"Ellen's letters which in the later weeks had become rather

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COLLECTION

OF

GERMAN AUTHORS.

VOL. 15.

* * * * *

THE DEAD LAKE & OTHER TALES BY P. HEISE.

IN ONE VOLUME.

THE DEAD LAKE

AND

OTHER TALES

BY

PAUL HEYSE

FROM THE GERMAN BY

BY

MARY WILSON.

_Authorized Edition_.

LEIPZIG 1870

BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ.

LONDON: SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE & RIVINGTON.

CROWN BUILDINGS, 188, FLEET STREET.

PARIS: C. REINWALD & Cie, 15, RUE DES SAINTS PERES.

CONTENTS.

A FORTNIGHT AT THE DEAD LAKE

DOOMED

BEATRICE

BEGINNING, AND END

A FORTNIGHT

AT

THE DEAD LAKE.

THE DEAD LAKE.

Summer was at its heighth, yet in one corner of the Alps an icy cold

wind revolted against its dominion, and threatened to change the

pouring rain into snow flakes. The air was so gloomy that even a house

which stood about a hundred paces from the shore of the lake, could not

be distinguished, although it was white-washed and twilight had hardly

set in.

A fire had been lighted in the kitchen. The landlady was standing by it

frying a dish of fish, while with one foot she rocked a cradle which

stood beside the hearth. In the tap room, the landlord was lying on a

bench by the stove, cursing the flies which would not let him sleep. A

barefooted maid of all work sat spinning in a corner, and now and then

glanced with a sigh, through the dingy panes at the wild storm which

was raging without. A tall strong fellow, the farm servant of the inn,

came grumbling into the room: he shook the rain-drops from his clothes,

like a dog coming out of the water, and threw a heap of wet fishing

nets into a corner. It seemed as if the cloud of discontent and

ill-humour which hung over the house, was only kept by this moody

silence from bursting into a storm of discord and quarreling.

Suddenly the outer door opened, and a stranger's step was heard groping

through the dark passage; the landlord did not move, only the maid

rose, and opened the door of the room.

A man in a travelling suit stood at the entrance, and asked if this was

the inn of the dead lake. As the girl answered shortly in the

affirmative, he walked in, threw his dripping plaid and travelling

pouch on the table, and sat down on the bench apparently exhausted; but

he neither removed his hat heavy with rain nor laid down his walking

stick, as if intending to start again after a short rest.

The maid still stood before him, waiting for his orders, but he seemed

to have forgotten the presence of any one in the room but himself,

leant his head against the wall, and closed his eyes; so deep silence

once more reigned in the hot dark room, only interrupted by the buzzing

of the flies, and the listless sighs of the maid.

At last the landlady brought in the supper; a little lad who stared at

the stranger carried the candle before her. The landlord rose lazily

from his bench, yawned and approached the table leaving to his wife the

charge of inviting the stranger to partake of their meal. The traveller

refused with a silent shake of the head, and the landlady apologized

for the meagreness of their fare. Meat, they had none, except a few

live ducks and chickens. They could not afford to buy it, for their own

use, and now travellers never came that way, for two years ago, a new

road had been made on the other side of the mountain, and the post

which had formerly passed their inn now drove the other way. If the

weather was fine, a tourist, or a painter who wished to sketch the

environs of the lake now and then lodged with them; but they did not

spend or expect much, neither was the selling of a few fish very

profitable.

If however the gentleman wished to remain over night, he would not fare

badly. The bedrooms were just adjoining, and the beds well aired. They

had also a barrel of beer in the cellar, good Tyrolese wine, and their

spirits of gentian was celebrated. But all these offers did not tempt

the guest; he replied that he would stay for the night, and only wished

a jug of fresh water. Then he arose and without casting a single look

at the people seated round the table, and silently eating their supper,

or taking any notice of the little boy of ten, although the child made

the most friendly advances, and gazed admiringly at his gold watch

guard, which sparkled faintly in the dim light. The maid servant took

another candle from the cornice of the stove, and showed him the way to

the next room, where she filled his jug with fresh water, and then left

him to his own thoughts.

The landlord sent an oath after him. "Just their usual luck," he

grumbled, if any guest ever came to them, it was always some idle

vagrant who ordered nothing, and finally took his leave without paying

for his bed, often disappearing in company with the bedclothes. His

wife replied that it was just those folks, who regaled themselves on

all that larder and cellar could supply, and tried to ingratiate

themselves with the landlord. This gentleman was ill in mind or body,

as he neither ate nor drank. At this moment the stranger again entered

the room, and asked if he could have a boat, as he wished to fish on

the lake by torchlight, as soon as the rain had ceased.--The landlady

secretly poked her husband in the side, as if to say "Now, you see! he

is not right in the head; don't contradict him for heaven's sake."

The landlord who was fully aware of the advantage to be gained by this

singular demand, answered in his surly manner, that the gentleman could

have both his boats, though it was not the fashion in these parts to

fish at night, but if it amused him he was welcome to do so. The farm

servant would prepare the torch immediately--so saying, he made a sign

to the tall fellow who was still occupied in picking his fish bones,

and opened the door for his guest.

The rain had not ceased and the water was dashing and gushing from the

gutters. The stranger seemed insensible to any outward discomfort; he

hastily walked towards the shore, and by the light of the lantern which

the farm servant had brought with him, he examined the two boats, as if

he wished to make sure which of them was the safest. They were both

fastened under a shed, where different fishing implements were lying

under some benches. Then sending back the farm servant under some

pretext or other, he sought on the shore of the lake for a couple of

heavy stones, which he placed in the largest of the two boats.--He drew

a deep breath, and stood for a moment with his eyes fixed on the dark

water, which as far as one could see by the light of the lantern was

furrowed by the drizzling rain. The wind had ceased for a moment, the

surf foamed, and dashed round the keel of the small boats; from the

house, one could hear the monotonous sing song of the landlady who was

lulling her baby to sleep. Even this sounded melancholy, reminding more

of the cares of motherhood than of its joys, and heightened the dismal

impression made by the forsaken aspect of this corner of the world.

The stranger was just returning to the house, when he heard on the road

coming from the south, along which he had also travelled that morning,

the cracking of a whip and the crashing and creaking of wheels which

were drawn heavily up the hill through the deep and sloughy ruts.

Shortly afterwards a lightly covered carriage stopped before the inn.

Lights were brought to the door, a female voice asked questions which

the landlady answered in her most amiable tones; then two women got out

of the carriage and carefully carried something wrapped up in cloaks

into the house. The farm servant helped the coachman to bring his

horses under shelter. A few minutes later every thing had relapsed into

the former silence.

It had all passed like a vision before the stranger, neither awakening

his curiosity, nor, still less, his interest. He once more looked up at

the dense clouds to see if there was any chance of their dispersing,

and then entered the house where lights were now shining in the room

opposite the tap room, and shadows were flitting to-and-fro behind the

curtains. He gave back the lantern to the man, and some orders about

baits and fishing hooks which he would require in the morning, and

retired to his room.

There he lighted the candle, and placed it in a bent candlestick, which

stood on the rickety table.--Then he threw open a casement to let out

the stuffy and damp air, and for a while looked out on the splashing

and spirting gutter in which a cork was restlessly dancing. Further off

no object could be discerned; the inky darkness of the cloudy sky hid

everything from view. The wind howled in a ravine near the lake, like

some caged beast of prey, and the trees near the house groaned under

the weight of the gushing rain. It was an unfavourable moment for

standing near an open window but the stranger seemed to be listening

intently to the dismal sound of the storm which raged without. Only

when the wind drove the rain straight into his face, he moved away, and

paced up and down between the bare walls of the little room, with his

hands crossed behind his back. His face was quite calm, and his eyes

appeared to be looking beyond what surrounded him, into some distant

world.

At last he took writing materials, and a small portfolio from his

travelling pouch, sat down beside the dim candle, and wrote as follows:

"I cannot go to rest, Charles, without bidding you good night. How

weary I am, you must have perceived when we met, unfortunately for so

short a time, six weeks ago. _Then_ I ought to have spoken to you, and

we might have come to an agreement on this chapter on pathology, as we

have done on so many others: Had I done so, I could now have quietly

smoked my last cigar, instead of tiring us both, with this dull

writing, but the words seemed to cleave to my lips. We should have

probably disputed about the matter--Each of us would have maintained

his own opinion, so I thought it useless to spoil the few hours we had

to spend in each other's society. I am well acquainted with your

principles, and know that if you were here, you would endeavour to

reconcile me to existence. But you would wrong me, if you thought that

I had caused this dissension between life and myself which nothing but

a divorce can appease. I would willingly live if I _could_. I am not

such a coward, or so fastidious that a few 'slings and arrows of

outrageous fortune' should drive me distracted and make me take the

resolution to leap out of my skin in the full sense of the word. Who

would throw over the whole concern, and fume against the inscrutable

Powers because many things are disagreeable to bear? Are not the

decrees of the eternal powers equally unfathomable and indisputable?

But here lies the fault--I can play the part of a wise man no longer.

The desperate attempt to save reason at least from the general wreck of

soul and mind has failed. Just now when I watched an old cork which had

fallen into the gutter, and which lashed by the rain was helplessly

whirling about in the dirty puddle, the thought struck me that this

cork was my own brain which had stolen from out my heated skull, and

was now taking a shower bath. If such an absurd fancy could take

possession of my mind for a whole quarter of an hour, then must the

last prop of my reason be fast giving way.

"I have the highest idea of the self-sacrificing duties of a man

towards his fellow-creatures, yet I cannot calmly see the moment

approach when the asphyxiated soul is to be buried alive, watch the

loss of self-consciousness, and finally sink lower than the most

miserable brute. This, my dear Charles, would require the dullness of a

sheep patiently awaiting the butcher's knife, though it feels a worm

gnawing at its brain.

"But I quite forget that this will seem but a confused outpouring of

words to you, who are only aware of a portion of my calamities. You

only know what the rest of the world is acquainted with--that my

adopted sister died, this day year, that her father followed her a few

days later, and her mother in the spring of this year.--You also know

that my family consisted of only these three--that I loved them

dearly--that, in fact, except yourself, they were the only beings to

whom I was much attached.

"Under any circumstance their loss would have wounded me deeply, but I

should have ended by overcoming this grief. Even had they been severed

from me at a single stroke, I could have bravely outlived it. Truly the

death of one man is always irreparable but his life is never

indispensable. Science, my profession, my youth, would have healed the

wound.--Now, it is still open, and the blood which flows from it cannot

be stanched, for these three precious lives would have been spared, but

for me!...

"I must begin from the beginning, Charles, if I wish to make these sad

words clear to you.--You know, I believe, that I hardly ever saw my own

parents, that after the death of my father, I should have been brought

up at the orphan asylum, if those generous people had not taken pity on

the son of the poor surgeon, and adopted me. My foster-father was one

of the most opulent merchants of the town.--When he gave me a home, he

was still childless after eight years of marriage. He hoped that my

presence would cheer him, and his wife, and enliven the quiet dull

house. Unfortunately, at first, I but ill rewarded the kindness of the

worthy couple, though I was greatly attached to them. I was a reserved,

irritable, and unamiable lad, with a great tendency to ponder over

everything. My behaviour vacillated between a moody silence which

lasted for days, and sudden and passionate outbreaks of temper. Even

now I feel deeply ashamed when I think of the truly angelic patience

with which my foster-parents bore my perverseness, and tried to

moderate my violent temper without ever showing how sorely I

disappointed their hopes.

"Suddenly all was changed. When I had lived about two years in their

house, my adoptive parents saw their heart's desire fulfilled. A child

was born to them, the most beautiful and gifted creature I have ever

seen. As if by magic, everything grew bright--even I, was changed, and

became a good-humoured and sensible lad. I was quite infatuated about

the little girl, and watched her like a nurse. For hours together I

played with her. I taught her to speak, to run, forgot my dearest

occupations, and all my schoolfellows when with her.

"My behaviour towards her parents also completely altered. These

excellent people, instead of no longer caring for my society, now

redoubled their kindness towards me, and seemed to regard both of us as

their children and as having an equal right to their affection.

"As time went on, my fraternal love for the little Ellen only increased

with my years; the more so, that a curious similarity in our characters

became more perceptible every day. She was not one of those soft,

pliable and easily managed girls who give no more trouble to their

mothers, than to their future husbands. She would suddenly change from

the most extravagant gaiety, to the deepest melancholy--if one can use

the term, melancholy, in speaking of a child. In those moments, she

would steal out of the garden where she had been romping, and laughing

with her little companions, and come to my little room, sit down with

grave face, opposite to me, at my writing-table, and read the first

book she could get hold of.

"From my school-days upwards, I had always been heart and mind, a

naturalist, and had no other thought, but that I would study medicine

as my father had done. I used to show her all my collections, even the

skeleton of a large monkey which stood in a corner behind my bed, and

to hold most unchildlike conversations with the little girl; at other

times she would communicate her childishness to me; I cooked for her

dolls and physicked them after having first carefully bedaubed their

faces with the tokens of the measles and I filled her little garden

with all sorts of medical herbs from my herborium. We never shewed much

tenderness towards each other. Only once I kissed her lips; it was when

I left for the University at nineteen years of age.

"Though I deeply felt the pain of leaving my adoptive home, yet I

fancied it would not become me as a man to show any emotion, still my

voice failed me when my dear mother embraced me with tears in her eyes.

Little Ellen stood pale, and silent by her side. I turned to her with

some joke and jestingly gave her different directions about the care of

my zoological collection, (preserved in camphor and spirits of wine)

which I had entrusted to her charge. Then I drew this child of eight

into my arms to bid her farewell. As I kissed her, I was startled by a

sudden shudder which ran through her frame, as if an asp had bitten

her. She staggered back with closed eyes and nearly fainted away. She

quickly recovered however, and next day wrote me a childishly merry

letter.

"Since that day I only once touched her lips again, and then they were

cold and closed for ever.

"How the six years of my University career passed, how I found life at

home when I returned for the holidays would be useless to relate. It

would be a long, and monotonous narrative. Some estrangement arose

between me and my foster-sister, partly through my fault, for science

and study monopolized my attention more and more. From year to year

this strange girl grew more reserved in my presence. Only in her

charming letters could I discover a trace of the old intimacy of our

childhood.

"Her outward development did not fall short of its early promise.

"She was fullgrown at the age of fourteen; somewhat slender, but quite

formed. The small portrait of her which I once showed you has but

little resemblance. Her character, if I may so express myself, was even

more mature than her person, and only betrayed itself in her movements.

A stately calm, an indifference, scarcely concealed for many things

which generally appear alluring at her age, isolated her a good deal.

Then again, when she wished to please, her smile, the gentle and timid

yielding up of herself had a charm not to be described. Few knew her

real value, her genuine upright soul; and among those few, her brother

was not. I was then too much engrossed by my studies, too eager to

solve the mysteries of physical science, to care about the secrets of

that young heart. Strange to say although I was always of a sensual

disposition, and certainly no paragon of virtue, and having eyes to see

could easily perceive, that all my conquests, compared with that

remarkable girl, appeared like housemaids beside a young princess, yet

it never entered my head to fall in love with her. When I wrote home,

it was always to my foster-mother, and she had to remind me sometimes,

of what was due to my little sister.

"She once wrote that the child who was as reserved as ever, did not

show what she felt, although my neglect seemed to hurt her, and one day

when I had forgotten even to mention her in my letter, she had cried

the whole night.

"I hastened to repair my negligence, and wrote her a most penitent

letter half in earnest, half in jest, accusing, myself of the darkest

crimes towards my faithful little sister, protesting that she was a

thousand times too kind to me a petrified egotist whose very heart had

been turned to stone, among skeletons and anatomical preparations. Her

answer was full of loving kindness, and after that our fraternal

intercourse seemed re-established on the old footing.

"Then she was fourteen years of age. On her fifteenth birthday, I

passed my examination for a doctor's degree and we exchanged merry

congratulations by telegraph.

"Then I travelled during a year with you for a companion, and you will

remember that the letters I received from home often made me slightly

uneasy.

"My mother wrote that Ellen was not well; she did not complain, but her

altered looks only too visibly testified to her sufferings. The old

family physician looked rather grave about it. Now I was well

acquainted with this good old gentleman. He was a strict adherent of

the old school, and greatly prejudiced against the stethoscope,

otherwise he had the reputation of much experience in diagnostics, and

of great caution, and attention.

"Still this could not tranquillize me, and my parents who believed me

to be the greatest medical genius in the world, expressed a strong

desire, that if I could possibly get away, I should hasten home and

have a consultation with the old doctor. So I determined, as you know

to quit my studies in Paris--to hurry home, and decide for myself if

all was as it should be.

"When I arrived, Ellen advanced to greet me, looking so well, and

lively, that at the first moment, I asked with playful indignation, if

this was the august patient to attent to whose delicate health, a

celebrated young physician had been summoned from a great distance.

Poor child! the pleasure caused by my having set aside every other

consideration for her sake, gave that delusive air of blooming health.

I soon perceived that the old doctor had not looked grave without

cause. I was decidedly however opposed to his opinion that she was

threatened with pulmonary disease. After a most careful auscultation, I

had found her lungs to be perfectly sound, whereas the palpitations of

her heart seemed to be somewhat irregular; this symptom proceeded from

a morbid state of the nervous, and blood system. Accordingly the first

treatment which was principally directed against everything stimulating

and enjoined great quiet, seemed to me the reverse of salutary. I

prescribed steel, wine, and strengthening food, to rectify the poverty

of blood, and declared that the remedies by which the old doctor hoped

to ward off the disease were as bad as poison in her case. Her parents,

of course, sided with me, particularly as the apparent success of my

treatment during the first weeks of my stay with them corroborated my

statement. Ellen felt more lively, and stronger, her sleep and appetite

returned, and while the old practitioner withdrew deeply hurt, and

mortified, I enjoyed the first pleasures of fame though it still stood

on a very precarious footing, and I felt the happiness of having

delivered those dear to me, from a heavy care.

"I never intended to establish myself in that town. I knew that I could

only reside in a large capital where I could find better assistance in

my studies. I, therefore, carefully entrusted Ellen's treatment to the

second doctor of the place, a very humble man, rather irresolute, and

dependent on others, who in presence of so young, and far travelled a

colleague, meekly resigned any opinion of his own, and promised to keep

strictly to the enjoined course of treatment; and now and then to write

and inform me of the progress of the cure. The parents saw me depart

with heavy hearts, but my welfare, and their duty with regard to my

success in life, outweighed any wishes of their own, and Ellen eagerly

seconded my desire. I had already lost too much of my precious time on

her account, she said; she felt much better, and now that she knew my

orders, no one should induce her to do anything I had not sanctioned. I

still see the smile with which she bade me good-bye, while the

repressed tears choked her voice. Alas! Charles, it was the last time

that I saw a smile light up that dear face!

"So I departed entirely blinded, and at the commencement of my stay at

M---- I was so completely taken up with the exercise of my profession,

that in the letters from home I only noticed the favourable

particulars; especially as Ellen's frequent accounts of herself, which

almost formed a sort of diary, lulled me into so perfect a security,

that I fancied, the care and anxiety which now and then appeared in her

mother's letters to be only caused by the exaggerated fondness of a

mother's heart.

"My colleague full of respect for my green wisdom, did his best to

interpret every graver symptom in favour of my diagnostics, and so I

lived on, a rose coloured mist blinding my eyes, till the darkest night

suddenly closed around me.

"Ellen's letters which in the later weeks had become rather dispirited

suddenly stopped. In their stead I received a letter from the doctor,

about six months after my departure saying that another consultation

with me seemed to him most desirable. In the last few weeks several

symptoms had suddenly changed, so that he dared not proceed in the

former manner without further orders. My adoptive parents also eagerly

intreated me to come to them.

"But even in spite of all this, I still lingered, certainly not for any

frivolous reason; the life or death of some of my patients, just then,

depending on my stay. At last a telegraphic despatch startled me into

activity. A vomiting of blood had taken place: If you do not come

instantly, wrote her mother, you will not find her alive.

"Late at night I arrived at their house feeling as if I myself were

dying. On that dreadful journey the scales had suddenly fallen from my

eyes, and with the same ingenuity which I had formerly exercised to

confirm my own errors, I now sought out every argument expressly to

torment myself with the conviction that I alone was responsible for the

loss of this much cherished being. I tottered up the well-known stairs.

Her mother met me on the landing, tearless, but with a disturbed look

in her eyes. It seemed almost like a relief to me, when she exclaimed:

'you are too late!'--I had dreaded to meet the eyes of my poor sister,

as a murderer dreads the dying look of his victim. And yet it was more

painful to see the calm face, which reclined on her pillows, smiling,

and free from reproach.

"No one accused me; they still believed in me, and laid the blame on

different incidents, but I felt crushed under the weight of my despair,

and the wildest self-reproaches.

"On entering the chamber of death, her father looking like a corpse,

staggered heavily into my arms, and losing all self-command, burst

into such convulsive sobs, that the people passing in the streets

stopped to listen. Then the sight of all the old servants who had

adored her; of her mother so completely _changed_--even to this day my

hair stands on end when I think of that dreadful scene. The mother

beside herself with grief called for wine, for I was to drink Ellen's

health?--she supposed the 'so called good God' would not object to

that. But when the servant brought it, the father taking the glass from

the plate dashed it against the wall, crying out: 'broken! dead!' A

hundred times, till his voice was choked by tears.--At last his wife

led him away and I was left alone with the dead.

"Enough of this dreadful night. I need only add that by dissection, I

obtained a full confirmation, of that, of which the quick penetration

of the old physician had foreseen the danger.--Could it have been

averted? Who can say with certainty whether a conflagration can be

stayed or not, if he does not know what feeds it, or from whence the

wind blows. I had poured fuel on the fire which had snatched away this

innocent life.

"You may imagine that I did not close my eyes that night. The morning

found me still sitting, racked with pain and fever, by the bed-side of

my sister, when the door opened, and her mother entered the room. She

had recovered the noble and gentle serenity of her features, now that

the first delirium of despair had passed. She kissed me, with

overflowing tears, and even in my burning eyes the tears welled up. 'My

dear son,' she said 'I here surrender to you a small packet which I

found in her writing-table: Your name is on it.'

"It was her diary, beginning with her twelfth year, up to a few days

before her death--On every page I found my name; on the last were these

words, 'I am dying, darling--I have known you and been permitted to

love you. What more can life bring me? I now have no other wish but

that you should know that I only lived for you, and through you!'--And

this to her murderer!!

"All the events that succeeded; the death of her father, the short

widowhood of her mother, who pined away till she was at last re-united

to her darling ones, all this, sad as it was, could no longer move me,

the darkness within me was so great--What mattered it if one spark more

died out or not? _That_ I never could forget or overcome--That all

hopes of ever being happy again were at end, was a conviction deeply

impressed on my heart.

"I repeated to myself a hundred times, that I had acted for the

best according to my belief, that every one of my colleagues had

experienced a like misfortune, that we were only responsible for our

intentions--But in spite of all this, did these three lives weigh the

less on my soul? Could I absolve myself, were all the judges in Heaven

and earth to proclaim me free from guilt? I had destroyed the only joy

of my benefactors, and had miserably deceived them.--I had neglected

this precious life, and how could I henceforth expect any man to

entrust his life to me?

"I know what you would oppose to this Charles--You have often told me

that I was too sensitive for a doctor's profession--That every one who

consults us knows beforehand that we are only human,--not omnipotent,

and omniscient Gods, and takes his chance.

"The best doctors are those who never let their feelings interfere, and

never paralyse their energies for the future, by useless regrets for

the unalterable past. I quite agree with you that these are most sound

maxims. But I know enough of disease to foresee that mine is incurable.

"When the first stunning pain had somewhat subsided, I said to myself,

that I _must_ bear it as well as I could, and at least try to be of

some use as a subordinate, having forfeited my rights as a master.--I

threw my whole energy into theoretical studies--I collected, dissected,

and observed--I might, perhaps, have reconciled myself to this new

existence, if the past had not thrown a shadow over every thing. Now I

loathed and revolted inwardly against all this groping on the

boundaries of human knowledge. A general, after losing a battle upon

which depended the destiny of a whole nation, will hardly like, as long

as the war lasts, to sit in a corner of some quiet library, and study

tactics and strategy. Then I believed that time would cure my wounds

and make life, at least, supportable to me, even if it should be for

ever sunless and gloomy.

"I had tried aimless wandering and had only experienced the truth of

that hacknied saying that shifting of scenes can never change Tragedy

into Comedy.

"Only once it seemed as if I might be allured back to that part of my

life alone worth living for--my profession!

"It was on a steamer between Marseilles and Genoa--We had left the

coast far behind us--suddenly the Captain came up in great

consternation, and asked if there was any doctor among the passengers.

A lady had been taken ill, and was lying in the cabin writhing with

pain--I was just lying down to sleep, determined not to meddle in this

matter, when I heard moans and exclamations from the cabin which would

not let me rest. I asked the Captain to take me down, and after

searching the ship's medicine chest; found some remedies which soothed

the pain. The lady would not let me go, but insisted in a strange medly

of Spanish, and French on my passing the night on a sofa in the

adjoining cabin. At last she went to sleep, and my eyes also closed,

weary with gazing through the open hatchway at the moon-lit sea.

"All at once, I felt something like an icy cold hand drawn across my

face. I started up, believing it to be the spray which was dashing off

the wheels into the cabin--but to my intense horror, I saw the figure

of Ellen standing beside me, just as she had looked when lying in her

coffin, only her dim widely opened eyes were fixed on me, and her white

finger was laid to her lips, as if to say: 'Do not betray me.' Then she

approached the couch of the stranger, lifted one of the green silk

curtains and after gazing for several minutes on the sleeping woman she

sadly shook her head, and looked gravely at me as if to reproach me for

caring for another when I had left _her_ to die. For one moment she

sunk down at the foot of the bed as if greatly exhausted: then

beckoning three times to me she glided through the hatchway like a

streak of mist. Since that night I have never again approached a

sick-bed. You know, Charles, that I was never of a visionary nature,

that I do not believe in spirits. Of course I know as well as you do

that this was only a delusion of the senses. An apparition caused by

the over excited state of my nerves. But does this alter the main point?

Did I suffer the less because I knew it to be owing to the power of my

nerves over my reason? How can one, whose senses are at variance with

him, hope to gain peace? and how is _he_ to live, who hopes no longer?

"I have become a superfluous guest at the banquet of life, and so I

prefer taking leave of it, and only press your hand once more before

disappearing. My existence is now no longer necessary to any one--not

even to a dog.

"None but a healthy and cheerful egotist could tolerate a life which

subsists only for itself. Pardon me, my dear friend, I know that you

will now and then miss me, but you would surely prefer; never to meet

me again, than to recognize me some day in a mad-house; clothed in a

straight waistcoat, and muttering soliloquies.

"This letter has nearly attained the dimensions of a volume, but as it

is the last I shall ever write, its length may be pardoned. I shall

seal this enclosure with a steady hand, for I am only about to do that

which I must, that which I believe to be for the best.

"Here in this solitary inn, they will only suppose me to be some crazed

Englishman who insists on fishing by torch-light, in the middle of the

night. Tomorrow when they see the boat driven on the lake without me,

they will say, I have only suffered for my folly, by falling asleep,

and tumbling overboard. Let all my acquaintances suppose the same. And

now good night. I own that on the point of going to sleep, I feel some

curiosity, and hope to have many things--made clear to me.--It is a

pity that I shall not be able to impart my observations to you, as we

have always done when studying together on terrestrial subjects.

"I am also desirous to witness what dreams may haunt us in eternal

sleep, if a dead man can witness anything.

"Nothing further has any interest for me--My will was deposed six

months ago in the court of justice--You are my executor--I thank you

once more for your faithful and firm friendship---Let this be my last

word.

"Eberhard."

He did not read over what he had written but immediately folded it, put

it in an envelope, sealed it, and wrote the address--Then he again

looked out of the window--The storm had gradually subsided. He lighted

a cigar and pacing his room, he watched the long-legged spiders

crawling about the low ceiling, and observed the effects of tobacco on

them, by blowing a thick cloud of smoke over their backs. But he soon

grew tired of this interesting occupation, and stared vacantly at the

white washed walls that surrounded him. Suddenly a clamour arose in the

adjoining tap-room. He heard through the door a gruff voice which

belonged neither to the landlord, nor to the farm servant, complaining

of some unreasonable demand. "Yes it was always so, just those women

who cried and lamented if a baby had a cold, did not feel the least

compassion for two poor horses, but would drag them from the manger,

and after a journey of fifteen miles, in this cursed weather; mostly

uphill, and over those dreadful roads, would force them to trot for ten

miles further, and the whole night through, regardless as to whether

they could move a limb on the morrow or not. But he would not stir; no,

not if they were to lay down a hundred kronenthalers on the very spot.

He was not in the service of a knacker, but had to deliver up his

roadsters in the same condition in which he got them; and besides to

say the truth he wished for some rest for himself, and did not care to

break his limbs on the way or get drowned in a puddle."

A timid female voice which had now and then interrupted this speech

with beseeching words was silenced by this conclusion, which was

accompanied by a fierce oath, and a heavy thump of the fist on the

table. The landlord intervened in his abrupt way by seconding the

coachman, and ordering some beer from the cellar. Then the two men

began to converse, on other subjects, the coachman chiefly abusing the

bad roads which ruined horses and carriage. The landlord fully agreed

with him, and asked him how it was that the ladies had preferred coming

by this side of the dead lake. The coachman informed him that a

landslip had made the other road quite impassable, at least for

twenty-four hours. The rest of the passengers had been contented to

wait at the station, but these ladies had insisted on continuing their

journey on this dangerous road; perhaps because of the child, which

never ceased to wail and moan. At this moment the door opened, and the

men's rough tones were suddenly hushed. A melodious woman's voice was

heard whose touching accents seemed to quiet even these coarse fellows.

At least the coachman, who on her renewing her prayer to him to prepare

for their departure, answered quite civilly, and without any

superfluous oaths, that it was almost impossible to gratify her wishes,

and gave his reasons. She appeared to acquiesce in their importance,

and after a moment's silent reflection, asked if any messenger could be

found who for a considerable gratification would undertake to summon

the nearest doctor, otherwise the child would probably not live through

the night. In saying this her voice trembled so much that the

involuntary listener was touched to the heart. He walked to the

casement, hoping to drown those soft tones in the rushing sound of the

rain. At this moment however the clouds above the lake dispersed

showing the moon's clear and silvery crescent and the sudden stillness

forced him to hear the rest of the parley.

The landlord called his servant, and asked him if he would take a

message to the doctor who lived six miles distant, in the small

market-town which was situated in a neighbouring valley. The man

replied that he had no objection to the long walk, or the bad road, if

the lady gave him a liberal fee; but he knew that it would be useless

for Hansel the forester's assistant had told him that very day, that

his friend Sepp had to wait another week to have the ball extracted

from his thigh, for the doctor himself was ill, from a fall from his

horse, and his apprentice had an unsafe hand, as he was renowned for

drinking too much brandy. Then the sad and gentle voice of the lady

asked, after a silence of several minutes, if it would not be possible

to procure a litter, and carry the child to the nearest place where a

doctor resided, she herself would help to carry it; she only required a

couple of trustworthy men, and a guide with a lighted torch.

That could not be done either, the landlord answered;--they had no

litter on which the child could be carried comfortably, and then they

could not all leave the house; however he would speak to his wife about

it.

He was just reluctantly leaving his bench by the stove, when the

landlady herself rushed into the room, and cried out that the nurse

begged her mistress to come to the child--that departure was now not to

be thought of, for the child was dying.

The listener in the adjacent room turned from the window as if drawn by

some magic power; he took a few steps towards the door, then stopped

and shook his head with a sigh. He tried to recommence his walk up and

down the small room; but at every second step, he stood still to listen

for some further sound. His cigar had gone out. Mechanically he

approached it to the candle to light it, but before he was aware of

what he was doing, his breath had extinguished the feeble flame. He

remained staring at the dying sparks in the wick--one moment more and

the last would disappear. Possibly in the next room a little flame far

more valuable than the miserable light of this penny candle was on the

point of relapsing into the darkness of night.

Well let it die out; what right had any one to meddle in the matter.

Perhaps by trying to kindle it again, it would only the more surely be

extinguished by his clumsy hands. What can it signify? Why try to save

a human being's life, who may, some day or other, wish that he had

never been born, and who may perhaps also see the hour, when he shall

have to bid good night to his dearest friend----

Again he listened, and held his breath not to lose a sound of what was

passing in the next room. He fancied he heard a child's plaintive

moaning, then the lady's gentle voice trying to soothe it, passionate

weeping, and then silence. He could stand it no longer in the solitude

of his room. He only wished to hear how the child was going on. He

began to think himself a barbarian, to be quietly hiding in a corner,

when even these rough peasants showed some sympathy. Hastily opening

the door, he groped his way through the dark empty tap-room, and across

the passage. The door was ajar, and a ray of light streamed through the

chink. He now distinctly heard the child moan and the mother quieting

it. "We ought to prepare some tea for the poor child in order to

bring on a perspiration," said the hostess, "We must try and find

some."--"The elder berries, in the drawer up-stairs, would not do badly

in case of need," answered her husband; then silence reigned again,

only interrupted by the sighs of the house-maid, who knelt in a corner,

repeating one pater-noster after another.

"Put another feather-bed on the child," advised the coachman; "it has

caught cold; see how its little hands twitch convulsively--it is

freezing."

The farm-servant, who stood near the stove, was just going to lay

another log on the still glowing embers, when he was arrested by a firm

hand which was laid on his shoulders. He turned round and perceived the

stranger standing before him. "I forbid you to put on another chip of

wood;" he said, in a voice which denoted that he was accustomed to be

strictly obeyed; "and you all," he continued, turning to the rest of

the idle spectators, "get out of the room; do you hear? the air here is

bad enough to stifle even a healthy man." They all looked at each

other--only the mother and nurse of the child had not perceived the

entrance of the stranger. The mother knelt beside the bed with one arm

clasped round the moaning child as if to defend it from assassins. The

nurse stood by her, and stared in helpless despair on her little

charge--on its wandering eyes, and fever parched lips, from which now

and then a low wail escaped. She started back, as if death in person

was approaching her, when the stranger stept up to the bed, laid his

hand on the burning brow, and took up one of the little thin arms to

feel the pulse.

The shriek of horror which the nurse involuntarily uttered, awakened

the mother from the lethargy of despair. She looked wonderingly at the

stranger, and a sudden ray of hope brightened her face.

"Madam," he said, "will you entrust your child to one entirely unknown

to you, who though he has not the presumption to promise to save its

life, yet knows what in these cases, is prescribed by our feeble

science."

She could not answer him; this unlooked for aid in her direst distress

overpowered her. "Take this," he said, drawing a card from his

pocket-book, "my name may not be known to you, but the title which

stands before it will show you, that others too have trusted to my

skill; with what result, has nothing to do with the present case."

The young woman remained in her former position, but she stretched

towards him the arm not engaged in supporting her child's head, and

said: "The Almighty seems to have sent you. He has had compassion on

me. I fully confide in you!"

"Then order a pitcher of fresh spring water from the well, and a tub to

be brought. The rest I will manage myself."

He hastily opened both windows, and took the feather-bed from off the

child, only covering it lightly with a large plaid. Then he called in

the farm-servant who was standing in the passage, with the rest of the

people, grumbling, and waiting for the result of the stranger's

despotic interference. He asked if no snow or ice could be procured in

the neighbourhood. "Yes," growled out the man, "there was some to be

had; but one must climb for about an hour through the woods, to get to

the crevice in a rock, where the snow never melted summer or winter, as

the sun could not reach the spot. To-morrow morning he would go and

fetch some!"

"You don't seem to understand me," resumed the doctor; "here I lay down

this kronenthaler; it is now half past nine o'clock; the moon is up,

the storm has ceased--whoever brings me in the course of an hour, a

load of snow or ice has gained this reward. Tomorrow you may bring down

a whole glacier, and will not get a penny for it." "All right," said

the farm-servant with a short laugh, and walked away. The nurse had in

the meantime brought in the cold water and an empty tub. Without

another word, the stranger lifted the child from the bed, stripped off

its clothes, and telling the mother to hold it, he poured the icy cold

water over it. He then dried it quickly, laid it again in its bed, and

wrapped a wet towel round its head. The child which a moment ago had

struggled and screamed in his arms, now seemed relieved. The eyes

ceased to wander, and turned towards the mother with a wondering, but

calm look--then she closed them with a deep sigh.

"The child is dying!" the nurse screamed out, and burst into a fit of

crying. "I thought that would be the consequence of the cold water, and

the open windows. Ah, Madam, how could you suffer this?"

"Silence," said the stranger imperiously, "or you will have to leave

the room. I hope, Madam," he continued, in a gentler tone, "that you do

not expect a miracle from me. The illness we have to combat, cannot be

vanquished in one night. The child has a virulent typhus fever, and our

chief care must be to prevent the brain from being affected. But do not

let every new symptom alarm you. As far as I can judge, no aggravating

circumstances exist. You see the child has again opened its eyes.

Nature already feels that we are assisting it. How old is the child?"

"Seven years and a few weeks." "A fine child, so well developed; what

anguish you must now suffer."

Tears streamed from the poor mother's eyes; she pressed her face

against the little white hand which lay on the dark plaid. All the

agitation of the last weary hours, dissolved in these refreshing tears.

At last she arose, and with a grateful look at the doctor, she sank

into a chair which he had placed for her beside the bed. He too took a

seat at the foot of it, and gravely but calmly observed the little

girl. They were both silent. The nurse, ashamed of her thoughtless

outbreak, went to and fro to renew the cold compresses. Without, all

was still; the last clouds had disappeared and a ray of moonlight stole

in, and shone slanting through the narrow casement, lighting up the

small white hand of the young mother who was softly stroking the little

hand of her child. The only sound which broke the silence proceeded

from the streamlets formed by the rain, which were now rushing past the

house, the regular dripping of the gutter, and the whistling of the

coachman who was bedding his horses.

Suddenly the child raised herself on the pillows, looked at the

stranger with widely opened eyes, and said: "Is this Papa? is he not

dead? I want to give him a kiss, Mamma; has he not brought something

for his little daughter? I want to sit on his knee. Where is Sophy? Oh!

my poor head! Papa please hold my head. I am thirsty." Then the small

fair head sank back on the pillow, and the eyes closed as if in pain.

Eberhard rose and held a glass of fresh water to her burning lips.

"Thank you, Papa," said the child. Then she became very quiet, only the

twitchings of the feverish half opened mouth betrayed her sufferings.