and with courteous audacity said that he had been sent by

thirty friends who were sitting at the fourth table from there, to

inform her, with her father's permission, that she was the most

charming girl in the hall. In short, everyone did regular homage to

her, the sails of the old men swelled with new triumph, and Karl's fame

was almost obscured by Hermine's. But he too was to come to the front

once more.

For a stir and a crush arose in the middle aisle caused by two cowherds

from Entlibuch who were pushing their way through the throng. They were

regular bumpkins with short pipes in their mouths, their Sunday jackets

under their brawny arms, little straw hats on their big heads and

shirts fastened together across their chests with silver buckles in the

shape of hearts. The one who went ahead was a clodhopper of fifty and

rather tipsy and unruly; for he wanted to try feats of strength with

every man he saw and kept trying to hook his clumsy fingers into

everything, at the same time blinking pleasantly, or at times

challenging, with his little eyes. So his advance was everywhere marked

by offense and confusion. Directly behind him, however, came the

second, a still more uncouth customer of eighty, with a shock of short

yellow curls, and he was the father of the fifty-year-old. He guided

his precious son with an iron hand, without ever letting his pipe go

out, by saying from time to time:

"Laddie, keep quiet! Orderly, laddie, orderly!" and at the same time

pushing and pulling him in accordance with his words. So he steered him

with able hand through the angry sea until, just as they reached the

table of the Seven, a dangerous stoppage occurred, as a group of

peasants came up who wanted to call the quarrelsome fellow to account

and attack him from both sides. Fearing that his laddie might do some

fiendish damage, the father looked about for a place of refuge and saw

the old men. "He'll be quiet among these old baldpates," he growled to

himself, grasped his son with one fist in the small of his back and

steered him in between the benches, while with the other he fanned the

air behind him to keep off the irritated pursuers, for several of them

had already been properly pinched, in all haste.

"With your permission, gentlemen," said the octogenarian to the younger

old men, "let me sit down here a minute so that I can give my laddie

another glass of wine. Then he will grow sleepy and be as quiet as a

little lamb."

So he wedged himself into the party with his offspring, and the son

really did look about him meekly and respectfully. But presently he

said:

"I want to drink out of the little silver mug over there."

"Will you be quiet, or I'll knock the senses out of you before you can

turn round," said his father. But when Hediger pushed the full cup

towards him he said: "Well, then, if the gentlemen will allow it, take

a drink, but don't guzzle it all."

"That's a lively youngster you've got there, my good man," said

Frymann, "how old is he?"

"Oh," replied the father "around New Year's he'll be about fifty-two;

at least he was screaming in his cradle in 1798 when the French came,

drove away my cows and burnt my house. But because I took a couple of

them and knocked their heads together, I had to fly, and my wife died

of misery in the meantime. That's why I have to bring up my boy alone."

"Didn't you get a wife for him who could have helped you?"

"No, he's still too clumsy and wild; it won't do, he smashes everything

to pieces."

In the meantime the youthful ne'er-do-well had drained the fragrant

cup. He filled his pipe and looked round the circle blinking most

happily and peacefully. Thus he discovered Hermine and the womanly

beauty that radiated from her suddenly rekindled ambition in his heart

and the desire to show his strength. As his eye fell simultaneously on

Karl who was sitting opposite him, he invitingly stretched out his

crooked middle finger across the table.

"Stop that, Sonny! Has Satan got into you again?" cried his father

wrathfully, and was about to take him by the collar, but Karl told him

to let the other be and hooked his middle finger into that of the young

bear and then they tried, each to pull the other over to him.

"If you hurt the young gentleman or sprain his finger," warned the old

father, "I'll take you by the ears so that you'll feel it for three

weeks."

The two hands now wavered for a considerable time over the centre of

the table; Karl soon ceased laughing and grew crimson in the face, but

at last he gradually drew the arm and shoulder of his opponent

perceptibly towards his side of the table and with that the victory was

won.

The man from Entlibuch looked at him quite bewildered and downcast, but

not for long; his old father, now enraged at his defeat, boxed his

ears, and much ashamed he looked at Hermine; then he suddenly began to

cry and said, sobbingly:

"And now at least I want a wife!"

"Come, come," said his papa, "you're ready for bed now." He grasped him

by the arm and marched him off.

After the departure of this odd pair, a silence fell on the old men and

they wondered anew at Karl's deeds and achievements.

"That's entirely due to gymnastics," he said modestly; "they give you

training, strength, and knack for such things and almost anyone can

learn to do them who is not a born weakling."

"That is true," said Hediger, his father, and, after some reflection he

continued enthusiastically: "Therefore let us forever and ever praise

the new era which is again beginning to train men to be men and which

commands not only the country gentleman and the mountain herdsman but

the tailor's son as well to train his limbs and develop his body so

that it can do something."

"That is true," said Frymann also awaking from meditation, "and we too

have all taken part in the struggle to bring on this new era. And

to-day, as far as our old heads are concerned, we, with our little

banner, are celebrating the final result, the command 'Cease firing!'

and the rest we leave to the young ones. But now, no one has ever been

able to say of us that we stuck obstinately to our errors and

misunderstandings. On the contrary, we have always striven to keep our

minds open to all that was rational, true, and beautiful; and so I

herewith frankly and openly take back my declaration in regard to the

children and invite you, Friend Kaspar, to do the same. For what better

memorial of this day could we found, plant, and establish than a living

line, springing directly from the loins of our friendship, a family

whose children will preserve and transmit the principles and the

unswerving faith of the Upright Seven? Well then, let Buergi bring his

canopy-bed that we may equip it. I will lay in it grace and womanly

purity; you, strength, resolution and skill, and with that, forward

with the waving green banner, because they are young. It shall be left

to them and they shall keep it after we are gone. So do not resist

longer, old Hediger, but give me your hand as my kinsman."

"Accepted," said Hediger solemnly, "but on the condition that you don't

give the boy any money to spend on foolishness and heartless

ostentation. For the devil goeth about seeking whom he may devour."

"Accepted," cried Frymann, and Hediger continued:

"Then I greet you as my kinsman, and the Swiss blood may be tapped for

the wedding."

All the Seven now rose and Hermine's hand was laid in Karl's amid great

jubilation.

"Good luck! There's a betrothal, that's the way it ought to be!" cried

some of those sitting near, and at once a throng of people came up to

clink glasses with the young couple. As if by arrangement the orchestra

struck up, but Hermine managed to slip out of the crowd without letting

go of Karl's hand, and he led her out of the hall to the festival

grounds where already nocturnal silence reigned. They walked round the

fortress of flags and as no one was near they stood still. The flags

waved with animation and whispered together but they could not discover

the little banner of friendship, for it had disappeared in the folds of

a huge neighbor and was well taken care of. But overhead in the

starlight the Swiss flag snapped in its constant solitude and the sound

of the bunting could plainly be heard. Hermine put her arms round her

betrothed's neck, kissed him of her own accord, and said tenderly and

with emotion:

"But now we must see that we order our life aright. May we live just as

long as we are good and competent, and not a day longer!"

"Then I hope to live long, for I feel that life will be good with you,"

said Karl and kissed her again; "but what do you think now about who

shall rule? Do you really want to hold the reins?"

"As tight as I can. In the meantime, law and a constitution will surely

develop between us and it will be a good one whatever it is."

"And I will guarantee the constitution and claim the first chance to be

godfather," suddenly rang out a strong bass voice.

Hermine craned her neck and seized Karl's hand; but he went nearer and

saw one of the sentries of the Aargau sharpshooters standing in the

shadow of a pillar. The metal on his equipment gleamed in the dark. Now

the two young men recognized each other and the sentry was a tall,

fine-looking fellow, the son of a peasant. Karl and Hermine sat down on

the steps at his feet and chatted with him for a good half hour before

they returned to their party.

THE RIDER ON THE WHITE HORSE

BY

THEODOR STORM

TRANSLATED BY

MARGARETE MUeNSTERBERG

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

Hans Theodor Woldsen Storm, usually known as Theodor Storm, was born in

the small coast town of Husum in Schleswig-Holstein on September 14,

1817. His father was an attorney whose family had for generations been

tenants of the old mill in Westermuehler, and his mother's family were

of the local aristocracy. Influences from his ancestry on both sides

and from the country in which he was brought up played an important

part in the formation of his sentiments and character.

Storm was educated at schools in Husum and Luebeck, and studied law at

Kiel and Berlin. At Kiel he formed a friendship with the historian

Theodor Mommsen and his brother Tycho, and the three published together

in 1843 "Songs by Three Friends." In spite of his interest in

literature, Storm went on with his legal career, and began practice in

his native town. There in 1846 he married his cousin Konstanze Esmarch,

and settled down to a happy domestic life.

When Storm was born, Schleswig and Holstein were independent duchies,

ruled by the king of Denmark; but when they were forcibly incorporated

into the kingdom of Denmark, Storm, who was a strong German in

sentiment, felt forced to leave his home, and in 1853 became assistant

judge in the circuit court in Potsdam. The bureaucratic society of the

Prussian town was uncongenial, and three years later he was glad to be

transferred to Heiligenstadt in Thuringia. In 1864 Schleswig-Holstein

was conquered by Prussia, and though Storm was disappointed that it did

not regain its independence, it was at least once more German, and he

returned to Husum as "Landvogt," or district magistrate, in 1865, and

lived there till 1880. The last eight years of his life he spent at a

country house in the neighboring village of Hademarschen, where he died

July 4, 1888. Konstanze had died in 1865, and he married as his second

wife Dorothea Jensen. Both marriages brought him much happiness.

Storm began his literary career as a lyric poet, and his work in this

field gives him a high place among the best in a kind in which German

literature is very rich. His story writing began with "Immensee"

(1849), perhaps his best known work. His early prose shared some of the

quality of his poetry in that it sought rather to convey a mood than

describe action; but, as his talent matured, incident and character

stood out more and more distinctly.

The progress can be traced from "Immensee" through "At the Castle" and

"At the University" to the objective narrative of "In the Village on

the Heath" and "At Cousin Christian's." In "Eekenhof" and "Hans and

Heinz Kirsch" he is frankly realistic, and the complete evolution from

his early subjectivity is seen in the dramatic depicting of human

struggles in "The Sons of the Senator," "Renate," and, last and

greatest of his works, "The Rider on the White Horse."

In this masterpiece, Storm exhibits a man's will in conflict, on one

side, with unintelligent conservatism among his fellowmen and, on the

other, with the forces of nature. The figure of the dike-master emerges

from the double struggle with a fine impressiveness; and the tragedy

which finally engulfs him and his family is profoundly moving. At the

same time we are given a vivid picture of the landscape of the

low-lying coast of the North Sea, with the ever-present menace of the

flood tide; and the sternness of the action is tempered with glimpses

of humor and a picture of warm affection. Here Storm's art reached a

pitch which places him beside the masters of the short novel.

W. A. N.

CRITICISM AND INTERPRETATION

By Adolf Stern

Within his special North German world, Storm's view extends back

through the decades and centuries. It reaches also, from the humblest

classes of the people, whose solidity and peculiar virtues he

understands as well as anyone, up to the circles of the most liberal

and profound culture. But the class that stands out most conspicuously

is the bourgeoisie, with their moderate means and their traditional

eagerness to assure to their children circumstances as good as their

own or better; among them his novels are usually laid; and among them

he finds his richest and most original characters. All these people are

deeply rooted in the soil of the family, of the home in the narrower

sense; with all of them the memories of childhood, the earliest

surroundings, play a more important part than would be the case with

people of the same type of mind and the same social position from

another region. With all of them a conservative element is predominant,

which makes itself felt in all their doings, their way of seeing

things, their habits. Men and women appear to be in the peculiar

bondage of a convention more formal than severe; they seem possessed by

a feeling of responsibility towards a conception of life which

dominates them, a conception which does not, to be sure, exclude free

will, a noble passion or warm affection, but which recognizes such and

admits them to their world only under special conditions, watchfully,

carefully, and with reserve. They are more dependent on the opinion of

their environment than the more careless and indifferent children of

other stocks. But though all the characters which Storm likes to

portray are wonderfully and apparently inextricably overgrown with

tradition and custom, yet they are, on the other hand, strong

individualities, independent to the point of stubbornness, and fully

conscious of their right to their own inner life. In these natures so

honestly sober, testing and weighing so sensibly, living in such

well-established order, there reigns secretly a powerful imagination, a

longing and a determination to win, each for himself, a piece of life

after his heart's desire. They are all ready under certain

circumstances to enter into the sharpest conflict, even into the most

irreconcilable struggle with all the conventions, as soon as they feel

their inmost being seized by such a yearning. They have little

inclination to yield to their imaginations in the things of everyday

life, or to urge their desires beyond the usual. But sometimes in

decisive moments they are carried away, they become conscious of the

ardor and at the same time of the strength of their hearts, for once

they must follow the call of their feelings which tells them they are

free and have to work out their own salvation. It is among such natures

that there is scope for the strong and deep passion of love, for that

faithful affection that gives no outward sign--we stand on the shore

whence rose the song of Gudrun in the gray days of old.

Of course, not every one of these peculiar and silent characters is

victorious in the strife with the hard, stubborn, conventional world,

nor does their struggle for their highest good always lead to a tragic

ending. Storm's eye rests too serenely and securely on the object; he

is an artist filled with too deep a sympathy with life to deceive

himself sentimentally about the fatal chain of human destiny, about

guilt and error, about the secret relation between weakness and its

results in life, about the places in the way which we cannot pass. He

is a better, even a keener, realist than many who call themselves by

that name, and has looked deeper into the eye of Nature than those who

imagine that their microscope has laid bare to them every eyelid of the

eternal mother.--From "Studien zur Litteratur der Gegenwart" (1895).

THE RIDER ON THE WHITE HORSE

What I am about to tell I learned nearly half a century ago in the

house of my great-grandmother, old Madame Fedderson, widow of the

senator, while I was sitting beside her armchair, busy reading a

magazine bound in blue pasteboard--I don't remember whether it was a

copy of the "Leipzig" or of "Pappes Hamburger Lesefruechte." I still

remember with a shudder how meanwhile the light hand of the past

eighty-year-old woman glided tenderly over the hair of her

great-grandson. She herself and her time are buried long ago. In vain

have I searched for that magazine, and therefore I am even less able to

vouch for the truth of the statements in it than I am to defend them if

anyone should question them; but of so much I can assure anyone, that

since that time they have never been forgotten, even though no outer

incident has revived them in my memory.

It was in the third decade of our century, on an October

afternoon--thus began the story-teller of that time--that I rode

through a mighty storm along a North Frisian dike. For over an hour I

had on my left the dreary marshland, already deserted by all the

cattle; on my right, unpleasantly near me, the swamping waters of the

North Sea. I saw nothing, however, but the yellowish-grey waves that

beat against the dike unceasingly, as if they were roaring with rage,

and that now and then bespattered me and my horse with dirty foam;

behind them I could see only chaotic dusk which did not let me tell sky

and earth apart, for even the half moon which now stood in the sky was

most of the time covered by wandering clouds. It was ice cold; my

clammy hands could scarcely hold the reins, and I did not wonder that

the croaking and cackling crows and gulls were always letting

themselves be swept inland by the storm. Nightfall had begun, and

already I could no longer discern the hoof of my horse with any

certainty. I had met no human soul, heard nothing but the screaming of

the birds when they almost grazed me and my faithful mare with their

long wings, and the raging of the wind and water. I cannot deny that

now and then I wished that I were in safe quarters.

It was the third day that this weather had lasted, and I had already

allowed an especially dear relative to keep me longer than I should

have done on his estate in one of the more northern districts. But

to-day I could not stay longer. I had business in the city which was

even now a few hours' ride to the south, and in spite of all the

persuasions of my cousin and his kind wife, in spite of the Perinette

and Grand Richard apples still to be tried, I had ridden away.

"Wait till you get to the sea," he had called after me from his house

door. "You will turn back. Your room shall be kept for you."

And really, for a moment, when a black layer of clouds spread

pitch-darkness round me and at the same time the howling squalls were

trying to force me and my horse down from the dike, the thought shot

through my head: "Don't be a fool! Turn back and stay with your friends

in their warm nest." But then it occurred to me that the way back would

be longer than the way to my destination; and so I trotted on, pulling

the collar of my coat up over my ears.

But now something came toward me upon the dike; I heard nothing, but

when the half moon shed its spare light, I believed that I could

discern more and more clearly a dark figure, and soon, as it drew

nearer, I saw that it sat on a horse, on a long-legged, haggard, white

horse; a dark cloak was waving round its shoulders, and as it flew past

me, two glowing eyes stared at me out of a pale face.

Who was that? What did that man want? And now it came to my mind that I

had not heard the beating of hoofs or any panting of the horse; and yet

horse and rider had ridden close by me!

Deep in thought over this I rode on, but I did not have much time to

think, for straightway it flew past me again from behind; it seemed as

if the flying cloak had grazed me, as if the apparition, just as it had

done the first time, had rushed by me without a sound. Then I saw it

farther and farther away from me, and suddenly it seemed as if a shadow

were gliding down at the inland side of the dike.

Somewhat hesitating, I rode on behind. When I had reached that place,

hard by the "Koog," the land won from the sea by damming it in, I saw

water gleam from a great "Wehl," as they call the breaks made into the

land by the storm floods which remain as small but deep pools.

In spite of the protecting dike, the water was remarkably calm; hence

the rider could not have troubled it. Besides, I saw nothing more of

him. Something else I saw now, however, which I greeted with pleasure:

before me, from out of the "Koog," a multitude of little scattered

lights were glimmering up to me; they seemed to come from some of the

rambling Frisian houses that lay isolated on more or less high mounds.

But close in front of me, half way up the inland side of the dike lay a

great house of this kind. On the south side, to the right of the house

door, I saw all the windows illumined, and beyond, I perceived people

and imagined that I could hear them in spite of the storm. My horse had

of himself walked down to the road along the dike which led me up to

the door of the house. I could easily see that it was a tavern, for in

front of the windows I spied the so-called "ricks," beams resting on

two posts with great iron rings for hitching the cattle and horses that

stopped there.

I tied my horse to one of these and left him to the servant who met me

as I entered the hall.

"Is a meeting going on here?" I asked him, for now a noise of voices

and clicking glasses rose clearly from the room beyond the door.

"Aye, something of the sort," the servant replied in Plattdeutsch, and

later I learned that this dialect had been in full swing here, as well

as the Frisian, for over a hundred years; "the dikemaster and the

overseers and the other landholders! That's on account of the high

water!"

When I entered, I saw about a dozen men sitting round a table that

extended beneath the windows; a punch bowl stood upon it; and a

particularly stately man seemed to dominate the party.

I bowed and asked if I might sit down with them, a favor which was

readily granted.

"You had better keep watch here!" I said, turning to this man; "the

weather outside is bad; there will be hard times for the dikes!"

"Surely," he replied, "but we here on the east side believe we are out

of danger. Only over there on the other side it isn't safe; the dikes

there are mostly made more after old patterns; our chief dike was made

in the last century. We got chilly outside a while ago; and you," he

added, "probably had the same experience. But we have to hold out a few

hours longer here; we have reliable people outside, who report to us."

And before I could give my order to the host, a steaming glass was

pushed in front of me.

I soon found out that my pleasant neighbour was the dikemaster; we

entered into conversation, and I began to tell him about my strange

encounter on the dike. He grew attentive, and I noticed suddenly that

all talk round about was silenced.

"The rider on the white horse," cried one of the company and a movement

of fright stirred the others.

The dikemaster had risen.

"You don't need to be afraid," he spoke across the table, "that isn't

meant for us only; in the year '17 it was meant for them too; may they

be ready for the worst!"

Now a horror came over me.

"Pardon me!" I said. "What about this rider on the white horse?"

Apart from the others, behind the stove, a small, haggard man in a

little worn black coat sat somewhat bent over; one of his shoulders

seemed a little deformed. He had not taken part with a single word in

the conversation of the others, but his eyes, fringed as they were with

dark lashes, although the scanty hair on his head was grey, showed

clearly that he was not sitting there to sleep.

Toward him the dikemaster pointed:

"Our schoolmaster," he said, raising his voice, "will be the one among

us who can tell you that best--to be sure, only in his way, and not

quite as accurately as my old housekeeper at home, Antje Vollmans,

would manage to tell it."

"You are joking, dikemaster!" the somewhat feeble voice of the

schoolmaster rose from behind the stove, "if you want to compare me to

your silly dragon!"

"Yes, that's all right, schoolmaster!" replied the other, "but stories

of that kind are supposed to be kept safest with dragons."

"Indeed!" said the little man, "in this we are not quite of the same

opinion." And a superior smile flitted over his delicate face.

"You see," the dikemaster whispered in my ear, "he is still a little

proud; in his youth he once studied theology and it was only because of

an unhappy courtship that he stayed hanging about his home as

schoolmaster."

The schoolmaster had meanwhile come forward from his corner by the

stove and had sat down beside me at the long table.

"Come on! Tell the story, schoolmaster," cried some of the younger

members of the party.

"Yes, indeed," said the old man, turning toward me. "I will gladly

oblige you; but there is a good deal of superstition mixed in with it,

and it is quite a feat to tell the story without it."

"I must beg you not to leave the superstition out," I replied. "You can

trust me to sift the chaff from the wheat by myself!"

The old man looked at me with an appreciative smile.

Well, he said, in the middle of the last century, or rather, to be more

exact, before and after the middle of that century, there was a

dikemaster here who knew more about dikes and sluices than peasants and

landowners usually do. But I suppose it was nevertheless not quite

enough, for he had read little of what learned specialists had written

about it; his knowledge, though he began in childhood, he had thought

out all by himself. I dare say you have heard, sir, that the Frisians

are good at arithmetic, and perhaps you have heard tell of our Hans

Mommsen from Fahntoft, who was a peasant and yet could make

chronometers, telescopes, and organs. Well, the father of this man who

later became dikemaster was made out of this same stuff--to be sure,

only a little. He had a few fens, where he planted turnips and beans

and kept a cow grazing; once in a while in the fall and spring he also

surveyed land, and in winter, when the northwest wind blew outside and

shook his shutters, he sat in his room to scratch and prick with his

instruments. The boy usually would sit by and look away from his primer

or Bible to watch his father measure and calculate, and would thrust

his hand into his blond hair. And one evening he asked the old man why

something that he had written down had to be just so and could not be

something different, and stated his own opinion about it. But his

father, who did not know how to answer this, shook his head and said:

"That I cannot tell you; anyway it is so, and you are mistaken. If you

want to know more, search for a book tomorrow in a box in our attic;

someone whose name is Euclid has written it; that will tell you."

The next day the boy had run up to the attic and soon had found the

book, for there were not many books in the house anyway, but his father

laughed when he laid it in front of him on the table. It was a Dutch

Euclid, and Dutch, although it was half German, neither of them

understood.

"Yes, yes," he said, "this book belonged to my father; he understood

it; is there no German Euclid up there?"

The boy, who spoke little, looked at his father quietly and said only:

"May I keep it? There isn't any German one."

And when the old man nodded, he showed him a second half-torn little

book.

"That too?" he asked again.

"Take them both!" said Tede Haien; "they won't be of much use to you."

But the second book was a little Dutch grammar, and as the winter was

not over for a long while, by the time the gooseberries bloomed again

in the garden it had helped the boy so far that he could almost

entirely understand his Euclid, which at that time was much in vogue.

I know perfectly well, sir, the story teller interrupted himself, that

this same incident is also told of Hans Mommsen, but before his birth

our people here have told the same of Hauke Haien--that was the name of

the boy. You know well enough that as soon as a greater man has come,

everything is heaped on him that his predecessor has done before him,

either seriously or in fun.

When the old man saw that the boy had no sense for cows or sheep and

scarcely noticed when the beans were in bloom, which is the joy of

every marshman, and when he considered that his little place might be

kept up by a farmer and a boy, but not by a half-scholar and a hired

man, inasmuch as he himself had not been over-prosperous, he sent his

big boy to the dike, where he had to cart earth from Easter until

Martinmas. "That will cure him of his Euclid," he said to himself.

And the boy carted; but his Euclid he always had with him in his

pocket, and when the workmen ate their breakfast or lunch, he sat on

his upturned wheelbarrow with the book in his hand. In autumn, when the

tide rose higher and sometimes work had to be stopped, he did not go

home with the others, but stayed and sat with his hands clasped over

his knees on the seaward slope of the dike, and for hours watched the

sombre waves of the North Sea beat always higher and higher against the

grass-grown scar of the dike. Not until the water washed over his feet

and the foam sprayed his face did he move a few feet higher, only to

stay and sit on. He did not hear the splash of the water, or the scream

of the gulls or strand birds that flew round him and almost grazed him

with their wings, flashing their black eyes at his own; nor did he see

how night spread over the wide wilderness of water. The only thing he

saw was the edge of the surf, which at high tide was again and again

hitting the same place with hard blows and before his very eyes washing

away the grassy scar of the steep dike.

After staring a long time, he would nod his head slowly and, without

looking up, draw a curved line in the air, as if he could in this way

give the dike a gentler slope. When it grew so dark that all earthly

things vanished from his sight and only the surf roared in his ears,

then he got up and marched home half drenched.

One night when he came in this state into the room where his father was

polishing his surveying instruments, the latter started. "What have you

been doing out there?" he cried, "You might have drowned; the waters

are biting into the dike to-day."

Hauke looked at him stubbornly.

"Don't you hear me? I say, you might have drowned!"

"Yes," said Hauke, "but I'm not drowned!"

"No," the old man answered after a while and looked into his face

absently--"not this time."

"But," Hauke returned, "our dikes aren't worth anything."

"What's that, boy?"

"The dikes, I say."

"What about the dikes?"

"They're no good, father," replied Hauke.

The old man laughed in his face. "What's the matter with you, boy? I

suppose you are the prodigy from Luebeck."

But the boy would not be put down. "The waterside is too steep," he

said; "if it happens some day as it has happened before, we can drown

here behind the dike too."

The old man pulled his tobacco out of his pocket, twisted off a piece

and pushed it behind his teeth. "And how many loads have you pushed

to-day?" he asked angrily, for he saw that the boy's work on the dike

had not been able to chase away his brainwork.

"I don't know, father," said the boy; "about as many as the others did,

or perhaps half a dozen more; but--the dikes have got to be changed!"

"Well," said the old man with a short laugh, "perhaps you can manage to

be made dikemaster; then you can change them."

"Yes, father," replied the boy.

The old man looked at him and swallowed a few times, then he walked out

of the door. He did not know what to say to the boy.

Even when, at the end of October, the work on the dike was over, his

walk northward to the farm was the best entertainment for Hauke Haien.

He looked forward to All Saints' Day, the time when the equinoctial

storms were wont to rage--a day on which we say that Friesland has a

good right to mourn--just as children nowadays look forward to

Christmas. When an early flood was coming, one could be sure that in

spite of storm and bad weather, he would be lying all alone far out on

the dike; and when the gulls chattered, when the waters pounded against

the dike and as they rolled back swept big pieces of the grass cover

with them into the sea, then one could have heard Hauke's furious

laughter.

"You aren't good for anything!" he cried out into the noise. "Just as

the people are no good!" And at last, often in darkness, he trotted

home from the wide water along the dike, until his tall figure had

reached the low door under his father's thatch roof and slipped into

the little room.

Sometimes he had brought home a handful of clay; then he sat down

beside the old man, who now humoured him, and by the light of the thin

tallow candle he kneaded all sorts of dike models, laid them in a flat

dish with water and tried to imitate the washing away by the waves; or

he took his slate and drew the profiles of the dikes toward the

waterside as he thought they ought to be.

He had no idea of keeping up intercourse with his schoolmates; it

seemed, too, as if they did not care for this dreamer. When winter had

come again and the frost had appeared, he wandered still farther out on

the dike to points he had never reached before, until the boundless

ice-covered sand flats lay before him.

During the continuous frost in February, dead bodies were found washed

ashore; they had lain on the frozen sand flats by the open sea. A young

woman who had been present when they had taken the bodies into the

village, stood talking fluently with old Haien.

"Don't you believe that they looked like people!" she cried; "no, like

sea devils! Heads as big as this," and she touched together the tips of

her outspread and outstretched hands, "coal-black and shiny, like newly

baked bread! And the crabs had nibbled them, and the children screamed

when they saw them." For old Haien this was nothing new.

"I suppose they have floated in the water since November!" he said

indifferently.

Hauke stood by in silence, but as soon as he could, he sneaked out on

the dike; nobody knew whether he wanted to look for more dead, or if he

was drawn to the places now deserted by the horror that still clung to

them. He ran on and on, until he stood alone in the solitary waste,

where only the winds blew over the dike where there was nothing but the

wailing voices of the great birds that shot by swiftly. To his left was

the wide empty marshland, on the other side the endless beach with its

sand flats now glistening with ice; it seemed as if the whole world lay

in a white death.

Hauke remained standing on the dike, and his sharp eyes gazed far away.

There was no sign of the dead; but when the invisible streams on the

sand flats found their way beneath the ice, it rose and sank in

streamlike lines.

He ran home, but on one of the next nights he was out there again. In

places the ice had now split; smoke-clouds seemed to rise out of the

cracks, and over the whole sand-stretch a net of steam and mist seemed

to be spun, which at evening mingled strangely with the twilight. Hauke

stared at it with fixed eyes, for in the mist dark figures were walking

up and down that seemed to him as big as human beings. Far off he saw

them promenade back and forth by the steaming fissures, dignified, but

with strange, frightening gestures, with long necks and noses. All at

once, they began to jump up and down like fools, uncannily, the big

ones over the little ones, the little ones over the big ones--then they

spread out and lost all shape.

"What do they want? Are they ghosts of the drowned?" thought Hauke.

"Hallo!" he screamed out aloud into the night; but they did not heed

his cry and kept on with their strange antics.

Then the terrible Norwegian sea spectres came to his mind, that an old

captain had once told him about, who bore stubby bunches of sea grass

on their necks instead of heads. He did not run away, however, but dug

the heels of his boots faster into the clay of the dike and rigidly

watched the farcical riot that was kept up before his eyes in the

falling dusk. "Are you here in our parts too?" he said in a hard voice.

"You shall not chase _me_ away!"

Not until darkness covered all things did he walk home with stiff, slow

steps. But behind him he seemed to hear the rustling of wings and

resounding screams. He did not look round, neither did he walk faster,

and it was late when he came home. Yet he is said to have told neither

his father nor anyone else about it. But many years after he took his

feeble-minded little girl, with whom the Lord later had burdened him,

out on the dike with him at the same time of day and year, and the same

riot is said to have appeared then out on the sand flats. But he told

her not to be afraid, that these things were only the herons and crows,

that seemed so big and horrible, and that they were getting fish out of

the open cracks.

God knows, the schoolmaster interrupted himself, there are all sorts of

things on earth that could confuse a Christian heart, but Hauke was

neither a fool nor a blockhead.

As I made no response, he wanted to go on. But among the other guests,

who till now had listened without making a sound, only filling the low

room more and more thickly with tobacco smoke, there arose a sudden

stir. First one, then another, then all turned toward the window.

Outside, as one could see through the uncurtained glass, the storm was

driving the clouds, and light and dark were chasing one another; but it

seemed to me too as if I had seen the haggard rider whiz by on his

white horse.

"Wait a little, schoolmaster," said the dikemaster in a low voice.

"You don't need to be afraid, dikemaster," laughed the little narrator.

"I have not slandered him and have no reason to do so"--and he looked

up at him with his small clever eyes.

"All right," said the other. "Let your glass be filled again!" And when

that had been done and the listeners, most of them with rather anxious

faces, had turned to him again, he went on with his story:

Living thus by himself and liking best to associate only with sand and

water and with scenes of solitude, Hauke grew into a long lean fellow.

It was a year after his confirmation that his life was suddenly

changed, and this came about through the old white Angora cat which old

Trin Jans's son, who later perished at sea, had brought her on his

return from a voyage to Spain. Trin lived a good way out on the dike in

a little hut, and when the old woman did her chores in the house, this

monster of a cat used to sit in front of the house door and blink into

the summer day and at the peewits that flew past. When Hauke went by,

the cat mewed at him and Hauke nodded; both knew how each felt toward

the other.

Now it was spring and Hauke, as he was accustomed to do, often lay out

on the dike, already farther out near the water, between beach pinks

and the fragrant sea-wormwood, and let the strong sun shine on him. He

had gathered his pockets full of pebbles up on the higher land the day

before, and when at low tide the sand flats were laid bare and the

little gay strand snipes whisked across them screaming, he quickly

pulled out a stone and threw it after the birds. He had practiced this

from earliest childhood on, and usually one of the birds remained lying

on the ground; but often it was impossible to get at it. Hauke had

sometimes thought of taking the cat with him and training him as a

retriever. But there were hard places here and there on the sand; in

that case he ran and got his prey himself. On his way back, if the cat

was still sitting in front of the house door, the animal would utter

piercing cries of uncontrollable greed until Hauke threw him one of the

birds he had killed.

To-day when he walked home, carrying his jacket on his shoulder, he was

taking home only one unknown bird, but that seemed to have wings of gay

silk and metal; and the cat mewed as usual when he saw him coming. But

this time Hauke did not want to give up his prey--it may have been an

ice bird--and he paid no attention to the greed of the animal. "Wait

your turn!" he called to him. "To-day for me, to-morrow for you; this

is no food for a cat!"

As the cat came carefully sneaking along, Hauke stood and looked at it:

the bird was hanging from his hand, and the cat stood still with its

paw raised. But it seemed that the young man did not know his cat

friend too well, for, while he had turned his back on it and was just

going on his way, he felt that with a sudden jerk his booty was torn

from him, and at the same time a sharp claw cut into his flesh. A rage

like that of a beast of prey shot into the young man's blood; wildly he

stretched out his arm and in a flash had clutched the robber by his

neck. With his fist he held the powerful animal high up and choked it

until its eyes bulged out among its rough hairs, not heeding that the

strong hind paws were tearing his flesh. "Hello!" he shouted, and

clutched him still more tightly; "let's see which of us two can stand

it the longest!"

Suddenly the hind legs of the big cat fell languidly down, and Hauke

walked back a few steps and threw it against the hut of the old woman.

As it did not stir, he turned round and continued his way home.

But the Angora cat was the only treasure of her mistress; he was her

companion and the only thing that her son, the sailor, had left her

after he had met with sudden death here on the coast when he had wanted

to help his mother by fishing in the storm. Hauke had scarcely walked

on a hundred steps, while he caught the blood from his wounds on a

cloth, when he heard a shrill howling and screaming from the hut. He

turned round and, in front of it, saw the old woman lying on the

ground; her grey hair was flying in the wind round her red head scarf.

"Dead!" she cried; "dead!" and raised her lean arm threateningly

against him: "A curse on you! You have killed her, you good for nothing

vagabond; you weren't good enough to brush her tail!" She threw herself

upon the animal and with her apron she tenderly wiped off the blood

that was still running from its nose and mouth; then she began her

screaming again.

"When will you be done?" Hauke cried to her. "Then let me tell you,

I'll get you a cat that will be satisfied with the blood of mice and

rats!"

Then he went on his way, apparently no longer concerned with anything.

But the dead cat must have caused some confusion in his head, for when

he came to the village, he passed by his father's house and the others

and walked on a good distance toward the south on the dike toward the

city.

Meanwhile Trin Jans, too, wandered on the dike in the same direction.

In her arms she bore a burden wrapped in an old blue checkered

pillowcase, and clasped it carefully as if it were a child; her grey

hair fluttered in the light spring wind. "What are you lugging there,

Trina?" asked a peasant who met her. "More than your house and farm,"

replied the old woman, and walked on eagerly. When she came near the

house of old Haien, which lay below, she walked down to the houses

along the "akt," as we call the cattle and foot paths that lead

slantingly up and down the side of the dike.

Old Tede Haien was just standing in front of his door, looking at the

weather. "Well, Trin!" he said, when she stood panting in front of him

and dug her crutch into the ground, "What are you bringing us in your

bag?"

"First let me into the room, Tede Haien! Then you shall see!" and her

eyes looked at him with a strange gleam.

"Well, come along!" said the old man. What did he care about the eyes

of the stupid woman!

When both had entered, she went on: "Take that old tobacco box and

those writing things from the table. What do you always have to write

for, anyway? All right; and now wipe it clean!"

And the old man, who was almost growing curious, did everything just as

she said. Then she took the blue pillowcase at both ends and emptied

the carcass of the big cat out on the table. "There she is!" she cried;

"your Hauke has killed her!" Thereupon she began to cry bitterly; she

stroked the thick fur of the dead animal, laid its paws together, bent

her long nose over its head and whispered incomprehensible words of

tenderness into its ears.

Tede Haien watched this. "Is that so," he said; "Hauke has killed her?"

He did not know what to do with the howling woman.

She nodded at him grimly. "Yes, yes, God knows, that's what he has

done," and she wiped the tears from her eyes with her hand, crippled by

rheumatism. "No child, no live thing any more!" she complained. "And

you know yourself how it is after All Saints' Day, when we old people

feel our legs shiver at night in bed, and instead of sleeping we hear

the northwest wind rattle against the shutters. I don't like to hear

it. Tede Haien, it comes from where my boy sank to death in the

quicksand!"

Tede Haien nodded, and the old woman stroked the fur of her dead

cat. "But this one here," she began again, "when I would sit by my

spinning-wheel, there she would sit with me and spin too and look at me

with her green eyes! And when I grew cold and crept into my bed--then

it wasn't long before she jumped up to me and lay down on my chilly

legs, and we both slept as warmly together as if I still had my young

sweetheart in bed!"

The old woman, as if she were waiting for his assent to this

remembrance, looked with her gleaming eyes at the old man standing

beside her at the table. Tede Haien, however, said thoughtfully: "I

know a way out for you, Trin Jans," and he went to his strong box and

took a silver coin out of the drawer. "You say that Hauke has robbed

your animal of life, and I know you don't lie; but here is a crown

piece from the time of Christian IV; go and buy a tanned lambskin with

it for your cold legs! And when our cat has kittens, you may pick out

the biggest of them; both together, I suppose, will make up for an

Angora cat feeble from old age! Take your beast and, if you want to,

take it to the tanner in town, but keep your mouth shut and don't tell

that it has lain on my honest table."

During this speech the woman had already snatched the crown and stowed

it away in a little bag that she carried under her skirts, then she

tucked the cat back into the pillowcase, wiped the bloodstains from the

table with her apron, and stalked out of the door. "Don't you forget

the young cat!" she called back.

After a while, when old Haien was walking up and down in the narrow

little room, Hauke stepped in and tossed his bright bird on to the

table. But when he saw the still recognizable bloodstain on the clean

white top, he asked as if by the way: "What's that?"

His father stood still. "That's blood that you have spilled!"

The young man flushed hotly. "Why, has Trin Jans been here with her

cat?"

The old man nodded: "Why did you kill it?"

Hauke uncovered his bleeding arm. "That's why," he said. "She had torn

my bird away from me!"

Thereupon the old man said nothing. For a time he began to walk up and

down, then he stood still in front of the young man and looked at him

for a while almost absently.

"This affair with the cat I have made all right," he said, "but look,

Hauke, this place is too small; two people can't stay on it--it is time

you got a job!"

"Yes, father," replied Hauke; "I have been thinking something of the

sort myself."

"Why?" asked the old man.

"Well, one gets wild inside unless one can let it out on a decent piece

of work!"

"Is that so?" said the old man, "and that's why you have killed the

Angora cat? That might easily lead to something worse!"

"You may be right, father, but the dikemaster has discharged his

farmhand; I could do that work all right!"

The old man began to walk up and down, and meanwhile spat out the black

tobacco. "The dikemaster is a blockhead, as stupid as a goose! He is

dikemaster only because his father and grandfather have been the same,

and on account of his twenty-nine fens. Round Martinmas, when the dike

and sluice bills have to be settled, then he feeds the schoolmaster on

roast goose and mead and wheat buns, and sits by and nods while the

other man runs down the columns of figures with his pen, and says:

'Yes, yes, schoolmaster, God reward you! How finely you calculate!' But

when the schoolmaster can't or won't, then he has to go at it himself

and sits scribbling and striking out again, his big stupid head growing

red and hot, his eyes bulging out like glass balls, as if his little

bit of sense wanted to get out that way."

The young man stood up straight in front of his father and marveled at

his talking; he had never heard him speak like that. "Yes, God knows,"

he said, "no doubt he is stupid, but his daughter Elke, she can

calculate!"

The old man looked at him sharply.

"Hallo, Hauke," he exclaimed "what do you know about Elke Volkerts?"

"Nothing, father; only the schoolmaster has told me?"

The old man made no reply; he only pushed his piece of tobacco

thoughtfully from one cheek into the other. "And you think," he said,

"that you can help in the counting there too."

"Oh, yes, father, that would work all right," the son replied, and

there was a serious twitching about his mouth.

The old man shook his head: "Well, go if you like; go and try your

luck!"

"Thanks, father!" said Hauke, and climbed up to his sleeping place in

the garret. There he sat down on the edge of the bed and pondered why

his father had shouted at him so when he had mentioned Elke Volkerts.

To be sure, he knew the slender, eighteen-year-old girl with the

tanned, narrow face and the dark eyebrows that ran into each other over

the stubborn eyes and the slender nose; but he had scarcely spoken a

word to her. Now, if he should go to old Tede Volkerts, he would look

at her more and see what there was about the girl. Right off he wanted

to go, so that no one else could snatch the position away from him--it

was now scarcely evening. And so he put on his Sunday coat and his best

boots and started out in good spirits.

The long rambling house of the dikemaster was visible from afar because

of the high mound on which it stood, and especially because of the

highest tree in the village, a mighty ash. The grandfather of the

present dikemaster, the first of the line, had in his youth planted an

ash to the east of the house door; but the first two had died, and so

he had planted a third on his wedding morning, which was still

murmuring as if of old times in the increasing wind with its crown of

foliage that was growing mightier and mightier.

When, after a while, tall, lank Hauke climbed up the hill which was

planted on both sides with beets and cabbage, he saw the daughter of

the owner standing beside the low house door. One of her somewhat thin

arms was hanging down languidly, the other seemed to be grasping behind

her back at one of the iron rings which were fastened to the wall on

either side of the door, so that anyone who rode to the house could use

them to hitch his horse. From there the young girl seemed to be gazing

over the dike at the sea, where on this calm evening the sun was just

sinking into the water and at the same time gilding the dark-skinned

maiden with its last golden glow.

Hauke climbed up the hill a little more slowly, and thought to himself:

"She doesn't look so dull this way!" Then he was at the top. "Good

evening to you!" he said, stepping up to her. "What are you looking at

with your big eyes, Miss Elke?"

"I'm looking," she replied, "at something that goes on here every

night, but can't be seen here every night." She let the ring drop from

her hand, so that it fell against the wall with a clang. "What do you

want, Hauke Haien?" she asked.

"Something that I hope you don't mind," he said. "Your father has just

discharged his hired man; so I thought I would take a job with you."

She glanced at him, up and down: "You are still rather lanky, Hauke!"

she said, "but two steady eyes serve us better than two steady arms!"

At the same time she looked at him almost sombrely, but Hauke bravely

withstood her gaze. "Come on, then," she continued. "The master is in

his room; let's go inside."

The next day Tede Haien stepped with his son into the spacious room of

the dikemaster. The walls were covered with glazed tiles on which the

visitor could enjoy here a ship with sails unfurled or an angler on the

shore, there a cow that lay chewing in front of a peasant's house. This

durable wall-covering was interrupted by an alcove-bed with doors now

closed, and a cupboard which showed all kinds of china and silver

dishes through glass doors. Beside the door to the "best room" a Dutch

clock was set into the wall behind a pane of glass.

The stout, somewhat apoplectic master of the house sat at the end of

the well-scrubbed, shining table in an armchair with a bright-coloured

cushion. He had folded his hands across his stomach, and was staring

contentedly with his round eyes at the skeleton of a fat duck; knife

and fork were resting in front of him on his plate.

"Good day, dikemaster!" said Haien, and the gentleman thus addressed

slowly turned his head and eyes toward him.

"You here, Tede?" he replied, and the devoured fat duck had left its

mark on his voice. "Sit down; it is quite a walk from your place over

here!"

"I have come, dikemaster," said Tede Haien, while he sat down opposite

the other in a corner on the bench that ran along the wall. "You have

had trouble with your hired man and have agreed with my boy to put him

in his place!"

The dikemaster nodded: "Yes, yes, Tede; but--what do you mean by

trouble? We people of the marshes, thank goodness, have something to

take against troubles!"--and he took the knife before him and patted

the skeleton of the poor duck almost affectionately. "This was my pet

bird," he added laughing smugly; "he fed out of my hand!"

"I thought," said old Haien, not hearing the last remark, "the boy had

done harm in your stable."

"Harm? Yes, Tede; surely harm enough! That fat clown hadn't watered the

calves; but he lay drunk on the hayloft, and the beasts bellowed all

night with thirst, so that I had to make up my lost sleep till noon;

that's not the way a farm can go on!"

"No, dikemaster; but there is no danger of that happening with my boy."

Hauke stood, his hands in his pockets, by the door-post, and had thrown

back his head and was studying the window frames opposite him.

The dikemaster had raised his eyes and nodded toward him: "No, no,

Tede,"--and now he nodded at the old man too; "your Hauke won't disturb

my night's rest; the schoolmaster has told me before that he would

rather sit with his slate and do arithmetic than with a glass of

whiskey."

Hauke did not hear this encouragement, for Elke had stepped into the

room and with her light hand took out the remnants from the table,

meanwhile glancing at him carelessly with her dark eyes. Then his

glances fell on her too. "By my faith," he said to himself, "she

doesn't look so dull now either!"

The girl had left the room. "You know, Tede," the dikemaster began

again, "the Lord has not granted me a son!"

"Yes, dikemaster, but don't let that worry you," replied the other,

"for they say that in the third generation the brains of a family run

out; your grandfather, we all remember, was a man who protected the

land!"

The dikemaster, after some pondering, looked quite puzzled: "How do you

mean, Tede Haien?" he said and sat up in his armchair; "I am in the

third generation myself!"

"Oh, indeed! Never mind, dikemaster; that's just what people say!" And

the lean Tede Haien looked at the old dignitary with rather mischievous

eyes.

The latter, however, spoke unconcerned: "You mustn't let old women get

nonsense like that into your head, Tede Haien; you don't know my

daughter yet--she can calculate three times better than I can! I only

wanted to say, your Hauke will be able to make some profit outside of

his field work in my room with pen and pencil, and that will do him no

harm."

"Yes, yes, dikemaster, he can do that; there you are perfectly right;"

said old Haien and then began to demand some privileges with the

contract which his son had not thought of the night before. For

instance, the latter should receive, besides his linen shirts, eight

pair of woollen stockings in addition to his wages; also he wanted to

have his son's help at his own work for eight days in spring--and more

of the sort. But the dikemaster agreed to everything; Hauke Haien

appeared to him just the right servant.

"Well, God help you, my boy," said the old man, when they had just left

the house, "if that man is to make the world clear to you!"

But Hauke replied calmly: "Never mind, father; everything will turn out

all right."

Hauke had not been wrong in his judgment. The world, or what the world

meant to him, grew clearer to his mind, the longer he stayed in this

house--perhaps all the more, the less he was helped by a wiser insight

and the more he had to depend on his own powers with which he had from

the beginning helped himself. There was someone in the house, however,

whom he did not seem to suit; that was Ole Peters, the head man, a good

worker and a great talker. The former lazy and stupid but stocky hired

man had been more to his liking, whose back he could load calmly with a

barrel of oats and whom he could knock about to his heart's content.

Hauke, who was still more silent, but who surpassed him mentally, he

could not treat in the same way; Hauke had too strange a way of looking

at him. Nevertheless he managed to pick out tasks which might have been

dangerous for the young man's yet undeveloped body; and when the head

man would say: "You ought to have seen fat Nick, he could do it without

any trouble at all," then Hauke would work with all his might and

finish the task, although with difficulty. It was lucky for him that

Elke usually could hinder this, either by herself or through her

father. One may ask what it is that binds people who are complete

strangers to each other; perhaps--well, they were both born

arithmeticians, and the girl could not bear to see her comrade ruined

by rough work.

The conflict between head man and second man did not grow less when

after Martinmas the different dike bills came in for revision.

It happened on a May evening, but the weather was like November; inside

the house one could hear the surf roar outside from behind the dike.

"Hey, Hauke," said the master of the house, "come in; now is your

chance to show if you can do arithmetic!"

"Master," Hauke replied; "I'm supposed to feed the young cattle first."

"Elke!" called the dikemaster; "where are you, Elke? Go and tell Ole to

feed the young cattle; I want Hauke to calculate!"

So Elke hurried into the stable and gave the order to the head man who

was just busy hanging the harness used during the day back in place.

Ole Peters whipped the post beside which he had been busying himself

with a bridle, as if he wanted to beat it to pieces: "The devil take

that cursed scribbler!"

She heard these words even before she had closed the stable door again.

"Well?" asked the old man, as she stepped into the room.

"Ole was willing to do it," said his daughter, biting her lips a

little, and sat down opposite Hauke on one of the roughly carved chairs

which in those days were still made at home on winter evenings. Out of

a drawer she had taken a white stocking with a red bird pattern on it,

which she was now knitting; the long-legged creatures might have

represented herons or storks. Hauke sat opposite her, deep in his

arithmetic; the dikemaster himself rested in his armchair and blinked

sleepily at Hauke's pen. On the table, as always in the house of the

dikemaster, two tallow candles were burning, and behind the windows

with their leaden frames the shutters were closed and fastened from

within; now the wind could bang against them as hard as it liked. Once

in a while Hauke raised his head and glanced for a moment at the bird

stockings or at the narrow, calm face of the girl.

Suddenly from the armchair there rose a loud snore, and a glance and

smile flew back and forth between the two young people; gradually the

breathing grew more quiet, and one could easily talk a little--only

Hauke did not know about what.

But when she raised her knitting and the birds appeared in their whole

length, he whispered across the table: "Where have you learned that,

Elke?"

"Learned what?" the girl returned.

"This bird knitting?" said Hauke.

"This? From Trin Jans out there on the dike; she can do all sorts of

things. She was servant here to my grandfather a long time ago."

"At that time I don't suppose you were born?" said Hauke.

"I think not; but she has often come to the house since then."

"Does she like birds?" asked Hauke; "I thought only cats were for her."

Elke shook her head: "Why, she raises ducks and sells them; but last

spring, when you had killed her Angora cat, the rats got into the pen

at the back of the house and made mischief; now she wants to build

herself another in front of the house."

"Is that so?" said Hauke and whistled low through his teeth, "that's

why she dragged mud and stones from the upper land. But then she will

get on to the inland road; has she a grant?"

"I don't know," said Elke. But he had spoken the last word so loud that

the dikemaster started out of his slumber.

"What grant?" he asked and looked almost wildly from one to the other.

"What about the grant?"

But when Hauke had explained the matter to him, he slapped the young

man's shoulder, laughing: "Oh, well, the inland road is broad enough;

God help the dikemaster if he has to worry about duck pens!"

It weighed on Hauke's heart that he should have delivered the old woman

and her ducks over to the rats, but he allowed himself to be quieted by

this objection. "But, master," he began again, "it might be good for

some people to be prodded a little, and if you don't want to go after

them yourself, why don't you prod the overseers who ought to look out

for order on the dike?"

"How--what is the boy saying?" and the dikemaster sat up straight, and

Elke let her fancy stocking sink down and turned an ear toward Hauke.

"Yes, master," Hauke went on, "you have already gone round on your

spring inspection; but just the same Peter Jansen hasn't weeded his lot

to this day; and in summer the goldfinches will play round the red

thistles as gaily as ever. And near by--I don't know to whom it

belongs--there is a hole like a cradle on the outer side of the dike;

when the weather is good it is always full of little children that roll

in it; but--God save us from high water!"

The eyes of the old dikemaster had grown bigger and bigger.

"And then--" said Hauke again.

"Then what more, boy?" asked the dikemaster; "haven't you finished

yet?" and it seemed as if he had already had too much of his second

man's speech.

"Yes; then, master," Hauke went on; "you know that fat Vollina, the

daughter of the overseer Harder, who always fetches her father's horse

from the fen--well, as soon as she sits with her round legs on the old

yellow mare--Get up!--why, then every time she goes diagonally up the

slope of the dike!"

Hauke did not notice until now that Elke had fixed her intelligent eyes

on him and was gently shaking her head.

He was silent, but a bang on the table from the old man's fist

thundered in his ears. "Confound it!" he cried, and Hauke was almost

frightened by the bear's voice that suddenly broke out: "to the fens!

Note down that fat creature in the fens, Hauke! That girl caught three

of my young ducks last summer! Yes, yes, put it down," he repeated,

when Hauke hesitated; "I even believe there were four!"

"Oh, father," said Elke, "wasn't it an otter that took the ducks?"

"A big otter!" cried the old man, panting; "I guess I can tell the fat

Vollina and an otter apart! No, no, four ducks, Hauke--but as for the

rest of what you have been chattering--last spring the dikemaster

general and I, after we had breakfasted together at my house, drove by

your weeds and your cradle-hole and yet couldn't see anything. But you

two," and he nodded a few times significantly at Hauke and his

daughter, "you can thank God that you are no dikemaster! Two eyes are

all one has, and one is supposed to look with a hundred. Take the bills

for the straw coverings, Hauke, and look them over; those rascals do

keep their accounts in such a shiftless way!"

Then he leaned back in his chair again, moved his heavy body a few

times and soon gave himself over to care-free slumber.

The same thing was repeated on many an evening. Hauke had sharp eyes,

and when they sat together, he did not neglect to call the old man's

attention to one or the other violation or omission in dike matters,

and as the latter could not always keep his eyes closed, unawares the

management acquired a greater efficiency and those who in other times

had gone on sinning in their old, careless ways and now, as it were,

unexpectedly felt their mischievous or lazy fingers slapped, looked

round indignantly and with astonishment to see whence these slaps had

come. And Ole, the head man, did not hesitate to spread the information

and in this way to rouse indignation among these people against Hauke

and his father, who had to bear part of the guilt. The others, however,

who were not affected or who were not concerned with the matter,

laughed and rejoiced to see that the young man had at last got the old

man going a bit. "It's only too bad," they said, "that the young fellow

hasn't enough ground under his feet; else he might make a dikemaster of

the kind we used to have--but those few acres of his old man wouldn't

do, after all!"

Next autumn, when the inspector and the dikemaster general came for the

inspection, he looked at old Tede Volkerts from top to toe, while the

latter was urging him to sit down to lunch.

"I tell you, dikemaster," he said, "I was thinking--you have actually

grown ten years younger. You have set my blood coursing with all your

proposals; if only we can get down with all that to-day!"

"Oh, we shall, we shall, your Honor," replied the old man with a smirk;

"the roast goose over there will give us strength! Yes, thank God, I am

still always well and brisk!" He looked round the room to make sure

that Hauke was not about; then he added with calm dignity: "And so I

hope I may fulfill the duties of my office a few more blessed years."

"And to this, my dear dikemaster," returned his superior, "we want to

drink this glass together."

Elke who had looked after the lunch laughed to herself as she left the

room just when the glasses were clicking. Then she took a dish of

scraps from the kitchen and walked through the stable to give them to

the poultry in front of the outside door. In the stable stood Hauke

Haien and with his pitchfork put hay into the racks of the cows that

had to be brought up here so early because of the bad weather. But when

he saw the girl come, he stuck the pitchfork into the ground. "Well,

Elke!" he said.

She stood still and nodded at him: "All right, Hauke--but you should

have been in there!"

"Do you think so? Why, Elke?"

"The dikemaster general has praised the master!"

"The master? What has that to do with me?"

"No, I mean, he has praised the dikemaster!"

The young man's face was flushed crimson: "I know very well," he said,

"what you are driving at."

"Don't blush, Hauke; it was really you whom the dikemaster general

praised!"

Hauke looked at her with a half smile. "You too, Elke!" he said.

But she shook her head: "No, Hauke; when I was helper alone, we got no

praise. And then, I can only do arithmetic; but you see everything

outdoors that the dikemaster is supposed to see for himself. You have

cut me out!"

"That isn't what I intended--least of all you!" said Hauke timidly, and

he pushed aside the head of a cow. "Come, Redskin, don't swallow my

pitchfork, you'll get all you want!"

"Don't think that I'm sorry, Hauke;" said the girl after thinking a

little while; "that really is a man's business."

Then Hauke stretched out his arm toward her. "Elke, give me your hand,

so that I can be sure."

Beneath her dark brows a deep crimson flushed the girl's face. "Why?

I'm not lying!" she cried.

Hauke wanted to reply; but she had already left the stable, and he

stood with his pitchfork in his hand and heard only the cackling and

crowing of the ducks and the hens round her outside.

In the January of Hauke's third year of service a winter festival was

to be held--"Eisboseln" they call it here. The winds had been calm on

the coast and steady frost had covered all the ditches between the fens

with a solid, even, crystal surface, so that the marked-off strips of

land offered a wide field for the throwing at a goal of little wooden

balls filled with lead. Day in, day out, a light northeast wind was

blowing: everything had been prepared. The people from the higher

land, inhabitants of the village that lay eastward above the marshes,

who had won last year, had been challenged to a match and had accepted.

From either side nine players had been picked. The umpire and the

score-keepers had been chosen. The latter, who had to discuss a

doubtful throw whenever a difference of opinion came up, were always

chosen from among people who knew how to place their own case in the

best possible light, preferably young fellows who not only had good

common sense but also a ready tongue. Among these was, above all, Ole

Peters, the head man of the dikemaster. "Throw away like devils!" he

said; "I'll do the talking for nothing!"

Toward evening on the day before the holiday a number of throwers had

appeared in the side room of the parish inn up on the higher land, in

order to decide about accepting some men who had applied in the last

moment. Hauke Haien was among these. At first he had not wanted to take

part, although he was well aware of having arms skilled in throwing;

but he was afraid that he might be rejected by Ole Peters who had a

post of honor in the game, and he wanted to spare himself this defeat.

But Elke had made him change his mind at the eleventh hour. "He won't

dare, Hauke," she had said; "he is the son of a day laborer; your

father has his cow and horse and is the cleverest man in the village."

"But if he should manage to, after all?"

Half smiling she looked at him with her dark eyes. "Then he'll get

left," she said, "in the evening, when he wants to dance with his

master's daughter." Then Hauke had nodded to her with spirit.

Now the young men who still hoped to be taken into the game stood

shivering and stamping outside the parish inn and looked up at the top

of the stone church tower which stood beside the tavern. The pastor's

pigeons which during the summer found their food on the fields of the

village were just returning from the farmyards and barns of the

peasants, where they had pecked their grain, and were disappearing into

their nests underneath the shingles of the tower. In the west, over the

sea, there was a glowing sunset.

"We'll have good weather to-morrow," said one of the young fellows, and

began to wander up and down excitedly; "but cold--cold." Another man,

when he saw no more pigeons flying, walked into the house and stood

listening beside the door of the room in which a lively babble was now

sounding. The second man of the dikemaster, too, had stepped up beside

him. "Listen, Hauke," he said to the latter; "now they are making all

this noise about you." And clearly one could hear from inside Ole

Peters's grating voice: "Underlings and boys don't belong here!"

"Come," whispered the other man and tried to pull Hauke by his sleeve

to the door of the room, "here you can learn how high they value you."

But Hauke tore himself away and went to the front of the house again:

"They haven't barred us out so that we should hear," he called back.

Before the house stood the third of the applicants. "I'm afraid there's

a hitch in this business for me," he called to Hauke; "I'm barely

eighteen years old; if they only won't ask for my birth certificate!

Your head man, Hauke, will get you out of your fix, all right!"

"Yes, out!" growled Hauke and kicked a stone across the road; "but not

in!"

The noise in the room was growing louder; then gradually there was

calm. Those outside could again hear the gentle northeast wind that

broke against the point of the church steeple. The man who listened

joined them. "Whom did they take in there?" asked the eighteen-year-old

one.

"Him!" said the other, and pointed to Hauke; "Ole Peters wanted

to make him out as a boy; but the others shouted against it.--'And his

father has cattle and land,' said Jess Hansen.--'Yes, land,' cried Ole

Peters, 'land that one can cart away on thirteen wheelbarrows!' Last

came Ole Hensen: 'Keep still!' he cried; 'I'll make things clear: tell

me, who is the first man in the village?'--Then all kept mum and seemed

to be thinking. Then a voice said: 'I should say it was the

dikemaster!'--'And who is the dikemaster?' cried Ole Hensen again; 'but

now think twice!'--Then somebody began to laugh quietly, and then

someone else too, and so on till there was nothing but loud laughter in

the room.--'Well, then call him,' said Ole Hensen; 'you don't want to

keep the dikemaster out in the cold!'--I believe they're still

laughing; but Ole Peters's voice could not be heard any more!" Thus the

young fellow ended his account.

Almost in the same instant the door of the room inside the house was

opened suddenly and out into the cold night sounded loud and merry

cries of "Hauke! Hauke Haien!"

Then Hauke marched into the house and never could hear the rest of the

story of who was the dikemaster; meanwhile no one has found out what

was going on in his head.

After a while, when he approached the house of his employers, he saw

Elke standing by the fence below, where the ascent began; the moonlight

was shimmering over the measureless white frosted pasture.

"You are standing here, Elke?" he asked.

She only nodded: "What happened?" she said; "has he dared?"

"What wouldn't he--?"

"Well, and--?"

"Yes, Elke; I'm allowed to try it to-morrow!"

"Good night, Hauke!" And she fled up the slope and vanished into the

house.

Slowly he followed her.

Next afternoon on the wide pasture that extended in the east along the

land side of the dike, one could see a dark crowd. Now it would stand

motionless, now move gradually on, down from the long and low houses

lying behind if, as soon as a wooden ball had twice shot forth from it

over the ground now freed by the bright sun from frost. The teams of

the "Eisbosler" were in the middle, surrounded by old and young, by

all who lived with them in these houses or up in those of the higher

land--the older men in long coats, pensively smoking their short pipes,

the women in shawls or jackets, some leading children by the hand or

carrying them on their arms. From the frozen ditches, which were being

crossed gradually, the pale light of the afternoon sun was gleaming

through the sharp points of the sedges. It was keen frost, but the game

went on uninterruptedly, and the eyes of all were again and again

following the flying ball, for upon it depended the honor of the whole

village for the day. The score-keepers of the two sides carried a white

stick with an iron point for the home team, a black one of the same

kind for the team of the people from the upper land. Where the ball

ended its flight, the stick was driven into the frozen ground,

accompanied, as it happened, either by silent approval or the derisive

laughter of the opposing side; and he whose ball had first reached the

goal, had won the game for his team.

Little was said by all these people; only when a capital throw had been

made, a cry from the young men or women could be heard; sometimes, too,

one of the old men would take his pipe out of his mouth and knock with

it on the shoulder of the thrower with a few cheering words: "That was

a good throw, said Zacharias, and threw his wife out of the door!" or:

"That's the way your father threw, too; God bless him in eternity!" or

some other friendly saying.

Hauke had no luck with his first throw: just as he was swinging his arm

backward in order to hurl off the ball, a cloud sailed away which had

covered the sun so that now its bright beams shot into his eyes; the

throw was too short, the ball fell on a ditch and remained stuck in the

ice.

"That doesn't count! That doesn't count! Hauke, once more!" called his

partners.

But the score-keeper of the people from the high land protested against

this: "It'll have to count; a throw is a throw!"

"Ole! Ole Peters!" cried the young folks of the marshes. "Where is Ole?

Where the devil is he?"

But there he was: "Don't scream so! Does Hauke have to be patched up

somewhere? I thought as much."

"Never mind! Hauke has to throw again; now show that your tongue is

good for something!"

"Oh, it is all right!" cried Ole and stepped up to the scorekeeper of

the other side and talked a lot of bosh. But the pointedness and

sharpness of his usually so scintillating words were absent this time.

Beside him stood the girl with the enigmatic eyebrows and looked at him

sharply with angry glances; but she was not allowed to talk, for women

had no say in the game.

"You are babbling nonsense," cried the other scorekeeper, "because you

can't use any sense for this! Sun, moon and stars are alike for us all

and always in the sky; the throw was awkward, and all awkward throws

have to count!"

Thus they talked back and forth a little while, but the end of it was

that, according to the decision of the umpire, Hauke was not allowed to

repeat his throw.

"Come on!" called the people from the upper land, and their

score-keeper pulled the black stick out of the ground, and the thrower

came forward when his number was called and hurled the ball ahead. When

the head man of the dikemaster wanted to watch the throw, he had to

pass Elke Volkerts: "For whose sake have you left your brains at home

to-day?" she whispered to him.

Then he looked at her almost grimly, and all joking was gone from his

broad face. "For your sake," he said, "for you have forgotten yours

too!"

"Go, go--I know you, Ole Peters!" the girl replied, drawing herself up

straight. But he turned his head away and pretended not to have heard.

And the game and the black and white stick went on. When Hauke's turn

to throw came again, his ball flew so far, that the goal, the great

whitewashed barrel, came clearly in sight. He was now a solidly built

young fellow, and mathematics and the art of throwing he had practised

daily in his boyhood. "Why, Hauke!" there were cries from the crowd;

"that was just as if the archangel Michael himself had thrown the

ball!" An old woman with cake and brandy pushed her way through the

crowd toward him; she poured out a glass for him and offered it to him:

"Come," she said, "we want to be friends: this to-day is better than

when you killed my cat!" When he looked at her, he recognised her as

Trin Jans. "Thank you, old lady," he said; "but I don't drink that." He

put his hand into his pocket and pressed a newly minted mark piece into

her hand: "Take that and empty your glass yourself, Trin; and so we are

friends!"

"You're right, Hauke!" replied the old woman, while she obeyed his

instructions; "you're right; that's better for an old woman like me!"

"How are your ducks getting on" he called after her, when she had

already started on her way with her basket; but she only shook her

head, without turning round, and struck the air with her old hands.

"Nothing, nothing, Hauke; there are too many rats in your ditches; God

help me, but I've got to support myself some other way!" And so she

pushed her way into the crowd and again offered her brandy and honey

cake.

The sun had at last gone down behind the dike; in his stead rose a red

violet glimmer; now and then black crows flew by and for moments looked

gilded: evening had come. But on the fens the dark mass of people were

moving still farther away from the already distant houses toward the

barrel; an especially good throw would have to reach it now. The people

of the marshes were having their turn: Hauke was to throw.

The chalky barrel showed white against the broad evening shadow that

now fell from the dike across the plain.

"I guess you'll leave it to us this time," called one of the people of

the upper land, for it was very close; they had the advantage of at

least ten feet.

Hauke's lean figure was just stepping out of the crowd; the grey eyes

in his long Frisian face were looking ahead at the barrel; in his hand

which hung down he held the ball.

"I suppose the bird is too big for you," he heard Ole Peters's grating

voice in this instant behind his ears; "shall we exchange it for a grey

pot?"

Hauke turned round and looked at him with steady eyes: "I'm throwing

for the marshes," he said. "Where do you belong?"

"I think, I belong there too; I suppose you're throwing for Elke

Volkerts!"

"Go!" shouted Hauke and stood in position again. But Ole pushed his

head still nearer to him. Then suddenly, before Hauke could do anything

against it himself, a hand clutched the intruder and pulled him back,

so that the fellow reeled against his comrades. It was not a large hand

that had done it; for when Hauke turned his head round for a moment he

saw Elke Volkerts putting her sleeve to rights, and her dark brows

looked angry in her heated face.

Now something like steely strength shot into Hauke's arm; he bent

forward a little, rocked the ball a few times in his hand; then he made

the throw, and there was dead silence on both sides. All eyes followed

the flying ball, one could hear it whizz as it cut the air; suddenly,

already far from the starting point, it was covered by the wings of a

silver gull that came flying from the dike with a scream. At the same

time, however, one could hear something bang from a distance against

the barrel.

"Hurrah for Hauke!" called the people from the marshes, and cries went

through the crowd: "Hauke! Hauke Haien has won the game!"

He, however, when all were crowding round him, had thrust his hand to

one side to seize another; and even when they called again: "Why are

you still standing there, Hauke? The ball is in the barrel!"--he only

nodded and did not budge from his place. Only when he felt that the

little hand lay fast in his, he said: "You may be right; I think myself

I have won."

Then the whole company streamed back and Elke and Hauke were separated

and pushed on by the crowd along the road to the inn which ascended

from the hill of the dikemaster to the upper land. At this point both

escaped the crowd, and while Elke went up to her room, Hauke stood in

front of the stable door on the hill and saw how the dark mass of

people was gradually wandering up to the parish tavern where a hall was

ready for the dancers. Darkness was slowly spreading over the wide

land; it was growing calmer and calmer round about, only in the stable

behind him the cattle were stirring; from up on the high land he

believed that he could already hear the piping of the clarinets in the

tavern. Then round the corner of the house he heard the rustling of a

dress, and with small steady steps someone was walking along the path

that led through the fens up to the high land. Now he discerned the

figure walking along in the twilight, and saw that it was Elke; she,

too, was going to the dance at the inn. The blood shot up to his neck;

shouldn't he run after her and go with her? But Hauke was no hero with

women; pondering over this problem, he remained standing still until

she had vanished from his sight in the dark.

Then, when the danger of catching up with her was over, he walked along

the same way until he had reached the inn by the church, where the

chattering and shouting of the crowds in front of the house and in the

hall and the shrill sounds of the violins and clarinets surged round

him and bewildered his senses. Unobserved he made his way into the

Guildhall; but it was not large and so crowded that he could not look a

step ahead of him. Silently he stood by the doorpost and looked into

the restless swarm. These people seemed to him like fools; he did not

have to worry that anyone was still thinking of the match of this

afternoon and about who had won the game only an hour ago; everybody

thought only of his girl and spun round with her in a circle. His eyes

sought only the one, and at last--there! She was dancing with her

cousin, the young dike overseer; but soon he saw her no longer, only

other girls from the marshes or the high land who did not concern him.

Then suddenly the violins and clarinets broke off, and the dance was

over; but immediately another one began. An idea shot through Hauke's

head--he wondered if Elke would keep her word and if she would not

dance by him with Ole Peters. He had almost uttered a scream at this

thought; then--yes, what should he do then? But she did not seem to be

joining in this dance, and at last it was over. Another one followed,

however, a two-step which had just come into vogue here. The music

started up madly, the young fellows rushed to their girls, the lights

flickered along the walls. Hauke strained his neck to recognise the

dancers; and there in the third couple, was Ole Peters--but who was his

partner? A broad fellow from the marshes stood in front of her and

covered her face! But the dance was raging on, and Ole and his partner

were turning out of the crowd. "Vollina! Vollina Harders!" cried Hauke

almost aloud, and drew a sigh of relief. But where was Elke? Did she

have no partner or had she rejected all because she did not want to

dance with Ole? And the music broke off again, and a new dance began;

but she was not in sight! There came Ole, still with fat Vollina in his

arms! "Well, well," said Hauke; "Jess Harders with his twenty-five

acres will soon have to retire too! But where is Elke?"

He left the doorpost and crowded farther into the hall; suddenly he was

standing in front of her, as she sat with an older girl friend in a

corner. "Hauke!" she called, looking up to him with her narrow face;

"are you here? I didn't see you dance."

"I didn't dance," he replied.

"Why not, Hauke?" and half rising she added: "Do you want to dance with

me? I didn't let Ole Peters do it; he won't come again!"

But Hauke made no move in this direction: "Thank you, Elke," he said;

"I don't know how to dance well enough; they might laugh at you; and

then--" he stopped short and looked at her with his whole heart in his

grey eyes, as if he had to leave it to them to say the rest.

"What do you mean, Hauke?" she said in a low voice.

"I mean, Elke, the day can't turn out any better for me than it has

done already."

"Yes," she said, "you have won the game."

"Elke!" he reproached her almost inaudibly.

Then her face flushed crimson: "Go!" she said; "what do you want?" and

she cast down her eyes.

But when Elke's friend was being drawn away to the dance by a young

man, Hauke said louder: "I thought Elke, I had won something better!"

A few seconds longer her eyes searched the floor; then she raised them

slowly, and a glance met his so full of the quiet power of her nature

that it streamed through him like summer air. "Do as your heart tells

you to, Hauke!" she said; "we ought to know each other!"

Elke did not dance any more that evening, and then, when both went

home, they walked hand in hand. Stars were gleaming in the sky above

the silent marshes; a light east wind was blowing and bringing severe

cold with it; but the two walked on, without many shawls or coverings,

as if it had suddenly turned spring.

Hauke had set his mind on something the fit use for which lay in the

uncertain future; but he had thought of celebrating with it quietly by

himself. So the next Sunday he went into the city to the old goldsmith

Andersen and ordered a strong gold ring. "Stretch out your finger for

me to measure!" said the old man and seized his ring-finger. "Well," he

said; "yours isn't quite so big as they usually are with you people!"

But Hauke said: "You had better measure the little finger," and held

that one toward him.

The goldsmith looked at him puzzled; but what did he care about the

notions of the young peasant fellows. "I guess we can find one among

the girls' rings" he said, and the blood shot into both of Hauke's

cheeks. But the little gold ring fitted his little finger, and he took

it hastily and paid for it with shining silver; then he put it into his

waistcoat pocket while his heart beat loudly as if he were performing a

ceremony. There he kept it thenceforth every day with restlessness and

yet with pride, as if the waistcoat pocket had no other purpose than to

carry a ring.

Thus he carried it for over a year--indeed, the ring even had to wander

into a new waistcoat pocket; the occasion for its liberation had not

yet presented itself. To be sure, it had occurred to him that he might

go straight to his master; his own father was, after all, a landholder

too. But when he was calmer, he knew very well that the old dikemaster

would have laughed at his second man. And so he and the dikemaster's

daughter lived on side by side--she, too, in maidenly silence, and yet

both as if they were walking hand in hand.

A year after that winter holiday Ole Peters had left his position and

married Vollina Harders. Hauke had been right: the old man had retired,

and instead of his fat daughter his brisk son-in-law was riding the

brown mare over the fens and, as people said, on his way back always up

the dike. Hauke was head man now, and a younger one in his place. To be

sure, the dikemaster at first did not want to let him move up. "It's

better he stays what he is," he had growled; "I need him here with my

books." But Elke had told him: "Then Hauke will go too, father." So the

old man had been scared, and Hauke had been made head man, although he

had nevertheless kept on helping the dikemaster with his

administration.

But after another year he began to talk with Elke about how his own

father's health was failing and told her that the few days in summer

that his master allowed him to help on his father's farm were not

enough; the old man was having a hard time, and he could not see that

any more. It was on a summer evening; both stood in the twilight under

the great ash tree in front of the house door. For a while the girl

looked up silently into the boughs of the tree; then she replied: "I

didn't want to say it, Hauke; I thought you would find the right thing

to do for yourself."

"Then I will have to leave your house," he said, "and can't come

again."

They were silent for a while and looked at the sunset light which

vanished behind the dike in the sea.

"You must know," she said; "only this morning I went to see your father

and found him asleep in his armchair; his drawing pen was in his hand

and the drawing board with a half-finished drawing lay before him on

the table. And when he had waked up and talked to me with effort for a

quarter of an hour, and I wanted to go, then he held me back by the

hand so full of fear, as if he were afraid it was for the last time;

but--"

"But what, Elke?" asked Hauke, when she hesitated to go on.

A few tears ran down the girl's cheeks. "I was only thinking of my

father," she said; "believe me, it will be hard for him to get on

without you." And then added, as if she had to summon her strength for

these words: "It often seems to me as if he too were getting ready for

death."

Hauke said nothing; it seemed to him suddenly, as if the ring were

stirring in his pocket. But even before he had suppressed his

indignation over this involuntary impulse, Elke went on: "No, don't be

angry, Hauke; I trust you won't leave us anyway."

Then he eagerly took her hand, and she did not draw it away. For a

while the young people stood together in the falling darkness, until

their hands slipped apart and each went his way. A gust of wind started

and rustled through the leaves of the ash tree and made the shutters

rattle on the front of the house; but gradually the night sank down,

and quiet lay over the gigantic plain.

Through Elke's persuasion, the old dikemaster had relieved Hauke of his

services, although he had not given notice at the right time, and two

new hired men were in the house. A few months later Tede Haien died;

but before he died, he called his son to his bedside: "Sit by me, my

child;" said the old man with his faint voice, "close by me! You don't

need to be afraid; he who is near me now is only the dark angel of the

Lord who comes to call me."

And his son, deeply affected, sat down close by the dark bed fixed to

the wall: "Tell me, father, what you still have to say."

"Yes, my son, there is still something," said the old man and stretched

out his hands across the quilt. "When, as a half-grown boy, you went to

serve the dikemaster, then you had the idea in your head that you

wanted to be one yourself some day. That idea I caught from you, and

gradually I came to think that you were the right man for it. But your

inheritance was too small for such an office. I have lived frugally

during your time of service--I planned to increase it."

Passionately Hauke seized his father's hands, and the old man tried to

sit up, so that he could see him. "Yes, yes, my son," he said; "there

in the uppermost drawer of the chest is a document. You know old Antje

Wohlers has a fen of five and a half acres; but she could not get on

with the rent alone in her crippled old age; so I have always round

Martinmas given the poor soul a certain sum, or more when I could; and

for that she gave her fen over to me; it is all legally settled. Now

she too is on her deathbed; the disease of our marshes, cancer, has

seized her; you won't have to pay her any more."

For a while he closed his eyes; then he spoke once more: "It isn't

much; but you'll have more then than you were accustomed to with me.

May it serve you well in your life on earth!"

With his son's words of thanks in his ears, the old man fell asleep. He

had no more cares: and after a few days the dark angel of the Lord had

closed his eyes forever, and Hauke received his inheritance.

The day after the funeral Elke came into his house. "Thanks for looking

in, Elke," Hauke greeted her.

But she replied: "I'm not looking in; I want to put things in order a

little, so that you can live decently in your house. Your father with

all his figures and drawings didn't look round much, and the death too

makes confusion. I want to make things a little livable for you."

His grey eyes looked full of confidence upon her. "All right, put

things in order!" he said; "I like it better that way too."

And then she began to clear up: the drawing board, which was still

lying there, was dusted and carried up to the attic, drawing pens and

pencil and chalk were locked away carefully in a drawer of the chest;

then the young servant girl was called in to help and the furniture was

put into different and better positions in the room, so that it seemed

as if it now had grown lighter and bigger. Smiling, Elke said: "Only we

women can do that," and Hauke in spite of his mourning for his father,

had watched her with happy eyes, and, where there was need for it, had

helped too.

And when toward dusk--it was in the beginning of September--everything

was just as she wanted it for him, she took his hand and nodded to him

with her dark eyes: "Now come and have supper with us; for I had to

promise my father to bring you; then when you go home, you can enter

your house in peace."

Then when they came into the spacious living-room of the dikemaster,

where the shutters were already closed and the two candles burning on

the table, the latter wanted to rise from his armchair, but his heavy

body sank back and he only called to his former man: "That's right,

that's right, Hauke, that you've come to see your old friends. Come

nearer, still nearer." And when Hauke had stepped up to his chair, he

took his hand into both of his own: "Now, now, my boy," he said, "be

calm now, for we all must die, and your father was none of the worst.

But Elke, now see that the roast gets on to the table; we have to get

strength. There's a great deal of work for us, Hauke! The fall

inspection is coming; there's a pile of dike and sluice bills as high

as the house; the damage to the dike of the western enclosure the other

day--I don't know where my head is, but yours, thank God, is a good bit

younger; you're a good boy, Hauke."

And after this long speech, with which the old man had laid bare his

whole heart, he let himself drop back into his chair and blinked

longingly toward the door, through which Elke was just coming in with

the roast on the platter. Hauke stood smiling beside him. "Now sit

down," said the dikemaster, "so that we won't lose time for nothing;

that doesn't taste well cold."

And Hauke sat down; it seemed to be taken for granted that he should

help to do the work of Elke's father. And when the fall inspection had

come and a few more months of the year were gone, he had indeed done

the greatest part of the work.

The story-teller stopped and looked round. The scream of a gull had

knocked against the window, and out in the hall one could hear a

stamping of feet, as if someone were taking the clay off his heavy

boots.

The dikemaster and the overseers turned their heads toward the door of

the room. "What is it?" called the first.

A strong man with a southwester on his head had stepped in.

"Sir," he said, "we both have seen it--Hans Nickels and I: the rider on

the white horse has thrown himself into the breach."

"Where did you see that?" asked the dikemaster.

"There is only the one break; in Jansen's fen, where the

Hauke-Haienland begins."

"Did you see it only once?"

"Only once; it was only like a shadow, but that doesn't mean that this

was the first time it happened."

The dikemaster had risen. "You must excuse me," he said, turning to me,

"we have to go out and see what this calamity is leading to." Then he

left the room with the messenger; the rest of the company too rose and

followed him.

I stayed alone with the schoolmaster in the large deserted room;

through the curtainless windows, which were now no longer covered by

the backs of the guests sitting in front of them, one could have a free

view and see how the wind was chasing the dark clouds across the sky.

The old man remained on his seat, with a superior, almost pitying smile

on his lips. "It is too empty here now," he said; "may I invite you to

my room? I live in this house; and believe me, I know every kind of

weather here by the dike--there is nothing for us to fear."

This invitation I accepted with thanks, for I too began to feel chilly,

and so we took a light and climbed up the stairs to a room under the

gables; there the windows also looked toward the west, but they were

covered by woollen rugs. In a bookcase I saw a small library, beside it

portraits of two old professors; before a table stood a great high

armchair. "Make yourself comfortable," said my pleasant host and threw

some pieces of peat into the still faintly glowing stove, which was

crowned by a tin kettle on top. "Only wait a little while! The fire

will soon roar; then I'll mix you a little glass of grog--that'll keep

you awake!"

"I don't need that," I said; "I won't grow sleepy, when I accompany

your Hauke upon his life-journey!"

"Do you think so?" and he nodded toward me with his keen eyes, after I

had been comfortably settled in his armchair.

Well, where did we leave off? Yes, yes; I know. Well, Hauke had

received his inheritance, and as old Antje Wohlers, too, had died of

her ailment, his property was increased by her fen. But since the

death, or rather, since the last words of his father, something had

sprung up within him, the seed of which he had carried in his heart

since his boyhood; he repeated to himself more often than enough that

he was the right man for the post if there had to be a new dikemaster.

That was it; his father, who had to know, who was the cleverest man in

the village, had added his word, like a last gift to his heritage. The

fen of the Wohlers woman, for which he had to thank his father too,

should be the first stepping-stone to this height. For, to be sure,

even with this--a dikemaster had to be able to show more real estate!

But his father had got on frugally through his lonely years; and with

what he had saved he had made himself owner of new property. This Hauke

could do too, and even more; for his father's strength had already been

spent, but he could do the hardest work for years. To be sure, even if

he should succeed along this line--on account of the sharp methods he

had brought into the administration of his old employer, he had made no

friends in the village, and Ole Peters, his old antagonist, had just

inherited property and was beginning to be a well-to-do man. A row of

faces passed before his inner vision, and they all looked at him with

hostile eyes. Then a rage against these people seized him: he stretched

out his arms as if he would clutch them, for they wanted to push him

from the office for which he alone, of all, was destined. These

thoughts did not leave him; they were always there again, and so in his

young heart there grew beside honor and love, also ambition and hate.

But these two he locked up deep within him; even Elke surmised nothing

of them.

When the new year had come, there was a wedding; the bride was a

relative of the Haiens, and Hauke and Elke were both invited. Indeed,

at the wedding dinner it happened that, because a nearer relative was

absent, they found themselves seated side by side. Their joy about this

was betrayed only by a smile that flitted over the face of each. But

Elke to-day sat with indifference in the midst of the noise of

chattering and the click of the glasses.

"Is something ailing you?" asked Hauke.

"Oh, really nothing; only there are too many people here for me."

"But you look so sad!"

She shook her head; then again she said nothing.

Then something like jealousy rose within him on account of her silence,

and secretly, under the overhanging tablecloth, he seized her hand. She

did not draw it away, but clasped it, as if full of confidence, round

his. Had a feeling of loneliness come over her, as she had to watch the

failing body of her father every day? Hauke did not think of asking her

this; but his breathing stopped, as he pulled the gold ring from his

pocket. "Will you let it stay?" he asked trembling, while he pushed the

ring on the ring-finger of the slender hand.

Opposite them at the table sat the pastor's wife; she suddenly laid

down her fork and turned to her neighbor: "My faith, look at that

girl!" she cried; "she is turning deadly pale!"

But the blood was returning into Elke's face. "Can you wait, Hauke?"

she asked in a low voice.

Clever Frisian though he was, he nevertheless had to stop and think a

few seconds. "For what?" he asked then.

"You know perfectly well; I don't need to tell you."

"You are right," he said; "yes, Elke, I can wait--if it's within a

human limit."

"Oh, God, I'm afraid, a very near one! Don't talk like that, Hauke; you

are speaking of my father's death!" She laid her other hand on her

breast; "Till then," she said, "I shall wear the gold ring here; you

shan't be afraid of getting it back in my lifetime!"

Then both smiled, and their hands pressed each other so tightly that on

other occasions the girl would have cried out aloud.

The pastor's wife meanwhile had looked incessantly at Elke's eyes,

which were now glowing like dark fire under the lace fringe of her

little gold brocade cap. But in the growing noise at the table she had

not understood a word; neither did she turn to her partner again,

for she was accustomed not to disturb budding marriages--and this

seemed to be such a case--if only for the sake of the promise of the

wedding-fee for her husband, who did the marrying.

Elke's presentiment had come true; one morning after Easter the

dikemaster Tede Volkerts had been found dead in his bed. When one

looked at his face, one could see written upon it that his end had been

calm. In the last months he had often expressed a weariness of life;

his favorite roast, even his ducks, wouldn't please him any more.

And now there was a great funeral in the village. Up on the high land

in the burying-ground round the church there was on the western side a

burial-place surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. Upright against a

weeping willow stood a broad blue tombstone upon which was hewn the

image of death with many teeth in the skeleton jaws; beneath it one

could read in large letters:

"Ah, death all earthly things devours,

Takes art and knowledge that was ours;

The mortal man at rest here lies--

God give, that blessed he may rise."

It was the burial-place of the former dikemaster Volkert Tedsen; now a

new grave had been dug in which his son, Tede Volkerts, was to be

buried. And now the funeral procession was coming up from the marshes,

a multitude of carriages from all parish villages. Upon the first one

stood the heavy coffin, and the two shining black horses of the

dikemaster's stable drew it up the sandy hill to the high land; their

tails and manes were waving in the sharp spring breeze. The graveyard

round the church was filled with people up to the ramparts; even on the

walled gate boys were perching with little children in their arms; all

wanted to see the burying.

In the house down in the marshes Elke had prepared the funeral meal in

the best parlour and the living-room. Old wine was set on the table in

front of the plates; by the plate of the dikemaster general--for he,

too, was not missing today--and of the pastor there was a bottle of

"Langkork" for each. When everything was ready, she went through the

stable in front of the yard door; she met no one on the way, for the

hired men were at the funeral with two carriages. Here she stood still

and while her mourning clothes were waving in the spring wind, she

watched the last carriages down in the village drive up to the church.

There after a while a great turmoil appeared, which seemed to be

followed by a deadly silence. Elke folded her hands; now they must be

letting the coffin into the grave: "And to dust thou shalt return!"

Inevitably, in a low voice, as if she could have heard them from up

here, she repeated the words. Then her eyes filled with tears, her

hands folded across her breast sank into her lap. "Our Father, who art

in heaven!" she prayed ardently. And when the Lord's prayer was

finished, she stood a long time motionless--she, now the mistress of

this great marsh farm; and thoughts of death and of life began to

struggle within her.

A distant rumbling waked her. When she opened her eyes, she again saw

one carriage after another drive rapidly down from the marshes and up

to her farm. She straightened herself, looked ahead sharply once more

and then went back, as she had come, through the stable into the

solemnly ordered living-rooms. Here too there was nobody; only through

the wall could she hear the bustle of the maids in the kitchen. The

festive board looked so quiet and deserted; the mirror between the

windows had been covered with white scarfs, and likewise the brass

knobs of the stove: there was nothing bright any more in the room. Elke

saw that the doors of the alcove-bed, in which her father had slept his

last sleep were open and she went up and closed them fast. Almost

absently she read the proverb that was written on them in golden

letters between roses and carnations:

"If thou thy day's work dost aright,

Then sleep comes by itself at night."

That was from her grandfather! She cast a glance at the sideboard; it

was almost empty. But through the glass doors she could still see the

cut-glass goblet which her father, as he used to tell with relish, had

once won as a prize when riding the ring in his youth. She took it out

and set it in front of the dikemaster general's plate. Then she went to

the window, for already she heard the carriages drive up the hill; one

after the other they stopped in front of her house, and, more briskly

than they had come, the guests leaped from their seats to the ground.

Rubbing their hands and chattering, all crowded into the room; it

was not long before they sat down at the festive board, where the

well-prepared dishes were steaming--in the best parlor the dikemaster

general and the pastor. And noise and loud talking ran along the table,

as if death had never spread its awful stillness here. Silent, with her

eyes upon her guests, Elke walked round the tables with her maids, to

see that nothing was missing at the funeral meal. Hauke Haien, too, sat

in the living-room with Ole Peters and other small landowners.

When the meal was over, the white pipes were taken out of the corner

and lighted, and Elke was again busy offering the filled coffee cups to

her guests; for there was no economy in coffee, either, on this day. In

the living-room, at the desk of the man just buried, the dikemaster

general stood talking with the pastor and the white-haired dike

overseer Jewe Manners.

"Well, gentlemen," said the former; "we have buried the old dikemaster

with honor; but where shall we get the new one? I think, Manners, you

will have to make up your mind to accept this dignity."

Old Manners smiled and lifted his little black velvet cap from his

white hair: "Mr. Dikemaster General," he said, "the game would be too

short then; when the deceased Tede Volkers was made dikemaster I was

made overseer and have been now for forty years."

"That is no defect, Manners; then you know the affairs all the better

and won't have any trouble with them."

But the old man shook his head: "No, no, your Honor, leave me where I

am, then I can run along with the rest for a few years longer."

The pastor agreed with him: "Why not give the office," he said, "to the

man who has actually managed the affairs in the last years?"

The dikemaster general looked at him: "I don't understand you, pastor!"

But the pastor pointed with his finger to the best parlor, where Hauke

in a slow serious manner seemed to be explaining something to two older

people. "There he stands," he said; "the long Frisian over there with

the keen grey eyes, the bony nose and the high, projecting forehead. He

was the old man's hired man and now has his own little place; to be

sure, he is rather young."

"He seems to be about thirty," said the dikemaster general, inspecting

the man thus presented to him.

"He is scarcely twenty-four," remarked the overseer Manners; "but the

pastor is right: all the good work that has been done with dikes and

sluices and the like in the last years through the office of dikemaster

has been due to him; the old man couldn't do much toward the end."

"Indeed?" said the dikemaster general; "and you think, he would be the

right man to move up into the office of his old master?"

"He would be absolutely the right man," replied Jewe Manners; "but he

lacks what they call here 'clay under one's feet;' his father had about

fifteen, he may well have twenty acres; but with that nobody has yet

been made dikemaster."

The pastor had already opened his mouth, as if he wanted to object,

when Elke Volkers, who had been in the room for a while, spoke to them

suddenly: "Will your Honor allow me a word?" she said to the dikemaster

general; "I am speaking only to prevent a mistake from turning into a

wrong."

"Then speak, Miss Elke," he replied; "wisdom always sounds well from

the lips of pretty girls."

"It isn't wisdom, your Honor; I only want to tell the truth."

"That too one must be able to hear, Miss Elke."

The girl let her dark eyes glance sideways, as if she wanted to make

sure that there were no superfluous ears about: "Your Honor," she began

then, and her breast heaved with a stronger motion, "my godfather, Jewe

Manners, told you that Hauke Haien owned only about twenty acres; that

is quite true in this moment, but as soon as it will be necessary,

Hauke will call his own just so many more acres as my father's, now my

own farm, contains. All that together ought to be enough for a

dikemaster."

Old Manners stretched his white head toward her, as if he had to see

who was talking there: "What is that?" he said; "child, what are you

talking about?"

But Elke pulled a gleaming gold ring on a black ribbon out of her

bodice: "I am engaged, godfather Manners," she said; "here is my ring,

and Hauke Haien is my betrothed."

"And when--I think I may ask that, as I held you at your baptism, Elke

Volkerts--when did that happen?"

"That happened some time ago; but I was of age, godfather Manners," she

said; "my father's health had already fallen off, and as I knew him, I

thought I had better not get him excited over this; now that he is with

God, he will see that his child is in safekeeping with this man. I

should have kept still about it through the year of mourning; but for

the sake of Hauke and of the diked-in land, I had to speak." And

turning to the dikemaster general, she added: "Your Honor will please

forgive me."

The three men looked at one another; the pastor laughed, the old

overseer limited himself to a "hm, hm!" while the dikemaster general

rubbed his forehead as if he were about to make an important decision.

"Yes, dear miss," he said at last, "but how about marriage property

rights here in this district? I must confess I am not very well versed

in these things at this moment in all this confusion."

"You don't need to be, your Honor," replied the daughter of the

dikemaster, "before my wedding I shall make my goods over to my

betrothed. I have my little pride too," she added smiling; "I want to

marry the richest man in the village."

"Well, Manners," said the pastor, "I think you, as godfather, won't

mind if I join the young dikemaster with the old one's daughter!"

The old man shook his head gently: "Our Lord give His blessing!" he

said devoutly.

But the dikemaster general gave the girl his hand: "You have spoken

truly and wisely, Elke Volkerts; I thank you for your firm explanations

and hope to be a guest in your house in the future, too, on happier

occasions than today. But that a dikemaster should have been made by

such a young lady--that is the wonderful part of this story!"

"Your Honor," replied Elke and looked at the kindly high official with

her serious eyes, "a true man ought to be allowed the help of his

wife!" Then she went into the adjoining parlor and laid her hand

silently in that of Hauke Haien.

Several years had gone by: in the little house of Tede Haien now lived

a vigorous workman with his wife and child; the young dikemaster Hauke

Haien lived with his wife Elke Volkerts on the farm of her father. In

summer the mighty ash tree murmured as before in front of the house;

but on the bench that now stood beneath it, the young wife was usually

seen alone in the evening, sitting with some sewing in her hands; there

was no child yet from this marriage. The husband had other things to do

than to sit in front of his house door, for, in spite of his having

helped in the old man's management before, there was still a multitude

of labors to be done which, in those other times, he had not found it

wise to touch upon; but now everything had to be cleared up gradually,

and he swept with a stiff broom. Besides that, there was the management

of the farm, enlarged by his own land, especially as he was trying to

save a second hired man. So it came about that, except on Sundays, when

they went to church, the two married people saw each other usually only

during dinner, which Hauke ate with great haste, and at the rise and

close of day; it was a life of continuous work, although one of

content.

Then a troublesome rumor started. When one Sunday, after church, a

somewhat noisy company of young landowners from the marshes and the

higher land had stayed over their cups at the inn, they talked, when it

came to the fourth and fifth glass, not about the king and the

government, to be sure--they did not soar so high in those days--but

about communal and higher officials, specially about the taxes demanded

of the community. And the longer they talked, the less there was that

found mercy in their eyes, particularly not the new dike taxes. All the

sluices and locks had always held out before, and now they have to be

repaired; always new places were found on the dike that required

hundreds of cartloads of earth--the devil take the whole affair!

"That's all on account of your clever dikemaster," cried one of the

people of the higher land, "who always goes round pondering and sticks

his finger into every pie!"

"Yes, he is tricky and wants to win the favor of the dikemaster

general; but we have caught him!"

"Why did you let him be thrust on you?" said the other; "now you have

to pay in cash."

Ole Peters laughed. "Yes, Marten Fedders, that's the way it is here,

and it can't be helped: the old one was made dikemaster on account of

his father, the new one on account of his wife." The laughter which ran

round the table showed how this sally was appreciated.

But as it had been spoken at the public table of an inn, it did not

stay there, and it was circulated in the village of the high land as

well as that of the marshes below; and so it reached Hauke. Again the

row of ill-meaning faces passed by his inner eye, and he heard the

laughter round the tavern table more jeering than it really was.

"Dogs!" he shouted, and his eyes looked grimly to the side, as if he

wanted to have these people whipped.

Then Elke laid her hand upon his arm: "Let them be; they all would like

to be what you are."

"That's just it," he replied angrily.

"And," she went on, "didn't Ole Peters better himself by marriage?"

"He did, Elke; but what he married with Vollina wasn't enough to be

dikemaster on."

"Say rather: he wasn't enough," and Elke turned her husband round so

that he had to look into the mirror, for they stood between the windows

in their room. "There is the dikemaster!" she said; "now look at him;

only he who can manage an office has it."

"You're not wrong," he replied pensively, "and yet--Well, Elke, I have

to go to the eastern lock; the gates won't close again."

He went; but he was not gone long, before the repairing of the lock was

forgotten. Another idea, which he had only half thought out and carried

round with him for years, which, however, had been pushed back by the

urgent affairs of his office, now took hold of him again and more

powerfully than before, as if he had suddenly grown wings.

Before he was really aware of It himself, he found himself on the

sea-dike a good way south toward the city; the village that lay on this

side had some time ago vanished to the left. He was still walking on,

fixing his eyes constantly on the seaward side of the broad foreland.

If some one had walked beside him, he must have seen what concentrated

mental work was going on behind those eyes. At last he stood still: the

foreland here dwindled into a narrow strip along the dike. "It will

have to work!" he said to himself. "Seven years in the office--they

shan't say any more that I am dikemaster only because of my wife."

He was still standing there, and his eyes swept sharply and

thoughtfully on all sides over the green foreland. Then he walked back

until, here too, the broad plain that lay before him ended in a narrow

strip of green pastureland. Through this, close by the dike, shot a

strong arm of the sea which divided almost the whole foreland from the

mainland and made it an island; a crude wooden bridge led to it, so

that one could go back and forth with cattle or teams of hay or grain.

It was low tide now, and the golden September sun was glistening on the

strip of wet clay, about a hundred feet broad, and on the deep channel

in the middle of it through which the sea was even now driving its

waters. "That can be damned!" said Hauke to himself, after he had

watched this playing of the water for a while. Then he looked up, and

on from the dike upon which he stood, past the channel, he drew an

imaginary line along the edge of the isolated land, round toward the

south and back again to the east over the eastern continuation of the

channel, up to the dike. But the line which he had drawn invisibly was

a new dike, new also in the construction of its outline, which as yet

existed only in his head.

"That would make dammed-in land of about a thousand acres," he said

smiling to himself; "not so large; but--"

Another calculation came into his mind: the foreland here belonged to

the community, or rather, a number of shares to the single members,

according to the size of their property in the municipality or other

legal income. He began to count up how many shares he had received from

his father and how many from Elke's father, and how many he had already

bought during his marriage, partly with a dim foreboding of future

gain, partly because of his increased sheep stock. It was a

considerable lot; for he had also bought all of Ole Peter's shares when

the latter had been disgusted because his best ram had been drowned,

once when the foreland had been partly flooded. What excellent pasture

and farm land that must make and how valuable it would be if it were

all surrounded by his new dike! Like intoxication this idea rose into

his brain; but he pressed his nails into the hollows of his hands and

forced his eyes to see clearly and soberly what lay there before him: a

great plain without a dike exposed to who knew what storms and floods

in the next years, and at its outermost edge a herd of dirty sheep now

wandering and grazing slowly. That meant a heap of work, struggle, and

annoyance for him! In spite of all that, as he was walking on the

footpath down from the dike across the fens toward his hill, he felt as

if he were carrying home a great treasure.

In the hall Elke came to meet him: "How about the lock?" she asked.

He looked down at her with a mysterious smile: "We shall soon need

another lock," he said; "and sluices and a new dike."

"I don't understand," returned Elke, as they walked into the room;

"what do you want to do, Hauke?"

"I want," he began slowly and then stopped for a second, "I want the

big foreland that begins opposite our place and stretches on westward

to be diked in and made into a solid enclosure. The high floods have

left us in peace for almost a generation now; but when one of the bad

ones comes again and destroys the growth down there--then all at once

there'll be an end to all this glory. Only the old slackway has let

things stay like this till to-day."

She looked at him with astonishment: "Why, you are scolding yourself!"

she said.

"I am, Elke; but till now there were so many other things to do."

"Yes, Hauke; surely, you have done enough."

He had sat down in the armchair of the old dikemaster, and his hands

were clutching both arms fast.

"Have you the courage for it?" his wife asked him.

"I have that, Elke," he spoke hastily.

"Don't be too hasty, Hauke; that work is a matter of life and death;

and almost all the people will be against you, they won't thank you for

your labor and trouble."

He nodded. "I know that!" he said.

"And if it will only succeed," she cried again, "ever since I was a

child I heard that the channel can't be stopped up, and that therefore

one shouldn't touch it."

"That was an excuse for the lazy ones!" said Hauke; "why shouldn't one

be able to stop up the channel?"

"That I have not heard; perhaps because it goes right through; the rush

of the water is too strong." A remembrance came over her and an almost

mischievous smile gleamed out of her serious eyes: "When I was a

child," she told, "I heard our hired men talk about it once; they said,

if a dam was to hold there, some live thing would have to be thrown