34358	----	Transcriber's Notes: 1. Page source: http://books.google.com/books?id=TWcqAAAAYAAJ&dq 2. This volume include four short-stories: Iolanthe's Wedding; The Woman Who Was His Friend; The New Year's Eve Confession; and The Gooseherd. IOLANTHE'S WEDDING BY HERMANN SUDERMANN AUTHOR OF "THE SONG OF SONGS" TRANSLATED BY ADELE S. SELTZER NEW YORK BONI AND LIVERIGHT 1918 Copyright, 1918, By BONI & LIVERIGHT, Inc. CONTENTS Iolanthe's Wedding The Woman Who Was His Friend The New Year's Eve Confession The Gooseherd IOLANTHE'S WEDDING IOLANTHE'S WEDDING CHAPTER I I tell _you_, gentlemen, it's a rotten piece of business to be standing beside an old friend's open grave-simply disgusting. You stand with your feet planted in the upturned earth, and twirl your moustache and look stupid, while you feel like crying the soul out of your body. He was dead--there was no use wishing he weren't. In him was lost the greatest genius for concocting and mixing punches, cocktails, grogs, cobblers--every sort of drink. I tell you, gentlemen, when you went walking in the country with him and he began to draw the air in through his nose in his peculiar fashion, you might be sure he had just conceived a new idea for a punch. From the mere smell of a weed he knew the sorts of wine that had to be poured over it to bring into being a something extra fine, a something that had never before existed. All in all he was a good fellow, and in the many years we sat opposite each other, evening after evening, when he came to me at Ilgenstein, or I rode over to him at Döbeln, the time never dragged. If only it hadn't been for his eternal marriage schemes. That was his weak side. I mean as far as I was concerned. As for himself--"Good Lord," he'd say, "I'm just waiting for that vile water to creep up to my heart, then I'll slide off into the next world." And now it had come to that. He had slid off. He lay there in his black coffin, and I felt like tapping on the lid and saying: "Pütz, don't play this dirty trick on me. Come out. Why, what's going to become of our piquet to-day?" Nothing to laugh at, gentlemen. Habit is the most violent of all passions, and the number of persons that are ruined every year by having their habits interfered with are never sung in song or epic, to quote my old friend Uhland. Such weather! I wouldn't send a dog out in such weather. It rained and hailed and blew all at the same time. Some of the gentlemen wore mackintoshes, and the water ran down the folds in rivulets. And it ran down their cheeks and into their beards--perhaps a few tears, too--because he left no enemies behind. Not he. There was only one chief mourner--what the world calls chief mourner--his son, a dragoon of the Guards in Berlin. Lothar was his name. He had come from Berlin on the day of his father's death, and he behaved like a good son, kissed his father's hands, cried a good deal, thanked me gratefully, and did a dreadful lot of ordering around--a lieutenant, you know--when all of a sudden--well, I was there--and we had arranged everything. As I looked out of the corner of my eyes at the handsome fellow standing there manfully choking down his tears, I thought of what my old friend had said to me the day before he died. "Hanckel," he had said, "take pity on me in my grave. Don't forsake my boy." As I said, that is what occurred to me, and when the pastor beckoned to me to come throw the three handfuls of earth in the grave, I silently sent a vow along with them, "I will not forsake him, old fellow, Amen." Everything comes to an end. The gravediggers had made a sort of mound of the mud, and laid the wreaths on top, since there were no women at the funeral. The neighbours took leave, and the only ones that remained were the pastor, Lothar and myself. The boy stood like a block of stone, staring at the mound as if to dig it up again with his eyes, and the wind blew the collar of his riding coat about his ears. The pastor tapped him gently on his shoulder and said: "Baron, will you allow an old man one word more----" But I beckoned to him to step aside. "Just go home, little minister," I said, "and get your wife to give you a glass of good hot punch. I fancy it's a bit draughty in that silk vestment of yours." "Hee, hee!" he said, and grinned slily. "It looks as if it were, but I wear my overcoat underneath." "Never mind," I said. "Go home. I'll look out for the boy. I know better than you where the shoes pinches _him_." So then he left us alone. "Well, my boy," I said, "you can't bring him back to life again. Come home, and if you want, I'll sleep at your house to-night." "Never mind, uncle," he said. That's what he called me because they had once nicknamed me uncle in a joke. His face was hard and sullen, as if to say, "Why do you bother me in my grief?" "But maybe we can talk over business?" I asked. He had nothing to say to that. You know what an empty house is like after a funeral, gentlemen. When you come back from the cemetery, the smell of the coffin still clings, and the smell of fading flowers. Ghastly! My sister, to be sure, who kept house for me then--the dear good soul has been dead, too, these many years--had had things put into some sort of order, the bier removed, and so on. But not much could be done in such a hurry. I gave orders for her to be driven home, fetched a bottle of Pütz's best port, and sat down opposite Lothar, who had taken a place on the sofa and was poking at the sole of his shoe with the point of his sword. As I said, he was a superb fellow, tall, stalwart, just what a dragoon should be--thick moustache, heavy eyebrows, and eyes like two wheels of fire. A fine head, but his forehead a bit wild and low, because his hair grew down on it. But that sort of thing suits young people. He had the dash characteristic of the Guards, to which we all once so ardently aspired. Neither the Tilsit nor the Allenstein Dragoons could come up to it. The devil knows what the secret of it is. We clinked glasses--to my old friend's memory, of course--and I asked him: "Well, what next?" "Do _I_ know?" he muttered between his teeth, and glared at me desperately with his burning eyes. So that was the state of affairs. My old friend's circumstances had never been brilliant. Added to that his love for everything in the shape of drink. Well--and you know where there's a swamp, the frogs will jump in--especially the boy, who had been going it for years, as if the stones at Döbeln were nuggets of gold. "The debts are mounting?" I asked. "Sky high, uncle," he said. "Pretty bad juncture for you," I said. "Mortgages, first, second, third--way over the value of the property, and a lot of rebuilding required, and there's nothing to be earned from farming on the estate. The very chickens know that." "Then good--bye to the army?" he asked, and looked me full in the face, as if expecting to hear sentence pronounced by the judge of a court martial. "Unless you have a friend to pull you out of the hole." He shook his head, fuming. "Then, of course." "And suppose I should have Döbeln cut up into lots, what do you think I'd realise?" "Shame on you, boy," I said. "What! Sell the shirt from off your back, chop your bed into kindlings?" "Uncle," he replied, "you are talking through your hat. I am dead broke." "How much is it?" I asked. He mentioned a sum. I'll not tell what it was because I paid it. I laid down my terms. Firstly, immediate withdrawal from the army. Secondly, his personal management of the estate. Thirdly, the settlement of the lawsuit. This lawsuit was against Krakow of Krakowitz, and had been going on for years. It had been my old friend's favourite sport. Like all such things, it turned, of course, upon a question of inheritance, and had swallowed up three times as much as the whole business was worth. Krakow was a boor, so the dispute took on a personal colour, and led to intense hate, at least on Krakow's side, because Pütz was phlegmatic and always took a slightly humorous view of the affair. But Krakow had openly declared and sworn that if any member or servant of the Pütz family set foot on his place, he would sick his dogs on him. Well, those were my terms. And the boy agreed to them. Whether willingly or unwillingly, I did not enquire. I made up my mind to take the first steps myself toward an understanding with Krakow, although I had every reason to believe his threat applied to me, too. I had had several tilts with him in the county council. But I--look at me--I don't mean to boast--I can fell a bull with this fist of mine. So a few curs don't need to make me take to my heels. Well, then. CHAPTER II So I let three days pass, gentlemen, to sleep on the matter--then my two coach-horses into the harness--my yellow trap--and heigho for Krakowitz. Beautiful bit of property, no denying that. Somewhat run down, but full of possibilities. Lots of black fallow--might do for winter kale or something of the sort. The wheat so-so. The cattle splendid. The courtyard! Well, you know, a courtyard is like the human heart. Once you have learned to see into it, you cannot be bamboozled so easily. There are neglected hearts, but you can see gold nuggets peeping out through the dirt. Then there are hearts all done up and polished and smartened, hearts fed up, you might say, on arsenic. They glitter and glisten, and all you can say when you look at them is "By Jingo!" Yet they are rotten and mouldy. There are hearts in the ascending and descending scale, hearts of which the better is more hopeless than the much, much worse, because the worse improves while the other gradually declines. Well, and so on. The Krakowitz yard was a little of all this. Bright, clean barns, miserable wagons, fine drains for the stables, but the stalls badly placed. An air of whimsicality about the whole place, with a touch of stinginess or lack of means. From appearances it is difficult to distinguish between the two. The manor-house--two stories, red brick faced with yellow stones and overgrown with ivy. In a word, not bad, something unstudied about it--well, you know what I mean. "Is the Baron at home?" "Yes. What name shall I give?" "Hanckel, Baron Hanckel--Ilgenstein." "Step in, sir." So I walked in--everything old--old furniture, old pictures--worm-eaten, but cosy. I heard some one begin to curse and swear in the adjoining room. "The dirty blackguard--the impudence of him--always _was_ a friend of that Pütz, the cur!" "Pleasant reception," I thought. Women's voices joined in. "Papa, papa!" "Good Lord! All right! All right!" Then he came in--gentlemen, if I hadn't just heard it with my own ears!--holding out his hands, his old sinner's face beaming, his dachs eyes blinking slily, but with a beam of pleasure in them. "My dear sir, delighted." "See here, Krakow," I said, "look out. I heard every word just now." "What did you hear, what did you hear?" "The epithets you bestowed on me--dirty blackguard and heaven knows what else." "Oh that," he said, without a twitch of his lids. "I tell my wife every day that the doors are no good. But, my dear sir, you mustn't mind what I said. I always _have_ been angry that you stood by Pütz. And I tell you, sir, my womenfolk mix just as good punches as he. If you had come to us--Iolanthe!--Iolanthe's my daughter. Iolanthe!! The comfort of my soul! Doesn't hear, doesn't hear. Didn't I just say the doors are no good? But both those women are at the keyhole now! Will you get away from there, you hussies? Do you hear their skirts rustling? They're running away. Ha--ha! Those women!" Gentlemen, who could take offence? I couldn't. Perhaps I'm too thick--skinned? But I couldn't. What did he look like? The creature didn't reach much above my waist-line. Round, fat, bow-legged. But that absurd body of his was topped by a regular apostle's head, either St. Peter's or perhaps St. Andrew's, or somebody's of the sort. A fine, round, broad beard, with a band of white running down from each corner of his mouth, yellow parchment skin, thick crows' feet at the corners of his eyes, the top of his head bald, but two huge grey bushes over his ears. The fellow danced about me like wild. Don't for a moment suppose, gentlemen, that I was taken in by his goings-on. I had known him long enough. I saw through and through him. But--call me a simpleton if you will--I couldn't help it--I liked him. And I liked his surroundings. There was a little corner at the window with carved oak cabinets all around--the window overgrown with ivy--very cosy. The sun shone in bright and clear as in an arbour, and on the table in an ivory bowl was a ball of worsted, and a copy of _Daheim_, and a piece of nibbled cake. As I said, altogether comfortable and cosy. We sat down in the corner, and a maid brought cigars. The cigars were no good, but the smoke curled so merrily in the sunshine that I did not pay much attention to their burning away like matches. I wanted to begin to talk about my business, but Krakow laid his hand on my shoulder and said: "After the coffee!" "If you please, Krakow," I said. "After the coffee!" I courteously enquired about his farming and pretended great interest in his innovations, about which he boasted extravagantly, though they were as old as the hills to me. Then the Baroness came in. A fine old piece. A slender dame. Long narrow blue eyes, silver hair under a black lace cap, a melancholy smile, fine yellow hands. A bit too dainty for a country gentlewoman, and especially for such a boor of a husband. She welcomed me with great propriety--while the old man kept screaming as if possessed. "Iolanthe--girl--where are you hiding? A bachelor's here--a suitor--a----" "Krakow!" I said, completely taken aback. "Don't joke that way about an old blade like me." And the Baroness saved me by saying very neatly: "Don't worry, Baron. We mothers gave you up as hopeless years ago." "But the girl can come in at any rate," screamed the old fellow. And finally she came. Gentlemen, take off your hats! I stood there as if somebody had knocked me on the head. A thoroughbred, gentlemen, a thoroughbred! A figure like a young queen's, her hair loose, in a thousand wavelets and ringlets, golden brown, like the mane of a Barbary steed. Her throat full, white and voluptuous. Her bosom not too high, and broad and curving at the sides. In a horse, we call it a lion's chest. And when she breathed, her whole body seemed to breathe along with her lungs, so strongly did the air pulsate through that glorious young body. Gentlemen, you don't have to go in for breeding animals as a passionate pursuit to know how much toil and effort it costs to produce a perfect specimen, no matter of what species. And I'm not a woman connoisseur, and one doesn't have to be, to fold one's hands at the sight of so perfect a creature and pray, "O Lord, I thank Thee for allowing such a thing to walk the earth. For as long as such bodies are created we need have no fear for our souls." The one thing I did not quite like at first was her eyes. Too pale a blue, too languishing for such an abundance of life. They seemed to be soaring towards heaven, and yet, when they narrowed, a searching, lowering look came into them, the sort of look surly dogs get from being beaten too often. Old Krakow caught her by both shoulders and began to brag outrageously. "This is _my_ work--this is what I brought into being--I'm the father of this," and so on. She tried to shake him off and turned scarlet. Aha, ashamed of him. Then the ladies got the table ready for coffee. Fresh brown waffles, preserves after the Russian fashion, gleaming damask, knives and spoons with buckhorn handles, the fine blue smoke of charcoal puffing up from the chimney of the brass coffee machine, making everything still cosier. We sat there drinking our coffee. Old Krakow blustered, the Baroness smiled a fine melancholy smile, and Iolanthe made eyes at me. Yes, gentlemen, made eyes at me. You may be at the time of life when that sort of thing happens to you none too rarely. But just you get to be well on in your forties, conscious to the very depths of your soul of your fatness and baldness, and you'll see how grateful you'll be even to a housemaid or a barmaid for taking the trouble to ogle you. And a thousand times more so if she happens to be one of the élite like this one, a creature allowed to walk this earth by God's grace. At first I thought I hadn't seen straight, then I stuck my red hands in my pockets, then I got a fit of coughing, then I swore at myself--"You blooming idiot! you donkey!"--then I wanted to bolt, and finally I took to staring into my empty coffee cup. Like an old maid. But when I looked up--I had to look up now and then--I always met those great, light-blue languishing eyes. They seemed to say: "Don't you know I am an enchanted princess whom you are to set free?" "Do you know why I gave her that crazy name?" the old man asked, grinning at her slily. She tossed her head scornfully and stood up. She seemed to know his jokes. "This is how it was. She was a week old. She was lying in her cradle kicking her legs--legs like little sausages. And her little buttocks, you know----" Ye gods! I scarcely risked looking up, I was so embarrassed. The Baroness behaved as if she heard nothing, and Iolanthe left the room. But the old man shook with laughter. "Ha--ha--such a rosy mite--such softness, and a shape like a rose leaf. Well, when I looked at her, I said, in my young father's joy, 'That girl's going to be beautiful and bad and will kick her legs the whole of her life. She must have a very poetic name. Then she'll rise in value with the suitors.' So I looked up names in the dictionary--Thekla, Hero, Elsa, Angelica. No, they were all too soft, like squashed plums. With a name like that she'll languish away for some briefless lawyer. Then Rosaura, Carmen, Beatrice, Wanda--nixy--too passionate--would elope with the manager of the estate. Because a person's name is his fate. Finally I found Iolanthe. Iolanthe melts so sweetly on your tongue--just the name for lovers--and yet it doesn't lead on to silly freaks. It is both tempting and dignified. It lures a man on, but inspires him with serious intentions, too. That's the way I calculated, and my calculations have turned out to be quite right so far, if in the end she doesn't remain on my hands on account of her affectation and squeamishness." At this point Iolanthe came into the room again. Her eyes were half closed and she was smiling like a child in disgrace. I was sorry for the poor pretty creature, and to turn the conversation quickly, I began to speak about the business I had come on. The ladies cleared the table without speaking, and the old man filled the half-charred bowl of his pipe. He seemed inclined to listen patiently. But scarcely did the name Pütz cross my lips when he jumped up and dashed his pipe against the stove so that the burning tobacco leaves flew about in all directions. The mere sight of his face was enough to frighten you. It turned red and blue and swelled up as if he had been seized with a stroke of apoplexy. "Sir-r-r!" he shouted. "Is that the reason you visited me--to poison my home? Don't you know that that d---- name is not to be breathed in this house? Don't you know I curse the fellow in his grave, and curse his brood, and curse all----" At this point he choked and was seized with a fit of coughing and had to sink down into his upholstered chair. The Baroness gave him sweetened water to drink. I took up my hat without saying anything. Then I happened to notice Iolanthe standing there white as chalk, with her hands folded, and looking at me as if in her shame and misery she wished to beg my pardon, or expected something like help from me. I wanted to say good-bye at least. So I waited quietly until I felt I might assume that the old man, who was lying there groaning and panting, was in a condition to understand me. Then I said: "Baron von Krakow, you must realise, of course, that after such an attack upon my friend and his son, whom I love as if he were my own, our relations----" He pounded with his hands and feet as a sign to me not to go on speaking, and after trying several times to catch his breath, he finally succeeded in saying: "That asthma--the devil take it--like a halter around your neck--snap--your throat goes shut. But what's that you're cackling about _our_ relations? _Our_ relations, that is, your and my relations, there never has been anything wrong with them, my dear sir. They are the best relations in the world. If I insulted that litigious fellow, the--the--noble man, I take it all back and call myself a vile cur. Only nobody must speak to me about him. I don't want to be reminded that he has a son and heir. To me he's dead, you see--he's dead, dead, dead." He cut the air three times with his fist, and looked at me triumphantly, as if he had dealt my friend Pütz his death-blow. "Nevertheless, Baron----" I started to say. "No neverthelessing here. You are my friend! You are the friend of my family--look at my womenfolk--completely smitten. Don't be ashamed, Iolanthe! Just make eyes at him, child. Do you think I don't see anything, goosie?" She did not blush nor did she seem to be abashed, but raised her folded hands slightly. It was such a touching, helpless gesture that it completely disarmed me. So I sat down again for a few moments and spoke about indifferent matters. Then I took leave as soon as I could without provoking him again. "Go to the door with him, Iolanthe," said the old man, "and be charming to him. He's the richest man in the district." At that we all laughed. But walking beside me in the twilight of the hall, Iolanthe said very softly, with a sort of timid grief: "I know you don't want to come again." "No, I don't," I said frankly, and was about to give my reasons, when she suddenly snatched up my hand, pressed it between her slim white palms, and said, half crying: "Oh, come again! Please, please come again." That's the way you're taken in. Old nincompoop that I was, I went daft on the instant. In my excitement I chewed up the whole of my cigar on the ride home, forgetting to light it. I made right for a mirror--lit all the lights, locked the door--back to the mirror. Examined myself front and back, and, with the help of my shaving mirror, my noble profile, too. Result--crushing. A heavy bald pate, bull's neck, puffs under my eyes, double chin, my skin a fiery russet, like a glowing copper kettle. And what was worse than all that--when I looked at myself in all my six feet of bulk, a chandelier went up. I knew why everybody immediately called me a "good fellow." Even in the regiment they used to call me a good fellow. Once you are branded with a Cain's mark like that, the rest of your life turns into nothing but a series of events to prove the truth of it. People come to you with hard-luck stories, you're a butt for their jokes, they blarney you and borrow from you. If once you make a timid attempt to defend yourself, then they say, "Why I thought you were a good fellow!" So you can't get out of it. You are and you remain a good fellow. You've been stamped and sealed. And then you, a good fellow, want to take up with women? With women, who languish for the Mephistophelean, who, to love properly, want to be deserted, duped, and generally maltreated. "Hanckel, don't be an ass," I said to myself. "Go away from the mirror, put out the lights, knock those silly dreams out of your head, and get into bed." Gentlemen, I had a bed--and still have it--a perfectly ordinary bed, as narrow as a coffin, of pine, stained red--no springs, no mattress--a deerskin instead. Twice a year it is filled with fresh straw. That was the extent of my luxury. Gentlemen, there are many stories about the poor camp cots of persons in high life. You see them on exhibition in castles and historical museums, and when the visitors are herded past them, they invariably clasp their hands and dutifully exclaim: "What power of renunciation! What Spartan simplicity!" Buncombe, gentlemen! You can't sleep more comfortably anywhere than on a bed like that--provided, of course, that you have a good day's work _behind_ you, a good conscience _within_ you, and no woman _beside_ you--which all amount to about the same thing. You stretch yourself deliciously until your feet just touch the bottom of the bed, you bite the comfortable a few times, burrow in the pillows, reach out for a good book lying on the table next to the bed, and groan from sheer bliss. That's what I did that night after the tempter had left me, and as I slowly dozed off I thought: "Well, well, no woman will make you traitor to your dear, hard, narrow bachelor's sack of straw, even if her name is Iolanthe, and even if she is the finest thoroughbred that ever galloped about on God's lovely pastures. "Perhaps all the less so. "Because--who knows?" CHAPTER III The next day I turned in my report to the boy--leaving out my asininities, of course. He glowered at me with his dark eyes, and said: "Let's say no more about it. I thought so." But a week later he returned to the subject sort of by the way. "You ought to go there again after all, uncle." "Are you crazy, boy?" I said, though I felt as good as if a woman's soft warm hand were tickling the nape of my neck. "You needn't mention me," he said, examining the tips of his boots, "but if you go there several times, perhaps things will gradually right themselves." Gentlemen, you couldn't have broken a reed more easily than my resolution. So I drove over again. And again and again. I would let old Krakow go on with his vapourings, and I'd drink the coffee his wife made for me, and listen devoutly while Iolanthe sang her loveliest songs, even though music--in general--well, the oftener I visited Krakowitz the uncannier the business became, but something always tugged me back again. I couldn't help myself. The old Adam in me, before going to sleep forever, wanted a Last Supper, even if it consisted of nothing but the pleasant sensation of a woman's nearness. In the depths of my soul I had no hopes of anything beyond that. To be sure, Iolanthe continued to cast furtive glances at me, but what they indicated--whether a reproach, a cry for help, or merely the wish to be admired--I never could make out. Then--on my third or fourth visit--the following happened. It was early in the afternoon--blazing hot. From boredom or impatience I drove to Krakowitz. "The Baron and Baroness are asleep," said the lackey, "but the young lady is on the verandah." I began to suspect all sorts of things, and my heart started to thump. I wanted to go back home again, but when I saw her standing there, tall and snowy white in her mull dress, as if chiselled in marble, my old asininity came upon me again, stronger than ever. "How nice of you to come, Baron," she said. "I've been frightfully bored. Let's go take a walk in the garden. There's a cool arbour where we can have a pleasant chat without being disturbed." When she put her arm in mine, I began to tremble. I tell you, climbing a hill under fire was easier than going down those steps. She said nothing--I said nothing. The atmosphere grew heavier. The gravel crunched under our tread, the bees buzzed about the spiræa bushes. Nothing else to be heard far or near. She clung to my arm quite confidentially, and every now and then made me stop when she pulled out a weed or plucked a piece of mignonette to tickle her nose with for an instant and then throw it away. "I wish I loved flowers," she said. "There are so many people who love flowers, or say they love them. In love affairs you can never get at the truth." "Why not?" I asked. "Don't you think it ever happens that two human beings like each other and say so--quite simply--without design or ulterior motives?" "Like each other--like each other," she said tauntingly. "Are you such an icicle that you translate 'love' by 'like'?" "Unfortunately, whether I am an icicle or not no longer matters," I answered. "You're a noble-hearted man," she said, and looked at me sidewise, a bit coquettishly. "Everything you think comes out as straight as if shot from a pistol." "But I know how to keep quiet, too," I said. "Oh, I feel that," she answered hastily. "I could confide everything to you, everything." It seemed to me that she pressed my arm very gently. "What does she want of you?" I asked myself, and I felt my heart beating in my throat. At last we reached the arbour, an arbour of Virginia creeper, with those broad, pointed leaves which keep the sun out entirely. It's always night in arbours of Virginia creeper, you know. She let go my arm, kneeled on the ground, and crept through a little hole on all fours. The entrance was completely overgrown, and that was the only way to get inside. And I, Baron von Hanckel of Ilgenstein, I, a paragon of dignity, I got down on all fours, and crawled through a hole no larger than an oven door. Yes, gentlemen, that is what the women do with us. Inside in the cool twilight she stretched herself out on a bench in a half reclining position, and wiped her bared throat with her handkerchief. Beautiful! I tell you, she looked perfectly beautiful. When I got up and stood in front of her breathless, panting like a bear--at forty-eight years of age, gentlemen, you don't go dancing on all fours with impunity--she burst out laughing--a short, sharp, nervous laugh. "Just laugh at me," I said. "If you only knew how little I felt like laughing," she said, with a bitter expression about her mouth. Then there was silence. She stared into space with her eyebrows lifted high. Her bosom rose and fell. "What are you thinking of?" I asked. She shrugged her shoulders. "Thinking--what's the good of thinking? I'm tired. I want to sleep." "Then go to sleep." "But you must go to sleep, too," she said. "Very well, I'll go to sleep, too." And I also half stretched myself out on the bench opposite her. "But you must shut your eyes," she commanded again. I obediently shut my eyes. I saw suns and light--green wheels and sheaves of fire the whole time--saw them the whole time. That comes from your blood being stirred up. And every now and then I'd say to myself: "Hanckel, you're making a fool of yourself." It was so quiet I could hear the little bugs crawling about on the leaves. "You must see what she's doing," I said to myself, hoping to be able to admire her in her sleeping glory to my heart's content. But when I opened my eyes the least little bit to steal a look, I saw--and, gentlemen, a shiver of fright went through me to the very tips of my toes--I saw her eyes fixed on me in a wide, wild stare, in a sort of spying frenzy, I may say. "But, Iolanthe, dear child," I said, "why are you looking at me that way? What have I done to you?" She jumped to her feet as if startled out of a dream, wiped her forehead and cheeks, and tried to laugh--two or three times--short, abrupt little laughs, like before--and then she burst out crying, and cried as if her heart would break. I jumped up and went over to her. I should have liked to put my hand on her head, too, but I lacked the courage. I asked her if something was troubling her and whether she would not confide in me, and so on. "Oh, I'm the most miserable creature on earth," she sobbed. "Why?" "I want to do something--something horrible--and I haven't got the courage to." "Well, well, what is it?" "I can't tell you! I can't tell you!" That was all I could get out of her, though I did my best to persuade her to confide more in me. But gradually her expression changed and grew gloomier and more set. And finally she said in a suppressed voice as if to herself: "I want to go away--I want to run away." "Good Lord, with whom?" I asked, completely taken aback. She shrugged her shoulders. "With whom? Nobody. There's nobody here who takes up for me--not even the shepherd boy. But I must go away. I'm stifling here--I have nothing to hope for here. I shall perish. And as there's nobody to come and take me away, I'm going to go off by myself." "But, my dear young lady," I said, "I understand you're a trifle bored at Krakowitz. It's a bit lonely--and your father kicks up a row with all the neighbours. But if you would consent to marry. A woman like you need only crook her little finger." "Oh, nonsense! Empty words. Who would want me? Do you know anybody who wants me?" My heart beat frightfully. I didn't mean to say it--it was madness--but there, it was out! I told her I wanted to prove to her that I for my part was not talking empty words--or something of the sort. Because even after that I could not screw up my courage--God knows--to make love to her regularly. She shut her eyes and heaved a deep sigh. Then she took hold of my arm and said: "Before you leave, Baron, I want to confess something, so that you should not be under a wholly wrong impression. My father and mother are not asleep. When they heard your carriage coming up the drive, they locked themselves in their room--that is, mother did not want to, but father forced her to. Our being here together is a preconcerted plan. I was to turn your head, so that you should ask me to marry you. Ever since your first visit here both of them, both father and mother, have been tormenting me, father with threats, mother with entreaties, not to let the chance slip, because an eligible party like you would never turn up again. Baron, forgive me. I didn't want to. Even if I had loved you, oh, ever so much, that would have disgusted me with you. But now that this is off my conscience, now I am willing. If you want me, take me. I am yours." Gentlemen, put yourself in my place. A beautiful young woman, a perfect Venus, throwing herself at me out of pride and despair, and I, a good, corpulent gentleman in the late forties. Was it not a sort of sacrilege to snatch up and carry off a bit of good fortune like that? "Iolanthe," I said, "Iolanthe, dear, sweet child, do you know what you are doing?" "I know," she replied, and smiled a woebegone smile. "I am lowering myself before God, before myself and before you. I'm making myself your slave, your creature, and I am deceiving you at the same time." "You cannot even bear me, can you?" I asked. At that she made the same old light-blue eyes of innocence, and said very softly and sentimentally: "You're the best, the noblest man in the world. I could love you--I could idolise you, but----" "But?" "Oh, it's all so hideous--so impure. Just say you don't want me--just throw me over--I don't deserve anything better." I felt as if the earth were going round in a circle. I had to summon my last remnant of reason not to clasp the lovely, passionate creature in my arms and hold her to my breast. And with that last remnant of reason I said: "Far be it from me, dear child, to turn the excitement of this moment to my profit. You might regret it to-morrow when it would be too late. I will wait a week. Think it all over in that time. If by the end of the week you have not written to take back your word, I will consider the matter settled, and I will come over to ask your father and mother for your hand. But think everything over carefully, so that you don't plunge yourself into unhappiness." She caught hold of my hand--this awful, pudgy, horny, brown hand, gentlemen--and before I could prevent her, she kissed it. It was not till much, much later that the meaning of that kiss was to become clear to me. Scarcely had we crawled out of the arbour when we heard the old gentleman screaming from a distance: "Is it possible? Hanckel--my friend Hanckel here? Why didn't you wake me up, you scurvy blackguards, you? My friend Hanckel here, and I snoring--you dogs!" Iolanthe turned scarlet. And I, to relieve the painful situation, said: "Never mind, I know him." Yes, gentlemen, I knew the old fellow, but I did not know his daughter. CHAPTER IV So that was the pass we had come to. On the drive home I kept repeating to myself: "Hanckel, what a lucky dog you are! Such a treasure at your time of life! Dance for joy, shout aloud, carry on like a crazy man. The events of the day call for it." But, gentlemen, I did not dance for joy, I did not shout aloud, I did not carry on like a crazy man. I looked over my bills and drank a glass of punch. That was the extent of my celebration. The next day Lothar Pütz came riding up in his light-blue fatigue uniform. "Still holding on to your commission, my boy?" I asked. "My resignation has not yet gone into effect," he answered, looking at me grimly, but avoiding my eyes, as if I were the cause of all his trouble. "At any rate, my leave has expired. I have to go to Berlin." I asked if he could not get an extension. But I noticed he did not want it--was suffering with homesickness for the club. We all know what that is. Besides, he had to sell his furniture, he explained, and arrange with the creditors. "Well, then, go, my boy," I said, and hesitated an instant whether I should confide my new joy to him. But I was afraid of the silly face I'd make while confessing, so I refrained. Another thing that kept me was a feeling stowed away deep down at the bottom of my heart--I was counting on a rejection. I feared it, and I hoped for it, too. The feeling was something like--but what's the use of delving into feelings? The facts will tell the story. Exactly a week later in the morning the postman brought me an envelope addressed in _her_ handwriting. At first I was dreadfully afraid. Tears sprang into my eyes. And I said to myself: "There, old man, now you've been relegated to the scrap heap." At the same time a peaceful renunciation came over me, and while opening the envelope I almost wished I might find in it just a plain mitten. But what I read was: "Dear Friend:-- I have thought the matter over, as you wished. I am confirmed in my decision. I shall expect to see you to-day when you call on my father. Iolanthe." Happy! Well, of course, I was happy--at such a moment--it goes without saying. But, then, how ashamed I was. Yes, gentlemen, ashamed, ashamed to face a soul. And when I thought of all the dubious, sarcastic looks that people would soon be casting at me, I felt I'd rather back out of the business. But the hour had come. Up and be doing. First I beautified myself. I cut my chin twice shaving. One of the stable-boys had to ride two miles to the chemist's to get me some flesh-coloured court-plaster. My waistcoat was drawn in so tight I could scarcely breathe, and my poor old sister nearly went wild trying to give my necktie that careless, free-and-easy look I wanted. And all the time I kept thinking and thinking--it never left me for an instant: "Hanckel, Hanckel, you're making an ass of yourself." But my entry into Krakowitz was grand--two dapper greys of my own breeding--silver collar trimmings--a new landau lined with wine-coloured satin. No prince in the world could have come a-wooing more proudly. But my heart was thumping at my ribs in abject cowardice. The old man received me at the door. He behaved as if he hadn't the faintest suspicion of what was doing. When I asked him for a talk in private, he looked surprised and made a face, like a man scenting a "touch" from an unexpected quarter. "You'll soon be pulling in your sails," I thought. I naturally supposed that at the first word there would be an excellently acted emotional scene--kisses, tears of joy, and the rest of the rigmarole. That's how vain it makes you, gentlemen, to possess a wide purse. But the old fox knew how to drive a bargain. He knew you had to run down the prospective purchaser in order to run up the price of your goods. After I proposed for his daughter's hand, he said, all puffed up with suddenly acquired dignity: "I beg pardon, Baron, but who will guarantee that this alliance, which--revolve the matter as you will--has something unnatural about it--who will guarantee that it will turn out happy? Who will guarantee that two years from now my daughter won't come running back home some night, bareheaded, in her nightgown, and say, 'Father, I can't live with that old man. Let me stay here with you'?" Gentlemen, that was tough. "And in view of all these circumstances," he continued, "I am not justified as an honourable man and father in entrusting my daughter to you----" Very well, rejected, made a fool of. I rose, since the affair seemed to me to be ended. But he hastily pressed me back into my seat. "Or, at least, in entrusting her to you and observing the forms that I feel a man like me owes a man like you, or to express myself more clearly--by which a father endeavours to assure his daughter's future--or, to express myself still _more_ clearly--the dowry----" At that I burst out laughing. The old sharper, the old sharper! It was the dowry he had been sneaking up to! That was what the whole comedy had been about. When he saw me laugh, he sent his dignity and his pathos and his feeling of pride to the devil and laughed heartily along with me. "Well, if that's the way you are, old fellow," he said, "had I known it right away----" And with that the bargain was struck. Then the Baroness was called in, and, to her credit be it said, she forgot her assigned role and fell on my neck before her husband had had a chance, for the sake of appearances, to explain the situation. But Iolanthe! She appeared at the threshold pale as death, her lips tightly compressed, her eyes half shut. Without saying a word and standing there motionless as a stone, she held both hands out to me, and then allowed her parents to kiss her. You see, that gave me food for thought again. CHAPTER V What I had dreaded, gentlemen, did not come about. Evidently, I had underestimated my popularity in the district. My engagement met with general favour, both among the gentry and the rest of the people. Nothing but beaming faces when they shook hands and congratulated me. To be sure, at such a time the whole world is in a conspiracy to lure a man on still farther along the road to his fate. People are nice and amiable to you and then, just when something threatens to go wrong, they turn on you snapping and snarling. However that may be, I gradually got rid of my feeling of shame, and behaved as if I had a right to so much youth and beauty. My old sister's attitude was touching, even though she was the only one whom my marriage would directly injure. On my wedding day she was to retire from Ilgenstein to be shelved at Gorowen, a family home of ours for maiden ladies and dowagers. She shed streams of tears, tears of joy, and declared her prayers had been heard, and she was in love with Iolanthe before she had seen her. But what would Pütz have said, Pütz who had always wanted me to marry and had never got me to? "I'll make up to his son for it," I thought. I wrote Lothar a long letter. I half begged his pardon for having gone a-wooing in his enemy's house and expressed the hope that in this way the old breach would be healed. I waited a long time for his answer. When it came, just a few dry words of congratulation and a line to say he would delay his return until after the wedding day, since it would pain him to be at home on that joyous occasion and yet not be able to be with me. That, gentlemen, piqued me. I really liked the boy, you know. Oh, yes--and Iolanthe troubled me. Troubled me greatly, gentlemen. She showed no real delight, you know. When I came, I found a pale, cold face. Her eyes seemed positively blurred by the dismal look in them. It was not until I had her to myself in a corner and got into a lively talk that she gradually brightened and even showed a certain childlike tenderness toward me. But, gentlemen, I was so nice. Awfully nice, I tell you! I treated her as if she were the famous princess who could not sleep with a pea under her mattress. Every day I discovered in myself a new delicacy of feeling. I became quite proud of my delicate constitution. Only sometimes I yearned for a naughty joke or a good round curse word. And that constantly having to be on the watch-out was a great exertion, you know. I'm a warm-hearted fellow, I'm glad to say, and I can anticipate another person's wants. Without any fuss or to-do. But I was like a blindfolded tight-rope dancer. One misstep on the right--one misstep on the left--plop!--down he falls. And when I came home to my great empty house, where I could shout, curse, whistle, and do, heaven knows what else, to my heart's content without insulting some one or setting some one a-shudder, a sense of comfort tickled me up and down my backbone, and I sometimes said to myself: "Thank the Lord, you're still a free man." But not for long. Nothing stood in the way of the wedding. It was to take place in six weeks. My dear old Ilgenstein fell into the hands of a tyrannical horde of workmen, who turned everything topsy-turvy. If I expressed a wish, "Baron," they'd say, "that is not in good taste." Well, I let them have their way. At that time I still had slavish respect for so-called "good taste." It was not until much later that I realised that in most cases back of "good taste" there is nothing but lack of real taste. Well, to cut it short, the bunch of them carried on so fearfully in the name of that cursed "good taste" that finally nothing was left in my dear old castle but my hunting-room and study. Here I emphatically put my foot down on good taste. And my narrow old cot! Nobody, of course, was allowed to touch that. Gentlemen, that cot! And now listen. One day my sister, who stood in with the vile crew, came to my room--with a certain bitter-sweet, bashful smile--the kind old maids always smile when the question of how children come into the world is touched upon. "I have something to say to you, George," she said, cleared her throat, and peered into the corners. "Fire away." "Has it occurred to you," she stammered, "I mean, of course--I mean--you see--you won't be able to sleep any more in that horrible straw bag of a bed of yours." "Now, then, do let me have my comfort," I said. "You don't understand," she lisped, getting more confused. "I mean after--when--I mean after the wedding." The devil! I had never thought of that! And I, old sinner though I was, I looked just as shamefaced as she. "I'll have to speak to the cabinet-maker," I said. "George," she observed with a very important air, "forgive me, but I understand more about such matters than you." "Eh, eh," I said, and shook my finger at her. It had always been such fun for me to shock her old-maidishness. She blushed scarlet, and said: "I saw wonderful, perfectly wonderful bedroom furniture at my friends, Frau von Housselle and Countess Finkenstein. You _must_ have your bedroom furnished the same way." "Go ahead," I said. I'll have to tell you, gentlemen, why I gave in so easily. I knew my father-in-law-to-be, the old miser, would not want to spend a single cent on a trousseau. So I had said I had everything. Then I had to hustle and order whatever was needed from Berlin and Königsberg. Of course, I had forgotten about the bed. "What would you rather have," my sister went on, "pink silk covered with plain net, or blue with Valenciennes lace? Perhaps it would be a good idea to tell the decorator who is doing the dining-room to paint a few Cupids on the ceiling." Oh, oh, oh, gentlemen, fancy! I and Cupids! "The bed," she continued mercilessly, "can't be made to order any more." "What," I said, "not in six weeks?" "Why, George! The drawings, the plans alone require a month." I glanced sadly at my dear old bed--it hadn't needed any plans. Just six boards and four posts knocked together in one morning. "The best thing would be," she went on, "if we wrote to Lothar and asked him to pick out the best piece he can find in the Berlin shops." "Do whatever you want, but let me alone," I said angrily. As she was leaving the room looking hurt, I called after her: "Be sure to impress upon the decorator to make the Cupids look like me." That, gentlemen, will give you an idea of my bridal mood. And the nearer the wedding day came, the uncannier I felt. Not that I was afraid--or, rather, I was frightfully afraid--but apart from that, I felt as if I were to blame, as if some wrong were being done, as if--how shall I say? If I had only known who was being wronged. Not Iolanthe, because it was her wish. Not myself--I was what they call the happiest mortal in the world. Lothar? Perhaps. The poor fellow had looked on me as his second father, and I was removing the ground from beneath his feet by going over bag and baggage to the enemy's camp. So that was the way I kept the promise I had made my old friend Pütz on his deathbed. Gentlemen, any of you who, under the pressure of circumstances, have found yourselves in the council of the wicked--that thing happens once in his life to every good man--will understand me. I thought and thought day and night and chewed my nails bloody. As I saw no other way out of the situation, I decided to heal the breach at my own expense. It wasn't so easy for me, because you know, gentlemen, we country squires cling to our few dollars. But what doesn't one do when one is officially a "good fellow"? So one afternoon I went to see my father-in-law-elect, and found him in his so-called study lolling on the lounge. I put the proposition of a reconciliation to him somewhat hesitatingly--to sound him, of course. As I expected, he instantly flew into a rage, stormed, choked, turned blue, and declared he'd show me the door. "How if Lothar sees he's wrong and gives up the case as lost?" I asked. Gentlemen, have you ever tickled a badger? I mean a tame or a half-tame one? When he blinks at you with his sleepy little eyes, half suspicious, half pleased, and keeps on snarling softly? That's just the way the old fellow behaved. "He won't," he said after a while. "But if he does?" I asked. "Then you'll be the one to fork up for the whole business," he answered--the fox--quick as a flash. "Should I lie?" I thought. "Ah--bah, the devil!" And I confessed. "Nope," he said point-blank. "Won't do, my boy. I won't accept it." "Why not?" "On account of the children, of course. I must think of my grandchildren, in case you are magnanimous enough to present me with some. I can't bequeath anything to them, so should I rob them besides? I'll win the suit in all events, even if it lasts a few years longer. I can wait." I set to work to try to persuade him. "The money remains in the family," I said. "I pay it and you get it. After your death it will revert to me, of course." "Aha! You're already counting on my death?" he shouted, and began to rage and storm again. "Do you want me to lay myself in my grave alive, so that you can round off your estate with Krakowitz? I suppose it has been a thorn in your eyes a long time, my beautiful Krakowitz has." There was no use struggling against such a bundle of unreason, so I determined upon force. "This is my ultimatum, father," I said, "settlement and reconciliation with Lothar Pütz are the sole conditions upon which I enter your family. If you don't agree I shall have to ask Iolanthe to set me free." That brought him round. "A man can't express the least little bit of feeling to you," he said. "I think of your children, the poor unborn little mites, and you immediately think of breaking your engagement and all that sort of thing. If you insist, I won't interfere with your pleasure. I have no personal feelings against Lothar Pütz. On the contrary, I'm told he is a magnificent fellow, a smart rider, a dashing young sport. But my dear man, I'll give you a good piece of advice. You're going to have a young girl for your wife. If she were not my own daughter and so raised above suspicion, I should suggest, 'Pick a quarrel with him, make him your enemy, insist upon payment of old loans instead of making a new one.' Nothing so sure as a sure thing, you know." Gentlemen, until then I had taken him humorously, but from that moment on I hated him. Just let the wedding be over, then I'd shake him off. There was still one difficult thing to do, convince Lothar that the old fellow admitted he had been wrong and had decided to give up the suit. The coup succeeded. It surprised Lothar so little that he even forgot to thank me. Very well, all the same to me! I've already told you enough about Iolanthe. The tissue of such a relation, with its attempts at intimacy and its chills, with its ebb and flow of confidence and timidity, hope and despair, is too finely woven for my coarse hands to try to spread it out before you. To her credit be it said, she honestly attempted to accommodate herself to me. She tried to discover my likes and dislikes. She even tried to adapt her thoughts to mine. Unfortunately she could not find very much there. Where she in the freshness of her mind took it for granted that there were live interests, there was often nothing but land long before turned waste. That is what is so horrible about growing old. It slowly deadens one nerve after the other. As we approach the fifties, both work and rest conspire to make an end of us. Just then red neckties were in fashion. I wore a red necktie, and also pointed boots, and silk lapels on my coat. I presented Iolanthe with rich gifts, a pearl necklace, which cost three thousand dollars, and a famous solitaire that had come up for auction in Paris. Every day roses and orchids were shipped to her from my hothouses--but by express, because my flowers were less valuable than my colts. By the way, my colts, you know--but no, I didn't set out to tell about my colts. CHAPTER VI Well, at this point, gentlemen, I leave a blank and pass on to the wedding day. My father--in--law, who always landed on his feet like a cat, had decided to exploit my popularity for his own ends, and he utilised the celebration of my wedding for renewing his connection with all the people who had long been avoiding him. He dived deep into his pocket and arranged a prodigious feast, at which, as he expressed it, champagne was to flow in rivulets along the table. No need to tell you that the whole hullabaloo was a nuisance to me; but that's just the trouble about being a bridegroom. He is a ridiculous figure whose organs of will have been peeled out of his cranium for the time being. On the morning of the great day I was sitting in my study--very cross--the whole house stinking of paint--when the door opened and Lothar came in. In high feather apparently--had on top boots--threw himself on my neck. Hurrah! Dear old uncle! Travelled all night to be here on time; won the prize the day before at the steeplechase; rode like the devil; didn't break his neck anyhow; drank like a fish. Still he was fresh; ready to dance like a top; brought some surprises along--very fiery kind; I was to give him twenty-five men to drill immediately--and so forth. It came out in a stream while his black eyebrows kept jerking up and down and his eyes glowed from under them like burning coals. "That is youth," I reflected and suppressed a sigh. I should have liked to borrow those eyes of his for twenty-four hours and everything else that went with them. "You don't ask about my bride?" I ventured. He laughed very loud. "Uncle, uncle, uncle! A pretty business! You marrying? You marrying? And I sending off the sky rockets! Hurrah!" And still laughing he ran out of the room. I finished my cigar, much depressed. Afterwards, I thought, I would go on a round of inspection through the renovated rooms. In front of the bedroom door my sister caught me just as she was having her luggage carried away. "No admission here," she said. "This is to be a surprise to both of you." Both of us? Silly! About eleven o'clock I started dressing. My coat cut into my shoulders. My boots pinched me on the balls of my feet. For thirty years I had been suffering from gout--a sequel to the Pütz punches. My shirt bosom stiff as a board, necktie too short, everything awful. About two o'clock I drove to the bride's home, where the wedding was to be celebrated. And now, gentlemen, comes a dream, or rather a nightmare, with all the sensations of choking, of being strangled, of sinking into a pit. And yet full of happy moments, when I thought, "Everything will be all right. You have your good heart and your fine intentions. You will spread a carpet for her to tread on. She will walk the earth like a queen and never notice her chains." While one coach after another came rolling into the courtyard and a gallery of strange faces crowded at the windows, I ran about the garden like one possessed, spattering my new fine patent leathers with mud, and letting the tears run freely down my cheeks. But that pleasure was cut short. They were calling out for me everywhere. I went into the house. The old man, beside himself with glee at seeing as his guests all his old adversaries, men he had had tilts with, or had insulted, or cheated, was running from one to the other, pressing everybody's hand and swearing eternal friendship. I wanted to say "How do you do" to a couple of friends but I was pushed with a great halloo into a room where they said my bride was awaiting me. There she stood. In white silk--bridal veil like a lighted cloud around her--myrtle wreath black and spiny on her hair--like a crown of thorns. I had to shut my eyes for a second, she was so beautiful. Stretching her hands out toward me she said: "Are you satisfied?" And she looked at me gently with an expression of self-surrender; and her face with the smile it wore seemed like a marble mask. Then I was overcome with happiness and a sense of guilt. I felt like dropping down on my knees and begging to be forgiven for having dared to want her for myself. But I was ashamed to. Her mother was standing behind her and her bridesmaids and other stupid things were also there. I mumbled something that I myself did not understand, and because I did not know what else to say, I walked up and down in front of her and kept buttoning and unbuttoning my gloves. My mother-in-law, who herself did not know what to say, smoothed down the folds of Iolanthe's veil and looked at me from the corner of her eye half reproachfully, half encouragingly. At every turn I ran into a mirror, and--willy-nilly--I had to see myself--my bald forehead, my lobster-coloured cheeks with the heavy folds running into my chin, and the wart under the left corner of my mouth. I saw my collar, which was much too tight--even the widest girthed collar had not been wide enough--and I saw my grubby red neck bulging over my collar all around like a wreath. I saw all that, and at each turn I was shaken with a mixed feeling of madness and honesty, that I ought to cry out to her, "Have pity on yourself! There is time yet. Let me go." You must remember there were no such things as civil weddings at that time yet. I should never have brought myself to the point of saying it even if I had kept walking to and fro for a thousand years. Nevertheless, when the old man came sidling in, watchful as a weasel, to say, "Come along, the pastor is waiting!" I felt injured, as though some deep-laid plan of mine had been thwarted. I offered Iolanthe my arm. The folding doors were pulled open. Faces! Faces! Endless masses of faces! As if glued to one another. And all of them leered at me as if to say: "Hanckel, you are making an ass of yourself." An avenue formed itself between them, and we walked down the avenue while I kept thinking in the deathlike silence, "Strange that nobody bursts out laughing." So we reached the altar, which the old man had constructed with awful skill of a large packing box covered with red bunting. And quite an exhibition of flowers and candles on it, with a crucifix in the middle, as at a funeral. The pastor was standing in front of us. He put on his solemn ministerial air and stroked back the wide sleeves of his vestment like a sleight-of-hand man about to begin his tricks. First a hymn--five stanzas--then the sermon. I have not the slightest idea what the pastor said, for suddenly a perverse thought entered my brain and became a fixed idea not to be shaken off. She will say, "No!" And the nearer we drew to the decisive moment the more the anguish of that thought throttled me. Finally I had not the least doubt in the world that she would say "No." Gentlemen, she said "Yes." I heaved a sigh of relief, like a criminal who has just heard the verdict "Not guilty." And now the strangest thing of all. Scarcely had the word crossed her lips and the fear of humiliation been lifted from my soul than I began to wish, "Oh, if only she had said 'No'." After the Amen there were congratulations without end. I shook one hand after another with genuine fervour. "Thank you" here, "Thank you" there. I was grateful from the bottom of my heart to every fellow there because in anticipation of the excellent food and drink to follow he bestowed his polite congratulations upon me. Only one person was missing--Lothar. He stood in the back row looking quite sallow, as though he were hungry or felt bored. "There he is, Iolanthe," I said and caught hold of him. "Lothar Pütz--Pütz's only son--my own boy. Shake hands with him. Call him Lothar!" She still hesitated, so I placed her hand in his and thought to myself, "Thank God he is here. He will help us over many a difficult hour." Please don't smile, gentlemen. You think that in the course of my married life a love relation slowly developed between the two young people. Not a bit of it. Just a little patience. Something very different is going to come. Well, to proceed. We went to table. Everything according to form and in abundance. Flowers, silverware, baumkuchen. To begin with, a little glass of sherry to warm up your stomach. The sherry was good but the glass was small and I could not see any more sherry about. "Now you must be very gallant and tender to her," I said to myself and looked at her sidewise. Her elbow was grazing my arm and I could feel how she was trembling. "She's hungry," I thought, for I had not eaten a thing myself yet. Her eyes were fixed on the candelabra in front of her. Their silvery sheen in the course of the years had faded and wrinkled like the skin of an old woman. Her profile! God, how beautiful! And that was to belong to me. Nonsense! And I tossed off a tumblerful of thin Rhine wine, which gurgled in my empty stomach like bubbles in a duck puddle. "This is not the way to muster up tenderness," I thought, looking around longingly for the sherry. Then I pulled myself together. "Please eat something," I said, satisfied that I had done something marvellous. She nodded and lifted her spoon to her mouth. After the soup came some excellent fish, Rhine salmon if I am not mistaken, and the sauce had the proper admixture of brandy, lemon juice and capers. Delicious, in short. Then came venison. Pretty good even if a little too fresh still. Well, on this point opinions differ. "Do eat something," I said again, pursing my lips so that people should think that what I was whispering was a compliment or something sentimental. No, that sort of thing didn't get me any farther. Already I had disposed of the second bottle of the thin Rhine wine and began to swell like a balloon. I looked around for Lothar, who had inherited from his father a scent for everything drinkable, but he had been seated somewhere downstairs. Then I was saved by a toast, which gave me a chance to stand up. On my rounds I discovered a small but select company of sherry bottles which the old man had hidden behind a curtain. I picked up two of them quickly and started to pour courage into me. It was a slow process but it succeeded. I can stand a good deal, you know, gentlemen. After the venison came a salmi of partridges. Two successive dishes of game are not quite the right thing, but they were mighty tasty. At just about this point something like a wall of mist loosened itself from the ceiling and descended slowly--slowly. Now I was tossing gallantries right and left. I tell you, gentlemen, I was going it. I called my bride "enchantress" and "charming sprite," and told a rather broad hunting story, and explained to my neighbours of what use the experiences are that a bachelor of today acquires before marrying. To be brief, gentlemen, I was irresistible. But the wall of mist kept sinking deeper and deeper. It was like in mountain regions, where first the highest summits disappear and then little by little the mountain side, one ledge after another. First the lights in the candelabra got reddish halos round them. They looked like small suns in a vapoury atmosphere with rainbow rays radiating from them. Then gradually everybody sitting behind the candelabra talking and rattling forks disappeared from sight and sound. Only at intervals did a white shirt bosom or a bit of a woman's arm gleam from the "purple darkness"--isn't that what Schiller calls it? Oh, yes! Something else struck me. My father--in--law was running around with two bottles of champagne, and whenever he saw an entirely empty glass, he would say, "Please do have some more. Why don't you drink?" "You old fraud!" I said when he bobbed up back of me, and I pinched his leg, "is that what you call letting it flow in rivulets?" You see, gentlemen, my condition was growing dangerous. And all of a sudden I felt my heart expanding. I had to talk. I simply had to talk. So I struck my glass madly for silence. "For heaven's sake--keep quiet!" my bride--I beg your pardon, my wife--whispered in my ear. But even if it cost me my life I had to talk. What I said was reported to me afterwards, and if my authorities tell the truth, it was something like the following: "Ladies and gentlemen, I am no longer young. But I do not regret that at all, for maturity also hath its joys. And if anybody were to assert that youth can be happy only when wedded to youth, I would say, 'An infamous lie! I myself am proof of the contrary. For I am no longer young, but I am going to make my young wife happy because my wife is an angel--and I have a loving heart--yea, I swear I have a loving heart, and whoever says that here underneath my waistcoat--there beats no loving heart--to him--I would like to lay bare my heart----'" At this point, according to reports, my words were choked by tears, and in the middle of my abject outpourings I was hustled from the room. * * * * * When I awoke I was lying on a couch much too short for me, with all kinds of fur collars and caps and woollen wraps thrown over me. My neck was strained, my legs numb. I looked around. On a console under a mirror a single candle was burning. Brushes, combs, and boxes of pins lay beside it. On the walls hung a mass of cloaks, hats and all that sort of thing. Oho, the ladies' dressing room! Slowly I became conscious of what had happened. I looked at the clock. Nearly two. Somewhere, as though at a great distance, the playing of a piano and the scraping and sliding of dancing feet in time with the music. _My_ wedding! I combed my hair, arranged my necktie, and heartily wished I might lie right down in my lovely hard camp bed and pull the covers over my ears, instead of--brr! Well, there was nothing to be done about it. So I started for the reception rooms, though without any real feeling of shame, as I was still too sleepy and drowsy to comprehend the state I was in fully. At first nobody noticed me. In the rooms where the gentlemen were sitting the smoke was so thick that at only a few feet away all you could discern was merely the vague outlines of human bodies. A very steep game of cards was under way, and my father-in-law was relieving his guests of their money so neatly that had he had three more daughters to marry off he would have become a rich man. He called it "making wedding expenses." I glanced in at the room where the dancing was going on. The dowagers were fighting off sleep, the young people were hopping about mechanically, while the pianist opened his eyes only when he struck a wrong note. My sister was holding a glass of lemonade on her lap and was inspecting the lemon seeds. It was a doleful sight. Iolanthe nowhere to be seen. I returned to the card tables and tapped the old man on his shoulder as he was scooping up the stake he had just won and was stuffing it into his pocket. He turned on me savagely. "Well, you drunkard, you!" "Where is Iolanthe?" "I don't know. Go find her." And he went on playing. The other gentlemen looked embarrassed, but acted as though nothing had happened. "Won't you try your luck, young Benedict?" they clamoured. So I made off with all haste, for I knew my weakness. Had I taken a hand, there would have been another scandal. I sneaked around outside the dancing hall. I did not feel equal to meeting the glances of the dowagers. In the corridor a tin kitchen lamp was smoking, from the pantries came the rattle of plates and the giggling of half-drunken kitchen maids. Awful! I knocked on the door of Iolanthe's room. No answer. Knocked again. Everything quiet. So I went in. And what did I see? My mother-in-law sitting on the edge of the bed and my wife kneeling beside her dressed already in her black travelling gown, her head in her mother's lap, and both women crying. It was enough to move a stone to pity. Oh, gentlemen, how I felt! I should have liked to rush to my carriage, call "To the station" to the coachman, and take the first train out of the place--to America, or any place where embezzling cashiers and prodigal sons go to and disappear. But that wouldn't do. "Iolanthe," I said humbly and contritely. Both the women screamed. My wife clasped her mother's knees, while the mother put protecting arms around her. "I won't annoy you, Iolanthe; I only ask your forgiveness because, out of love for you, I was so reckless." A long silence--broken only by her sobbing. Then her mother spoke. "He is right, child. You must get up. It's time for you to be going." Iolanthe rose slowly, her cheeks wet, her eyes red as fire, her body still shaken with sobs. "Give him your hand. It can't be helped." Very pleasant remark--"It can't be helped." And Iolanthe gave me her hand, and I raised it reverently to my lips. "George, have you seen my husband?" asked my mother-in-law. "Yes." "Please call him. Iolanthe wants to say good-bye." I went back to the card room. "Father!" "Twelve, sixteen, twenty-seven, thirty-one." "Father!" "Thirty-three--what do you want?" "We want to say good-bye." "Well--go--and God bless you--and be happy!--thirty-six----" "Don't you want to see Iolanthe?" "Thirty-nine--won!--out with the cash!--who's still got the courage for another? George, won't you take a little flyer with us?" I got out of the room. I told the ladies as considerately as I could that the Baron would not come. They merely looked at each other and then led the way through the smoky corridor to the back steps, where the carriage was waiting. The wind was whistling in our ears and a few scattering raindrops struck our faces. The two women clung to each other without saying anything as though they would never let each other go. Now the old man, who had evidently thought better of it, came running out with a great hullabaloo, and behind him the maids, whom he had summoned, with lamps and candles. He threw himself between mother and daughter and let loose. "My dear child, if the blessing of a loving father----" She shook him off--just like a wet dog. With a jump into the carriage--I behind--off! CHAPTER VII There we were seated together. Torches flickering at the gate. Then everything dark and black. Gentlemen, that was a memorable ride! The carriage wheels splashed through the mud puddles--ss--ss--ss. The wind whistled and howled. The rain drummed on the top of the carriage--tara tata! Tara tata! "And now, what are you going to do with her?" I asked myself. She was not to be seen, heard, or felt. As if I were driving through the night absolutely by myself. It was not until we reached the woods and the light from the lanterns shone on the wet birch trees so that a gleam of light was reflected back into the carriage that I saw her cowering in the corner as though she were trying to press through the side and throw herself out. Good Heavens! Such a poor little thing! Bereft of all that made up her old existence and beholding in her new world nothing but an oldish fellow who had just been dead drunk. The devil! How ashamed of myself I felt. "Iolanthe." But, of course, I had to say something. Not a sound. "Are you afraid of me?" "Yes." "Won't you give me your hand?" "Yes." "Where is it?" "Here." Slowly--very slowly--something soft touched my sleeve. I caught it, I held it fast, I covered it up. Poor thing! Poor thing! And at the same time a kind of--I might call it "sacred fire" if I wanted to be sentimental--took possession of me. In my hour of need, I found beautiful, warm, comforting words to say to her. "You see, Iolanthe," I said, "you are now my wife. There's no changing that. And, after all, you wanted it yourself. But you mustn't suppose I shall bother you with all sorts of amorous ways and make demands. It is a true friend who is sitting here beside you--I may say a fatherly friend, if you can get any comfort out of that--because I haven't the least idea of trying to disguise the fact that I am much older than you. So, my dear, if your heart is heavy and if you want to cry to your heart's content, you'll never find a breast on which you can rest more securely. Always come to me for refuge, just come to me even if you do feel that I am the enemy from whom you are seeking refuge." That was very nicely said, wasn't it? It was inspired by my sympathy and by my pure unqualified good will. Poor old me! As if a little bit of youthful fervour were not worth a thousand times more than the deepest sympathy and all that. But at the moment the impression of what I said was so strong that I myself was frightened. With one bound she was out of her corner, with her arms round my neck, kissing my face through her veil and saying between sobs: "Forgive me--forgive me, you dear, dear man." At this I thought of the scene at our engagement when she had puzzled me by the same behaviour. "What's all this?" I said. "What am I always to forgive you for?" She did not answer. She merely withdrew to her corner, and from then on not another sound from her lips. The rain had stopped falling, but the wind blew at the carriage windows more madly than ever. Then--suddenly--a flash of lightning! And hard upon it a peal of thunder. The horses reared and curvetted toward the ditch. "Rein them in tight, John!" I cried. Of course he didn't hear me. However, the beasts stood still. His fists were like iron. I never had a better coachman. The thunderbolt turned out to be nothing but a signal. Peal after peal followed--right and left--everywhere. Flaming roofs, balls of fire, towers aglow, and the park all alight with a beautiful emerald green. My good old Ilgenstein transformed into a real fairy castle. A shiver of pure delight went through me at being able to show her the new home bathed in such splendour. All this I owed to Lothar--the dear boy--and perhaps much more. For often it is the first impression that casts the lot for a whole life. Iolanthe leaned out of the carriage window, and in the red glow I saw her eyes looking ahead in a kind of eager or anxious searching. "All this is yours, my dear," I said and tried to find her hand. But she did not hear me. She seemed to be completely overwhelmed by the beautiful picture. As we drew into the court, bedlam broke loose--a shouting and shooting, drums and trumpets, torches and lanterns on all sides, and faces blackened by smoke, glowing eyes, open mouths. "Hurrah! Long live his Lordship! Long live her Grace! Hurrah!" Such a trampling and waving of hats! The horde of them behaved as though possessed. "Well," I thought to myself, "now she certainly must see that she isn't married to a bad man, since his servants love him so much," and, primed for emotion as one is at such times, I began to blubber a bit. When the carriage stopped, I saw Lothar standing in front of the door among the inspectors and apprentices. I jumped out and took him into my arms. "My boy! My dear, dear boy!" In my thankfulness I could have kissed his hand. When I started to assist my young wife out of the carriage, that unfortunate creature, the chief inspector, in the midst of the excitement, started to treat us to a solemn speech. "For God's sake, Baumann," I said, "we'll take all that for granted," and I helped Iolanthe into the house. There the housemaids were standing, curtseying and tittering, the housekeeper at their head. But Iolanthe stared right past them. Then I was seized by dread of what was to come. "Oh, if you had not sent your sister away!" I thought, and looking around for help I spied Lothar in the doorway, apparently about to take leave. I rushed over to him and caught his hands. "Come now, you aren't leaving us, are you? After all this trouble we must have something hot together--what do you say?" He turned red as blood, but I led him over to Iolanthe, who had just been relieved of her hat and cloak. "You must help me persuade him to stay, Iolanthe. His exertions for us have surely earned him a cup of tea." "I ask you," she said, without even raising her eyes. He made a stiff bow, and pulled at his moustache. I led them through the lighted halls to the dining-room. She looked neither to the right nor the left. All the splendour brought into being for her sake shone unnoticed. Two or three times she reeled on my arm, and at each crisis I looked anxiously about to see if the boy was with us. Praised be the Lord! He was still there! In the dining-room the tea kettle was boiling, by my sister's orders before she left. "Suppose you send for her?" flashed through my mind. "One carriage hurried off to Krakowitz, another to Gorowen--and she might be here inside of an hour." But I, poor old blade, was ashamed to admit my helplessness. Besides, there was Lothar for me to cling to in my desperation. Thank God, Lothar was still with us. "Well, be seated, children." I assumed the air of being wonderfully at ease. I can still see the whole scene. The snowy white tablecloth, the Meissen china, the old silver sugar bowl, the hanging lamp of copper overhead and in its hard light, to my right, Iolanthe, pale, stiff, with half-closed eyes, like a somnambulist; to my left, Lothar with his bushy hair and firm brown cheeks and the sombre fold between his brows, his eyes fixed on the tablecloth. Seeing that evidently the boy felt _de trop_ and would much rather have run away, I laid my hands affectionately on his shoulders and thanked him from the bottom of my heart for the torture he was imposing upon himself. "Take a good look at him, Iolanthe," I said. "We three shall be sitting here like this many a time again, enjoying each other's company." She nodded very slowly and closed her eyes altogether. Poor thing! Poor thing! And the dread almost took my breath away. "Be jolly, children," I said. "Lothar, tell us something funny--out of your own life. Come on now. Have you anything to smoke? No? Wait a moment, I'll get you something." And in my anguish I made for the cigar cabinet in the next room, as though a good smoke would bring everything to a happy ending. And then, gentlemen, when I came back with the box under my arm, I saw something through the open door that stopped the blood in my veins. Only once in my life have I experienced a similar shock. That was one evening when I was still a young cuirassier and I came home from a jolly party to find a telegram for me with the pleasant message, "Father just died." But now as to what it was that I saw, gentlemen. The two young people were sitting still and stiff on their chairs, as before, but they had, so to speak, dipped their eyes into each other's, and there was a wild, despairing, insane glow in them such as I had never thought could shine out of human eyes. It was like two flames darting sparks into each other. So there I was. Not yet my wife, and already my friend, my son, my favourite, betraying me with her. Adultery in the house even before the marriage had really been consummated. In that look my whole future--an existence of suspicion, and dread and gloom and ridicule, full of grey days and sleepless nights--lay unrolled before me like a map. What was I to do, gentlemen? My impulse was to take her by the hand and say to him, "She's yours, my boy. I have no longer any right over her." But please put yourselves in my position. A look is something intangible and undemonstrable. It may be denied with a smile. And, after all, might I not have been mistaken? And while I revolved this in my mind, the two pairs of eyes continued to cling to each other in complete oblivion of everything about them. When I walked into the room, there was not even a twitch of an eyelid. They even turned toward me as if in surprise and indignation and as if to ask: "Why does this old man, this stranger, intrude upon us?" I felt inclined to roar out like a wounded beast. However, I collected myself and offered the cigars. But I felt I had to put an end to the business quickly. All kinds of red suns were beginning to dance in front of my eyes. So I said, "Go home, my boy, it's time." He rose heavily, gave me an icy handshake, and made his lieutenant's bow to her with joined heels, and turned towards the door. Then I heard a cry--a cry that pierced me to the quick. And what did I see? My wife, my young wife, lying at his feet, holding on to his coat with both hands, and crying, "You must not die! You must not die!" Well, gentlemen, the catastrophe at last! For a moment I stood like a man hit over the head. Then I caught Lothar by the collar. "Stop, my boy," I said, "that's enough. I won't have any tricks played on me." Still holding his collar I led him gently back to his seat, closed the doors, and lifted my wife, who was lying on the floor weeping convulsively, to a couch. But she caught my hands and started to kiss them, whimpering, "Don't let him go! He wants to kill himself--he wants to kill himself!" "And why do you want to kill yourself, my boy?" said I. "If you had prior rights to mine, why did you not assert them? Why did you deceive your best friend?" He pressed his hands to his forehead and remained silent. Then I fell into a rage and said, "Say something, or I'll knock you down like a mad dog!" "Do it," he said, stretching out his arms. "I have deserved nothing better." "Deserved or not--now you must tell me what all this means." Well, gentlemen, then I learned the whole pretty story from the two of them together, to the accompaniment of self-reproaches, tears and bended knees. Years before they had met in the woods and fell in love for ever after--hopelessly and silently, as behooved the off spring of two feuding families--Montagues and Capulets. "Did you confess your love to each other?" No, but they had kissed each other. "And then?" Then he had gone on garrison duty in Berlin and they heard no more of each other. They did not dare to write, and each was uncertain of the other's affection. Then came the death of old Pütz and my attempt to bring about a reconciliation. When I appeared at Krakowitz, Iolanthe conceived the plan at first of making me a confident of her love. In fact, she hoped to receive a message through me. Nothing of the kind. Instead, I misunderstood her tender glances and played the enamoured swain myself. Then, when her father's burst of rage proved clearly that there never would be a bit of hope for her, she decided in her despair to avail herself of the one possible way of at least getting near her beloved. "Ah, but, my dear, that was really a contemptible thing for you to do." "But I longed for him so," she answered, as though that made everything right. "Very good--excellent! But you, my son, why didn't you come and say, 'Uncle, I love her, she loves me, hands off!'" "But I did not know if she still loved me." "Splendid! You are a precious pair of innocents, you two. When did you finally find out?" "To-day--while you were asleep." And now came a terrible story. After dinner, on leaving the table, a single handshake in silence showed each how miserable the other one was, and seeing no way out, they decided to die that very night. "What! You, too?" Instead of answering Iolanthe pulled out of her pocket a little bottle from which a human skull grinned at me. "What's that?" "Cyanide of potassium." "The devil! Where did you get that from?" Presented to her some years ago by a friend of hers at the dancing school, a chemist whose head she had turned. She had asked him to give her the pleasant drink. "And you were going to take that stuff, you little goose, you?" She looked at me with big glaring eyes and nodded two or three times. I understood very well, and a shudder passed down my back. A fine bridal night it might have been! "And now? What am I going to do with the two of you now?" "Save us! Help us! Have mercy on us!" They were on their knees before me, licking my hands. And because I, as you know, gentlemen, am a professional good fellow, I devised a means of bringing my failure of a marriage to a speedy end. John was ordered to hitch up, and fifteen minutes later, without any to-do, I was driving my twelve-hour bride to Gorowen to my sister, under whose protection she was to remain until the divorce had been decreed--under no circumstances would she return to her father's house. Lothar asked me quite naïvely if he might not go with us. "You rascal!" I said. "Off home with you!" At the right time and place, gentlemen, I can be very severe. * * * * * It was striking half-past four as I got back to Ilgenstein. I was beastly tired. My legs were hanging from my body like pieces of dead wood. Everything was quiet, as I had sent the whole household to bed before going. Walking along the corridor, where the lights were still burning, I saw a door decorated with wreaths. It led to the bridal chamber which my sister had kept locked up till then as a surprise. Moved by curiosity I opened the door and looked in. I beheld a purple sepulchral vault, a mixture of strange scents almost choked me. Everything was hung with curtains and draperies, and from the ceiling swung a real lighted church lamp. In the background, on a raised dais, there had been erected a sort of catafalque with golden ornaments and silken covers. It was there that I should have had to sleep! "B-r-r-r!" I said and shut the door and ran away as quickly as my limping legs would carry me. And then I came to my own room and lit my lovely bright students' lamp. It smiled at me like the sun itself. In the corner stood my old narrow camp bed with its red-stained posts, the grey straw bag, and the worn deerskin robe. Well, gentlemen, you can imagine how delicious I felt. I undressed, lit a good cigar, jumped into bed, and read an interesting chapter of the history of the Franco-Prussian War. And I can assure you, gentlemen, that I never slept more soundly than on my bridal night. THE WOMAN WHO WAS HIS FRIEND Oh, how tired I am, dear lady! I've been writing New Year's letters the whole day and have disposed of everything that has gone unanswered the entire year. Goodness, what ancient debts turned up! And what an awful lazybones I've been! The number of good friends that I've insulted through sheer neglect, the number of little thorns I've left sticking in people's flesh! But enough said. I sent out New Year's cards, too, and you will also receive my card on New Year's morning with a stiff "Many wishes for a Happy New Year" and not so much as even a sugary little verse beside the 1/1/86. Don't laugh. On second thought 1/1 is a highly significant figure, and we oughtn't to make fun of it the way I did. The day it designates is a turning-point for people's hearts. On that day love changes its residence. Not always, of course. Many people have a contract for a number of years, for life even, and it's a good snug berth that love falls into in homey dwelling-places like that. But the giddy creatures, the butterflies--if one may speak of butterflies at New Year--the ones that have been evicted and all the others who are looking for new quarters either out of choice or out of necessity--you see them preparing at New Year's time for moving in or moving out. Why just at New Year's time, you ask? Another season has begun, new relations are entered into, new intrigues are woven, inclinations newly awakened crop up shyly to the surface. Christmas belonged to the old era still; the happiness comfortably enjoying itself in dressing-gown and slippers still held sway over the discomforts of the new passion knocking turbulently at the door. But now, at New Year, there's a general clearing out, and all worn love-goods are disposed of "previous to removal," as the advertisements read. The heart's change of residence is probably the saddest there is. Many things get broken and many a cherished memento falls into the gutter. But if it cannot be prevented, then the moving may as well be done thoroughly and energetically. "Off with the old love before you're on with the new." A truth of startling pregnancy. Many a person has arrived too late because he lingered too long saying good-bye. Piles of novels could be written on this subject. Sometimes, too, the heart stays in the old house but moves to another apartment. Then hate follows love and love follows hate, the latter, at least, in Marlitt's romances. And more than this, friendship moves in where love once dwelt. And then, finally, there are the cases in which friendship clears the way for love. You shake your head. You believe friendship never clears the way for love? You mean because we two friends are so proof against love? Oh, we are the exception. Between us rises the intellectual love of truth like a crystal wall in the Arctic Ocean. But I can give you examples, my dear lady, any number of examples, of friendship clearing the way for love. And mostly unhappy examples. It seems to be an iron law of happiness that love should begin with passion and end in the peace of tranquil friendship--marriage, I mean. The reverse way is not excluded, but it leads--to the desert. There are abstract enthusiasts that construe the marriage of souls as a necessary preliminary to physical love. But nature punishes lying. When friendship between a man and a woman ends in love, either the friendship or the love is not true. And woe, woe if the friendship has not been friendship but love. Apropos of this--do you happen to remember the portrait of a woman that created such a stir at the exhibition two or three years ago and brought the painter so much fame and so many orders? A frail figure, almost too frail, in a simple black velvet dress. A thin suffering face, a pale forehead with the crown on it of the quiet aristocracy of thought. Half-closed dreamy eyes, a bluish gleam from between dark lashes. Upper lip covered with fine down and an expression of longing and smiling melancholy about the mouth. Now I remember to a dot. You and I admired the picture together. You stood studying it a long time and then said: "That's the way I fancy Vittoria Colonna must have looked." I said nothing to that. I was astonished by your keenness, because there really were many resemblances of character between the lady of the portrait and Michael Angelo's unhappy friend. Her fate, too, was curiously like Vittoria Colonna's. Of course, I may not tell how I came to know her story. At that time it was still in progress, and the change that came later--well---- She was the widow of a well-known architect. His house was a social centre for a swarm of talented young artists, among them K----, the painter of the portrait. He was a jolly young fellow, easy-going and saucy. The maelstrom of the years at the Academy had not destroyed the perfect childlikeness of his genius, and, as a result, the air of being blasé and weighted with the woes of the world that he put on in deference to his varied experiences was all the more becoming as at the slightest provocation he dropped this manner and burst into a ringing laugh. Hedwig soon realised there was a sound core to the young man's rather giddy character, and since everybody felt that his talent was of the first order and only needed a little cultivation to bear glorious fruit, she took pleasure in looking out for him. And he, for his part, surrendered himself ardently to the guidance of a woman a few years older than himself, a woman whom he came to adore. He brought her his sketches, and she passed upon them, with a sharp eye for both the painter's sense of form and for the tiniest slip of his still uncertain hand. He made her the confidante of his creative ideas, which gushed from his brain impetuously, and he received them back from her matured and refined. There was not a corner of his heart that did not lie open to her view, and she was wise enough even to place the right estimate upon the youthful coarseness with which his sentiments sometimes bubbled over. Another woman might have felt hurt, while she took it as evidence of his surplus of strength, and smiled and gently poked fun at him, and so brought harmony out of the chaos within him. She showered riches on him, and what she got back in return was scarcely less in value. Held fast at the side of an ill-tempered aging husband, an ailing woman herself and growing weaker from year to year, she had matured in mind at an early age; and she had paid toll in the loss of youthful spirits and elasticity. But now whole streams of a fresh blithe life poured out of him into her. She felt rejuvenated in his presence. And a tender motherliness, the shadow of a joy that had been denied her, was interwoven with her other feelings for him. Her husband was glad to see his lonely wife occupied and did not interfere. And why should he have interfered? Never was there less occasion for jealousy. The young scapegrace, as a matter of fact, even confided his love affairs to her, and she tried by smiling advice to render them at least innocuous enough not to hamper the development of his talent. Three years passed. Hedwig's husband died. Her illness had grown worse, and at the physician's advice she went south, to Nice. She lived in great retirement, broken into only now and then, when a young genius long of hair and none too clean of shirt turned up in her modest drawing-room, generally in money difficulties and bringing a letter of recommendation from her friend. Her one diversion was corresponding with K----, whose work and position kept him in Berlin. He often wrote her that he adored her like a saint. She, for her part, parried his onslaughts of ecstasy and was satisfied that in spite of his volatile nature and his growing fame, he preserved his old liking for her. Three years more passed. Then, once, late in autumn he suddenly appeared at Nice, tired, worn out by work, spiritually desolate, unsteadier than ever, but--a full-grown man. "I have come to be cured by you," he exclaimed the first time he was in her house. She wept for joy. Soon they dropped into greater intimacy than ever, and yet she sometimes experienced a sense of shyness which she had not felt before in her relation with him, for the very reason that he was no longer the boy she could look down on with unconstrained motherliness. The difference in years seemed to have been wiped out, inwardly as well as outwardly, and he had grown close to her intellectually, alarmingly close. He often complained to her of his afflictions--the miserable headaches that kept bothering him, the result of overwork, and then the worries of his profession, the disillusionments. They were by no means formidable, but easily too much for the spoiled darling of fortune. She devoured everything he said. The least little thing of concern to him assumed prodigious importance. But there seemed to be a good deal that he did not tell her. "And how about the women?" she asked, smiling, though tortured by suddenly rising jealousy. "Oh, let's not talk of the women. I've forgotten every one of them. Now you are my one and only one." She thrilled, but said nothing. Oh, had he known how _her_ whole being lost itself in his! These words of his caressed her from now on, echoing even in her sleep at night. They celebrated Christmas together. When the candles were burning on the tree and the homelike scent of pine and apples filled the room, he caught her hands, looked long into her eyes smiling, and said: "You know, you and I ought really to marry." She felt her blood bounding hot through her veins, but she held on to herself, and burst out laughing. "You think I'm joking," he went on. "No, no, I'm not. I am in deep earnest. You yourself tell me--we're each of us alone, we don't care about the world, we have come to understand each other as no other two people on earth have ever understood each other. Why should we not share our fate the rest of our lives?" "Now do be sensible," she said, trying to keep up a show of lightness, "and don't talk such nonsense any more; for nonsense it is, whether said in fun or in deep earnest. Exactly what you need--a woman hanging round your neck who is five years older than you and soon will be altogether faded. Besides, you don't strike me as having been born to be a nurse, and you know I am slowly making my way graveward. So the matter's settled." That night she cried to herself. The next day his headache bothered him worse than ever. With her he was privileged to make himself comfortable, and he stretched out on the sofa, and she adjusted the cushions under his head. "Your hands are always so cool," he said. "In the days of old you sometimes used to stroke my forehead so soothingly. It did me no end of good. I have spoiled my chance for that form of happiness, too." She passed her shaking hand over his head and brow, and when she touched his cheek, he caught her fingers in both his hands. "Let them stay there," he said with a great sigh. "My cheeks are on fire." Her cheeks were burning, too. Christmas week went by, and the man and the woman drew still closer together in the solitude of their hearts. New Year's eve came, and they decided to wait up and greet the new year together. Hedwig was preparing the tea, and he was leaning back in an easy chair, smoking cigarettes and looking through the blue clouds at her housewifely ways. There was a rosy sheen on her cheeks and something like the promise of happiness glittering in her eyes. He felt so happy and yet so oppressed that he wanted to jump up and clasp her in his arms simply to lift the burden from his soul. She spoke little. She seemed occupied with her own thoughts, and he with his. At about eleven o'clock there was a noise on the street, and the red glow of smoking torches came through the window. It was a procession of masqueraders got up by a private society, a foretaste of the public carnival to follow. She opened the French window and they went out on the balcony, on which potted pomegranate-trees were in full bloom. It was a soft warm night, like our own nights in spring. The stars were sparkling, and a vague shimmer lay upon the ocean. As the giddy throng flowed past below them whistling and hooting and laughing, he felt her arm laid on his almost anxiously. "Aren't we standing here as on an isolated rock in mid-ocean?" he whispered. She nodded and pressed herself against him softly. "And yet have to remain strangers," he went on. She made no reply, and lowered her head to dip it into the mass of blossoms. He felt the quivering of her body. "Hedwig," he said softly. She shrank. It was the first time he had ever called her by her first name. "Hedwig." "What is it?" "Hedwig, my heart's so full. I must thank you. I must tell you loving things. What would I be without you? Whatever I am I owe to you. Hedwig, I can't bear any longer to be standing beside you so stiff and so cold while my heart is throbbing. I must get some air--I must tell you----" "Oh, God!" she breathed, clapping her hands to her face and rushing back into the room, where she dropped down on a settee. He followed her and caught both her hands. She was panting. "Let us talk sensibly," she said, making an effort to sit up erect. "Sit down--there--and listen to me." He obeyed mechanically. "Why can't things stay the same as they always have been between us? Wasn't it lovely? Didn't we use to enjoy each other? And now suddenly something has seethed up in us that makes us ungrateful for all the happiness we had. We mustn't give in. It would plunge us--me, at least--into unhappiness. You see, a few days ago you told me I was your one and only one. I feel that in a certain sense I really am, and that makes me proud and happy. But the moment we want to reap love where we sowed friendship, the magic departs that held us in its spell for so long. Until then I shall have been your one and only one. Afterward I shall be--one more." He started. "What an ugly notion!" he said dully. "Ugly, perhaps, but all the truer," she replied, plucking at the tablecloth with palsied fingers. "We must not surrender to self-deception. This moment determines our future. It lies within our power to decide which way we shall go. You know that--I--love you--and that--I am lonely. So have pity on me. Spare me suffering. I should like to mean as much in your life as I always have." "You are to mean _more_ in my life, not less!" he cried, putting his hands to his forehead. "I want to devote myself to you altogether, with all my body, all my soul, and all my art. I want to have peace--peace from the world without and peace from the passions within. And where could I be surer of finding peace than with you?" She drew a deep sigh, as if in awakening hope, and her gaze hung on his ardently. At that instant the hands of the clock were close on twelve. "A few moments," he said, "and the year will be over--a new one will be coming. Shall it forever remain the same for me, always doing futile empty things? And shall it always remain the same for you, always living in sadness and loneliness? Ahead of us is darkness, and, crouching in the darkness like a hungry beast, is the grave." She shuddered. "Soon it will have us in its clutches at any rate. Why should we doubt and hesitate? It's all the same whatever we do. In the background stands Nothing. So let us be happy as long as there is still intoxication in life." The clock struck twelve. Each stroke was like the flapping of wings of some lonely straying soul. With a sob she fell on his breast. * * * * * At the same time a year later Hedwig was sitting in the same room--but alone. He had meant to be there by Christmas, but then had postponed his coming until New Year, and by New Year's eve he had not yet arrived. Instead a letter had come. She had been reading it over and over again for hours. She had aged greatly and bore the marks of intense suffering. A hard bitter smile hovered about her lips. Her cheeks were aflame with the fires of death, while she stared at the phrases in the letter, forced hollow phrases of tenderness, forced because he was embarrassed. She sank down in front of the settee on the same spot on which he had kneeled a year before, a woman tortured and humbled to death; and hiding her face in the cushions, she murmured: "One more!" * * * * * Dear lady, why are you looking at me so mournfully? What's the story to us? In the first place _I_ am not a genius; secondly, _you_ haven't got the talent for being deserted, and, thirdly, we shall stay the same good old friends we've always been even after New Year. THE NEW YEAR'S EVE CONFESSION Ah, dear lady, it's good to be here with you again, sitting so peacefully in this comfortable chair, ready for a cosy chat. Thank goodness, the holiday hubbub is over and done with and you have a little leisure for me again. Oh, the Christmas season! I do believe it was invented by the devil especially for the annoyance of us bachelors, to impress upon us the dreariness of our homeless lives. The thing that is a source of delight to others is a torture to us. Of course, of course, we're not all of us lonely. The joy of bestowing joy blooms for most of us, too. But the pure pleasure of sharing pleasure with others is embittered partly by a dose of ironical self-criticism, partly by that acid yearning which I might call, instead of homesickness, marriage-sickness. Why did I not come and pour my heart out to you? you ask, you sympathetic soul, who bestow consolation as generously as most of your sex bestow petty spite. Ah, but you see, the matter is not so simple. Don't you know what Speidel says in his charmingly chatty "Lonely Sparrows," which you, correctly divining the state of my soul, sent me on the third day of the holiday? He says, "The genuine bachelor does not want to be consoled. Once having become unhappy, he wants to indulge his unhappiness." Beside Speidel's lonely sparrow, there is also a species of confirmed old bachelors, family friends. I do not mean those professional destroyers of the family who insinuate themselves hypocritically with evil intent while making themselves comfortable at the hospitable hearth. I mean the good old uncle, papa's whilom schoolmate, who dandles baby on his knees while respectably reading aloud to mamma the story in the evening paper with omission of the indecent passages. I know men whose whole life goes in the service of a family with which they have become friendly, men who pass their days without desire beside a lovely woman whom they secretly adore. You are sceptical? Oh, it is the "without desire" that you object to? You may be right. In the depths of even the tamest heart there probably lurks a wild desire, but a desire--it is understood--that is held in check. I should like to give you an example and tell you of a conversation that two ancient gentlemen had with each other this very New Year's eve. You must not ask me how I found out about the conversation, and you must not tell it to any one else. May I begin? Picture, as the scene, a high-ceilinged room furnished in an old-fashioned style and dimly lighted by a green-shaded, brightly polished hanging lamp, such as our parents used before the era of kerosene; the light falling upon a round table covered with a white cloth and set with the ingredients for mixing a New Year's punch, and in the centre a few drippings of oil spreading slowly. My two ancient gentlemen sat half in the dimness cast by the green shade. Mouldy ruins they were of a time long past, each tremulously sunk in himself and each staring into space with the dim eyes and the dull look of old age. The one, the host, was a military man, as was clear at first glance from his closefitting stock, his pointed moustache, shaved off under the points, and his eyebrows knitted in a martial frown. He sat huddled in a rolling chair and clutched the handle of the steering rod with both hands like a crooked walking-stick. Nothing about him stirred except his lower jaw, which went up and down incessantly with a chewing movement. The other, who was sitting beside him on the sofa, was tall and thin, with narrow shoulders and the head of a thinker, angular and broad of brow. He drew skimpy clouds of smoke from a long pipe that was about to go out. Snowy white curls framed his face, and in the thousand fine lines of his smooth, dried-up skin nestled a soft, quiet smile, such as nothing but the peace of renunciation can impress upon an aged countenance. They sat without talking. In the silence you could hear the slight bubbling of the burning oil mingled with the slight bubbling of the tobacco juice. Then the clock on the wall in the dark background wheezed and struck eleven. "This is about the time you usually brew the punch," said the man with the thinker's head. His voice sounded soft and quavered a little. "Yes, this is the time," the other rejoined. His tone was harsh, as if again resounding with the strident shouts of command. "I should never have thought," the guest continued, "that it would be so sad without her." The host nodded and chewed on. "She made the New Year's punch for us forty-four times." "Yes," the old soldier put in, "ever since I have been living here in Berlin and you have been coming to see us." "Last year at this time," the guest continued, "we three were still together, so happily. She sat there in the easy chair, knitting socks for Paul's oldest child, and hurrying as fast as she could. They had to be finished by twelve o'clock, she said. And they were. Then we drank the punch and very comfortably discussed death. And two months later she actually was carried out to the cemetery. You know I wrote a thick volume on the immortality of the idea. You never could bear it. I cannot bear it any more either since your wife died. As a matter of fact, I don't give a fig for any philosophic ideas any more." "Yes, she was a good woman," said the husband of the deceased. "She took good care of me. When I had to be out for service by five o'clock in the morning, she was always up ahead of me and saw to it that I had a good cup of coffee before I left. To be sure, she had her faults, too. When once she got to philosophising with you--whew!" "You simply never understood her," murmured the guest, something like restrained resentment quivering about the corners of his mouth, though the look he allowed to rest on his friend a long time was mild and sad, as though his soul carried the secret consciousness of guilt. After a period of silence, he began: "Listen, Franz, I must tell you something--something that has been gnawing at me a long while. I cannot possibly go down into the grave carrying it along with me." "Fire away, then," said Franz, and picked up the long pipe leaning against his rolling chair. "Once something--happened between--me and your wife." "Please don't joke, Doc," said Franz. "I'm in grim earnest, Franz. I have been carrying it round with me for more than forty years, and now the time has come at last to make a clean breast of it." "Do you mean to say my wife deceived me?" the old soldier shouted in a rage. "Shame on you, Franz," said the philosopher, with his sad, mild smile. Franz mumbled and muttered a little and then lighted his pipe. "No, she was pure as an angel," the philosopher went on. "You and I are the criminals. Listen to me. It was forty-three years ago. You had just been ordered to Berlin as a captain, and I was teaching at the University. You know what a wild fellow you were then." "Hm," said Franz, and raised his shaking hand to twist the points of his moustache. "There was a beautiful actress with big black eyes and small white teeth. Do you remember?" "Do I remember! Bianca was her name." A feeble smile flitted across the old man's weatherbeaten countenance with the marks on it of hard and fast living. "She could bite, I tell you, she could bite!" "You deceived your wife, and she suspected it. But she never said anything, and suffered in silence. You did not notice it, but I did. She was the first woman I got to know after my mother's death. She came into my life like a shining star, and I looked up to her as to a shining star. Finally I summoned up the courage to ask her what was troubling her. She smiled and said she was not feeling quite well yet. You remember, it was only a short while before that Paul had been born. Then came New Year's eve--exactly forty-three years ago this very night. I came to your house at about eight o'clock, as usual. She sat embroidering, and I read to her while we waited for you. The hours passed, one by one. You did not come. I saw how uneasy she became and how she began to tremble, and I trembled with her. I knew what was keeping you, and I was afraid that you would forget twelve o'clock in that woman's arms. It was getting very near the hour. She stopped embroidering, and I stopped reading, and an awful silence descended on us. I saw a tear creep out slowly from between her lashes and fall down on her embroidery. I jumped up and wanted to go out and bring you home. I felt capable of tearing you by force from that woman's side. But at the same instant your wife jumped up, too, from this very seat I am sitting on. "'Where are you going?' she cried. There was unspeakable dread in her face. "'I am going to get Franz,' I said. "At that she fairly screamed. "'For goodness sake, stay with me. At least _you_ stay with me. Don't _you_ leave me.' "And she threw herself on me and laid her hands on my shoulders and hid her wet face on my chest. My whole body quivered. Never before had a woman been so close to me. But I held on to myself and spoke to her comfortingly. She so needed comforting. Soon after, you came back. You did not notice my confusion. Your cheeks were flushed and there was a love-drunken weariness in your eyes. "That New Year's eve produced a change in me, which filled me with alarm. Since I had felt her soft arms around my neck and had drawn in the perfume of her hair, the star had fallen from heaven, and instead of the star it was the _woman_, the woman, beautiful, and breathing love. I knew there was ardour in my glances, and I denounced myself as a blackguard, a deceiver, and to make at least partial atonement to my conscience, I went to work to separate you from your mistress. Fortunately I had some money, which I had inherited, and she was satisfied with the sum I offered her, and----" "By Jingo," the old soldier interjected, "so you're the one to blame for Bianca's writing me that touching good-bye letter in which she told me it was with a breaking heart that she had to forego my love?" "Yes, I am the one to blame for it. But listen. I had expected to purchase peace with the money I gave her. I was mistaken. The wild thoughts kept going round and round in my brain worse and worse. I buried myself in my work. It was just then that I conceived the central thought for my 'Immortality of the Idea.' No use. Peace did not come that way. "And so a whole year went by, and another New Year's eve arrived. I was sitting beside her on this seat once again. This time you were at home, but you were lying asleep on the sofa in the next room, tired out by a jollification at the club. Sitting there, close beside her, looking at her pale face, the recollection of the New Year's eve before came back and overwhelmed me irresistibly. Just to feel her head at my neck once again, just to kiss her once again, and then let come what may! Our glances met for an instant. It seemed to me that a secret understanding flashed into her eyes. I could not control myself any longer. I dropped at her feet and hid my burning face in her lap. "I lay there like that, motionless, for possibly two seconds, when I felt her hand cool on my head and heard her say softly and gently: "'You must be good.' "Yes, I must be good. I must not deceive the man sleeping in the next room so trustfully. I jumped up and looked about, disconcerted. She picked up a book from the table and handed it to me. I knew what she meant and opened the book at random and started to read aloud. I do not know what I read. The letters danced before my eyes. But gradually the storm in my soul subsided, and when it struck twelve and you, with a sleepy look in your eyes, came in to wish us a Happy New Year, I felt as though that instant of sin lay far, far behind me, in an era long past. "From that time on I became calmer. I knew she did not return my love and I had nothing to hope for from her but compassion. The years went by. Your children grew up and married. We three grew old. You gave up sowing wild oats and lived for only the one woman, like myself. I did not stop loving her. No, that was impossible. But my love took on other forms. It discarded earthly desires and turned into a spiritual communion. You often used to laugh when you heard us philosophising. But had you divined how my soul became one with hers, it would have made you very jealous. And now she's dead. Perhaps by next New Year's eve we shall have followed her. That is why it is high time for me to unburden myself of my secret and say to you, 'Franz, I once did you a wrong. Forgive me!'" He held out his hand to his friend pleadingly, but Franz answered testily: "Bah, stuff and nonsense! A lot to forgive! This news of yours, this confession, is stale. I've known it for ages. She herself told me all about it forty years ago. And now I'll tell you the reason I ran after women the way I did until I was an old man--because, when she told me, she also said that you were the only man she had ever loved." His guest stared at him in silence. The clock on the wall wheezed and struck twelve o'clock. THE GOOSE HERD My dear man, I've been listening to you now for a long while and you fill me with astonishment. You usually show--more than I do myself--an honest wish to take things as they are. Then whence all of a sudden, in making these nice observations of human emotions, do you draw this idealistic illusion of yours? It seems to me your levelling-down democratic sentiment has been playing you a naughty trick again. You maintain, if I understand you correctly, that there is not a profound difference in the way the various social classes feel and express their feelings; while, as a matter of fact, life proves the very reverse every day. Oh, it would be beautiful as a dream if you were right. The ideals of brotherhood and equality that I, the bred-in-the-bone aristocrat--that is what you say I am--must necessarily consider mere figments of the brain, would then be reality, or, rather, have already become reality; because the bit of knowledge more or less cannot possibly produce an organic difference in men's natures. No, no, dear sir, it is the cleavage in the way they feel, more than all differences in wealth, rank, and learning, that separates the upper from the lower classes; so much so that they go through the world together each without comprehension of what the other does, like citizens of different globes. Woe to him who hopes to leap the gap! You don't believe me? You shake your head? Oh, my dear man, I am speaking from experience. Alas, alas! If I could tell you--but why shouldn't I? Night is falling outside, the November storm is howling, and to-day I celebrated the advent of my thirtieth grey hair--quite the atmosphere for conjuring up a picture of light, spring and youth. Let me close my eyes, and you listen to me like a good little boy. I want to tell you of my first love. Do you know who my first love was? A goose-herd, a real, out-and-out gooseherd. I am not joking. I have wept bitter tears over the wrong he did me, and that when I had long been a grown-up, highly respectable young lady. To be sure, when he first set my heart afire, I was still of the age when my highest ideal of happiness was to go barefoot. I was eight years old, he ten. I was the daughter of the lord of the castle, he, the son of our smith. Mornings, when I took breakfast on the verandah with my mother and big brother, he used to pass by with his geese and disappear in the direction of the pasture. At first he stared up at us with naïve astonishment, it never occurring to him to raise his cap. Then my brother impressed it upon him that it was proper to give the family a decent greeting, and from that time on he always called up a "Good mornin' to you" like a lesson learned by heart and with a long sweep of his cap. If my brother happened to be in a good humour, I received permission to take a roll down to him, and he always snatched it out of my hand with a certain greedy anxiety, as if there were danger of my withdrawing it at the last moment. What did he look like? I can still see him as if he were right there in front of me. His straight flaxen hair hung down over his sunburned cheeks like a thatched roof, with his blue eyes peering from underneath, jolly and cunning. He wore his ragged trousers rolled up over his knees, and always carried an osier switch, into which, along the green bark, he had cleverly cut white spirals. It was upon this switch that my childish covetousness first fastened itself. How fascinating to hold in my hand a marvellous piece of work like that, so different from all my toys! And when I pictured to myself being allowed to chase geese with it and to go barefoot, the pinnacle of earthly happiness had been reached. And it was this same switch that brought us into human contact. One morning at breakfast, as I saw him going by so cheerily, I could no longer restrain my desire. I furtively put together the pieces of the roll spread with honey that I was eating and asked hurriedly to be excused, and ran after him. When he saw me coming, he stopped and looked at me wonderingly. But as soon as he caught sight of the roll in my hand, a gleam of comprehension shot into his eyes. "Will you give me your switch?" I asked. "Why?" he asked back, and put one foot up to rub the calf of his other leg. "Because I want it," I said defiantly, then added more gently, "I'll give you my roll spread with honey for it." He let his eyes rest longingly on the piece of deliciousness, and then finally observed. "No, I have to have it for the geese, but I'll cut another one like it for you." "Can you do that?" I was all astonishment. "Oh, that's nothing," he pooh-poohed. "I can make flutes, too, and jumping jacks." I was so completely carried off my feet that I handed him the roll on the spot. He bit into it with gusto, and, not honouring me with another glance, he drove his feathered flock off before him. I looked after him, envy in my heart. _He_ was allowed to shepherd geese, but _I_ had to go up to Mademoiselle and learn French. Yes, I thought, how unequal fortune's favours are. That evening he brought me the switch he had promised to make. It was even more beautiful than I had dared to hope in my wildest dreams. There were the white spirals that had so fascinated me in the original, and more than that, the butt-end was topped with a knob, on which a human countenance--whether mine or his, I could not unriddle--was depicted by two dots and two dashes at right angles. From that time on we were friends. I shared with him all the goodies that fell to me, the spoiled little darling, from every side. In return, he bestowed upon me the artistic products of his skilful fingers, reed pipes, little boxes, houses, toy utensils, and, best of all, his famous jumping jacks. Our meetings took place every evening behind the goose coops, and there we exchanged gifts. I looked forward the whole day to these meetings, my thoughts constantly engaged by my young hero. I saw him on the sunny pasture lying in the grass, blowing his reed pipes, while I was torturing myself with horrid vowels. And the yearning grew ever stronger within me to partake of that bliss which is called minding geese. When I told him of my feelings, he burst out laughing. "Why don't you come along, then?" he said. That tipped the scales, and without a second's reflection, "All right," I said, "I'll go along to-morrow." "Don't forget to bring something to eat along," my friend forewarned me. Luck was with me. Mademoiselle's headache came at the very opportune moment, and the French lesson was dispensed with. Feverish with joy and excitement, I sat at the breakfast table waiting for him to go by. My pockets were stuffed with goodies of all sorts, which I had wheedled out of Mademoiselle, and beside me lay the switch, which I looked forward to swinging that day in the strict fulfilment of my duty. Ah, there he was coming. His blue eyes glanced up at me slily as he bellowed his "Good mornin' to you" at us; and the instant I could slip away without attracting attention I was off after him. "What have you brought along?" was his first question. "Two little ginger cakes, three cervelat sandwiches, a roll cut in two with sardelles between, and a piece of gooseberry pie," said I, spreading out my glories. He fell upon them at once, while I with carefully concealed glee proudly drove the geese along. After passing through the fir woods, the first part of which was somewhat familiar to me from my previous walks, we came to regions less and less well known. Stunted undergrowth rose on each side of the way, making an uncanny thicket, and then, all of a sudden, the broad, boundless heath opened up to my vision. Oh, how lovely it was, how lovely! As far as the eye reached, a sea of grass and gaily coloured flowers. Molehills covered with turf stretched away in long rows like motionless waves. The hot air quivered, fairly dancing on the breezy heath, while the buzzing of the bees made the accompaniment. And high up in the deep blue heavens stood the golden sun. At the edge of the woods was a marsh with gleaming puddles of greyish yellow, thickish water. The refuse of the geese floated on the surface, and roundabout on the ground--so moist that great bubbles gushed up between the clumps of grass--were thousands of fine tracks of the geese's feet, making the whole spot look like a patterned rug. This was the flock's paradise. Here we made halt, and while the geese settled themselves comfortably in the puddles, we chased about on the heath, shouting and laughing, caught yellow butterflies, and picked blueberries. Then we played husband and wife. Elsie, the tamest of the geese, was our child. We kissed and whipped the poor creature almost to death, but it finally succeeded, after prodigious efforts, in making its escape from our clutches. Next, I prepared the meals for my husband. I untied my white apron, spread it on the ground for a tablecloth, and placed on it the remnants of the food I had brought along. He sat down to the repast pompously, and when I saw the rapidity with which he finished up one bit after the other, I nearly jumped out of our little home for joy. The hours passed as in a dream. Higher and higher rose the sun, until its rays came burning down on us perpendicularly. My head began to spin, and a dull lassitude came over me. Also, I experienced considerable hunger, but my spouse had already consumed everything. The inside of my mouth was dry, my lips were feverish. To cool them, I held moist blades of grass against them. Suddenly, from beyond the woods, from way far away, came the ringing of a bell. I knew what it meant. It was the summons to the midday meal, which called me to table, too. And if they missed me! Oh, God, what would become of me? I threw myself on the grass and began to cry bitterly, while my companion, meaning to comfort me, passed his rough hands over my face and neck. Suddenly I jumped up and made a dash for the woods, as though pursued by the furies. It must have been about two hours that I strayed about in the undergrowth crying. Then I caught the sound of voices calling my name, and a few moments later I was in my brother's arms. The next morning my poor friend appeared in the part of abductor and seducer before the high criminal court of the lord of the manor. He seemed to take it for granted that he was to be the scapegoat and was in for a flogging, and he made not the slightest attempt to shift part of the blame from himself. He accepted the chastisement my brother inflicted upon him with the greatest calm. Then he rubbed his aching back against a porch column, smiling dolefully, and, after that, hastily made off, while I, sobbing aloud, rolled on the floor. From that day on I loved him. I plotted a thousand wiles and schemes for meeting him secretly. I nabbed edibles like a magpie, so that he might regale himself with the fruits of my pilferings. I fairly oppressed him with the profusion of fond attentions, with which I tried to wipe out of existence those frightful blows of my brother's whip. He accepted my love calmly and rewarded me for it by a devotion that was moving and an appetite that was sound. Fate separated us six months later. My mother had been ailing for some time, and the physician now recommended her living in the south. She put the estate entirely in my brother's charge and moved to the Riviera, taking me along. * * * * * Nine years were to elapse before I came back home. The return was sadder than ever I should have dreamed. In Berlin, where I had lived after my mother's death, a tricky nervous trouble had taken hold of me and kept me confined to bed for many weeks. The doctors wrestled with death and saved my life, but the blooming young girl had become a pale weak shadow. My physician recommended the country and pine-needle baths, and so I was bundled on to the train and transported to my brother's estate. I must have presented a pretty pitiful spectacle, because when I reached the house and was lifted out of the carriage, I saw tears in the old domestics' eyes. It is a peculiar feeling to know you are back home again after long wanderings, especially if you have gone through as much trouble as I had. A rare softness takes hold of you, and you try to blot out forever the joy and the suffering imposed by an alien world. You try to be a child again and conjure up long lost magic out of the grave. As I leaned back in my reclining chair and let my tired eyes roam over the familiar fields, one shade after another came alive again, and the first one in the motley throng was--my dear, flaxen--haired goose-herd. "What has become of him?" I asked my brother, and was rejoiced by the good news that he had grown up into a fine, good-looking young man and could already fully take the place of his father, the smith. I felt my heart throbbing. I tried to scold myself for my folly, but with poor success. The dear old memories were not to be dismissed, and finally I yielded myself up to them unrestrainedly and pictured the manner of our seeing each other again in all the glowing colours of fairy tale romance. A few days after my arrival I was allowed to take my first drive. I was lifted into a carriage, driven to the woods, and then set down on a soft, mossy, peaceful little spot, which I had selected deliberately. From it you could see the smithy in which the companion of my childhood dwelt. My brother wanted to stay with me, but I begged him not to let me keep him from his work, and assured him that the little girl sent along to wait on me was quite enough protection. Besides, what was there to be afraid of in these peaceful home woods? So, the coachman drove my brother back to his office on the estate, and they were to call for me again in two hours. Then I dismissed the little girl, too, telling her to go hunt strawberries but to stay nearby. She ran off happily. I was alone at last! Now I could dream to my heart's content. The fir trees rustled overhead, and from the smithy came the dull blows of the hammer. Brightly glowed the fire in the forge, and every now and then a dark figure glided in front of it. That must be he. I did not tire following the movements of his arms. I admired his strength and trembled for him when the sparks flew about his body. The two hours went by unnoticed, and in the midst of my dreamy meditations I was surprised by my brother coming to call for me. "Well, did it seem a long time?" my brother asked gaily. I shook my head, smiling, and tried to get up, but sank back wearily. "Hm, hm," said my brother, reflecting. "I didn't bring the coachman back, thinking I could carry you to the carriage by myself, but the seat is high, and I couldn't get you up without hurting you. See here, Grete,"--he turned to my little companion, who had come running at the sound of the carriage--"you go run down to the smith, the young one, you know, and tell him he should come and help me here." He tossed a penny on the ground and the little maid, radiant with delight, picked it up before going for the smith. I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. I was to see him again, here, on this spot. He was to act the Samaritan to me. I sat there waiting, my hand pressed to my pounding heart, until--until---- There he was coming! Yes, that was he! How strong, how handsome he had grown to be! Heavy flaxen hair about his smoke-blackened face, and a thick growth of light down around his powerful chin. Young Siegfried must have looked like that while serving his apprenticeship with the wicked Mime. He clutched awkwardly at his little cap, tipped back on his neck so jauntily, while I held out my hand smiling and said, "How do you do?" "Very well," he replied with an embarrassed laugh, and carefully wiped his grimy fingers on his leather apron before taking my hand. "Help me lift the lady into the carriage," said my brother. He wiped his hands again, and caught hold of me--none too gently--under the armpits, and the two of them, my brother taking me by my feet, lifted me up on to the carriage cushions. "Thanks, thanks," I said and gave him a smile. He stood at the carriage door, shyly twisting his cap and looking from one to the other of us uncertainly. "He still has something on his heart," I said to myself. "Why not? At the sight of me old memories have been awakened. He wants to talk to me of the blissful days when in childish innocence we watched the geese together. Ah, he doesn't trust himself--his lord's presence--I ought to come to his assistance a little." "Well," I said, giving him a friendly, encouraging look straight in his eyes, "what are you thinking of?" My brother at this turned from his horses, with which he had been busy, and said, thrusting his hand into his pocket: "Oh, you're waiting for your tip." I felt as though some one had struck me in the face. "For goodness' sake, Max," I stammered, my blood going hot and cold. But my brother did not hear me and handed him--actually dared to--a dime. I was already seeing my childhood friend dashing the coin back in my brother's face. I exerted all my strength to raise myself and stretch my hands out so as to prevent violence--but what was that? No, impossible! And yet I saw it with my own eyes. He took the money--he said, "Thank you"--he bowed--he walked away! And I? I stared after him as though he were an evil spirit, then sank back on the cushions with a weary sigh. That, my dear friend, was the way I said good-bye to my youthful dream. 
9994	----	Distributed Proofreaders THE INDIAN LILY AND OTHER STORIES BY HERMANN SUDERMANN TRANSLATED BY LUDWIG LEWISOHN, M.A. 1911 CONTENTS THE INDIAN LILY THE PURPOSE THE SONG OF DEATH THE VICTIM AUTUMN MERRY FOLK THEA THE INDIAN LILY Chapter I. It was seven o'clock in the morning when Herr von Niebeldingk opened the iron gate and stepped into the front garden whose wall of blossoming bushes separated the house from the street. The sun of a May morning tinted the greyish walls with gold, and caused the open window-panes to flash with flame. The master directed a brief glance at the second story whence floated the dull sound of the carpet-beater. He thrust the key rapidly into the keyhole for a desire stirred in him to slip past the porter's lodge unobserved. "I seem almost to be--ashamed!" he murmured with a smile of self-derision as a similar impulse overcame him in front of the house door. But John, his man--a dignified person of fifty--had observed his approach and stood in the opening door. The servant's mutton-chop whiskers and admirably silvered front-lock contrasted with a repressed reproach that hovered between his brows. He bowed deeply. "I was delayed," said Herr von Niebeldingk, in order to say something and was vexed because this sentence sounded almost like an excuse. "Do you desire to go to bed, captain, or would you prefer a bath?" "A bath," the master responded. "I have slept elsewhere." That sounded almost like another excuse. "I'm obviously out of practice," he reflected as he entered the breakfast-room where the silver samovar steamed among the dishes of old Sèvres. He stepped in front of the mirror and regarded himself--not with the forbearance of a friend but the keen scrutiny of a critic. "Yellow, yellow...." He shook his head. "I must apply a curb to my feelings." Upon the whole, however, he had reason to be fairly satisfied with himself. His figure, despite the approach of his fortieth year, had remained slender and elastic. The sternly chiselled face, surrounded by a short, half-pointed beard, showed neither flabbiness nor bloat. It was only around the dark, weary eyes that the experiences of the past night had laid a net-work of wrinkles and shadows. Ten years ago pleasure had driven the hair from his temples, but it grew energetically upon his crown and rose, above his forehead, in a Mephistophelian curve. The civilian's costume which often lends retired officers a guise of excessive spick-and-spanness had gradually combined with an easier bearing to give his figure a natural elegance. To be sure, six years had passed since, displeased by a nagging major, he had definitely hung up the dragoon's coat of blue. He was wealthy enough to have been able to indulge in the luxury of that displeasure. In addition his estates demanded more rigorous management.... From Christmas to late spring he lived in Berlin, where his older brother occupied one of those positions at court that mean little enough either to superior or inferior ranks, but which, in a certain social set dependent upon the court, have an influence of inestimable value. Without assuming the part of either a social lion or a patron, he used this influence with sufficient thoroughness to be popular, even, in certain cases, to be feared, and belonged to that class of men to whom one always confides one's difficulties, never one's wife. John came to announce to his master that the bath was ready. And while Niebeldingk stretched himself lazily in the tepid water he let his reflections glide serenely about the delightful occurrence of the past night. That occurrence had been due for six months, but opportunity had been lacking. "I am closely watched and well-known," she had told him, "and dare not go on secret errands." ... Now at last their chance had come and had been used with clever circumspectness.... Somewhere on the Polish boundary lived one of her cousins to whose wedding she was permitted to travel alone.... She had planned to arrive in Berlin unannounced and, instead of taking the morning train from Eydtkuhnen, to take the train of the previous evening. Thus a night was gained whose history had no necessary place in any family chronicle and the memories of which could, if need were, be obliterated from one's own consciousness.... Her arrival and departure had caused a few moments of really needless anxiety. That was all. No acquaintance had run into them, no waiter had intimated any suspicion, the very cabby who drove them through the dawn had preserved his stupid lack of expression when Niebeldingk suddenly sprang from the vehicle and permitted the lady to be driven on alone.... Before his eyes stood her picture--as he had seen her lying during the night in his arms, fevered with anxiety and rapture ... Ordinarily her eyes were large and serene, almost drowsy.... The night had proven to him what a glow could be kindled in them. Whether her broad brows, growing together over the nose, could be regarded as a beautiful feature--that was an open question. He liked them--so much was certain. "Thank heaven," he thought. "At last, once more--a _woman_." And he thought of another who for three years had been allied to him by bonds of the tenderest intimacy and whom he had this night betrayed. "Between us," he consoled himself, "things will remain as they have been, and I can enjoy my liberty." He sprayed his body with the icy water of the douche and rang for John who stood outside of the door with a bath-robe. When, ten minutes later, shivering comfortably, he entered the breakfast-room, he found beside his cup a little heap of letters which the morning post had brought. There were two letters that gripped his attention. One read: "Berlin N., Philippstrasse 10 a. DEAR HERR VON NIEBELDINGK:-- For the past week I have been in Berlin studying agriculture, since, as you know, I am to take charge of the estate. Papa made me promise faithfully to look you up immediately after my arrival. It is merely due to the respect I owe you that I haven't kept my promise. As I know that you won't tell Papa I might as well confess to you that I've scarcely been sober the whole week.--Oh, Berlin is a deuce of a place! If you don't object I will drop in at noon to-morrow and convey Papa's greetings to you. Papa is again afflicted with the gout. With warm regards, Your very faithful FRITZ VON EHRENBERG." The other letter was from ... her--clear, serene, full of such literary reminiscences as always dwelt in her busy little head. "DEAR FRIEND:-- I wouldn't ask you: Why do I not see you?--you have not called for five days--I would wait quietly till your steps led you hither without persuasion or compulsion; but 'every animal loves itself' as the old gossip Cicero says, and I feel a desire to chat with you. I have never believed, to be sure, that we would remain indispensable to each other. '_Racine passera comme le café_,' Mme. de Sévigné says somewhere, but I would never have dreamed that we would see so little of each other before the inevitable end of all things. You know the proverb: even old iron hates to rust, and I'm only twenty-five. Come once again, dear Master, if you care to. I have an excellent cigarette for you--Blum Pasha. I smoke a little myself now and then, but _c'est plus fort que moi_ and ends in head-ache. Joko has at last learned to say 'Richard.' He trills the _r_ cunningly. He knows that he has little need to be jealous. Good-bye! ALICE." He laughed and brought forth her picture which stood, framed and glazed, upon his desk. A delicate, slender figure--"_blonde comme les blés_"--with bluish grey, eager eyes and a mocking expression of the lips--it was she herself, she who had made the last years of his life truly livable and whose fate he administered rather than ruled. She was the wife of a wealthy mine-owner whose estates abutted on his and with whom an old friendship, founded on common sports, connected him. One day, suspecting nothing, Niebeldingk entered the man's house and found him dragging his young wife from room to room by the hair.... Niebeldingk interfered and felt, in return, the lash of a whip.... Time and place had been decided upon when the man's physician forbade the duel.... He had been long suspected, but no certain symptoms had been alleged, since the brave little woman revealed nothing of the frightful inwardness of her married life.... Three days later he was definitely sent to a sanitarium. But between Niebeldingk and Alice the memory of that last hour of suffering soon wove a thousand threads of helplessness and pity into the web of love. As she had long lost her parents and as she was quite defenceless against her husband's hostile guardians, the care of her interests devolved naturally upon him.... He released her from troublesome obligations and directed her demands toward a safe goal.... Then, very tenderly, he lifted her with all the roots of her being from the old, poverty-stricken soil of her earlier years and transplanted her to Berlin where, by the help of his brother's wife--still gently pressing on and smoothing the way himself--he created a new way of life for her. In a villa, hidden by foliage from Lake Constance, her husband slowly drowsed toward dissolution. She herself ripened in the sharp air of the capital and grew almost into another woman in this banal, disillusioned world, sober even in its intoxication. Of society, from whose official section her fate as well as her commoner's name separated her, she saw just enough to feel the influence of the essential conceptions that governed it. She lost diffidence and awkwardness, she became a woman of the world and a connoisseur of life. She learned to condemn one day what she forgave the next, she learned to laugh over nothing and to grieve over nothing and to be indignant over nothing. But what surprised Niebeldingk more than these small adaptations to the omnipotent spirit of her new environment, was the deep revolution experienced by her innermost being. She had been a clinging, self-effacing, timid soul. Within three years she became a determined and calculating little person who lacked nothing but a certain fixedness to be a complete character. A strange coldness of the heart now emanated from her and this was strengthened by precipitate and often unkindly judgment, supported in its turn by a desire to catch her own reflection in all things and to adopt witty points of view. Nor was this all. She acquired a desire to learn, which at first stimulated and amused Niebeldingk, but which had long grown to be something of a nuisance. He himself was held, and rightly held, to be a man of intellect, less by virtue of rapid perception and flexible thought, than by virtue of a coolly observant vision of the world, incapable of being confused--a certain healthy cynicism which, though it never lost an element of good nature, might yet abash and even chill the souls of men. His actual knowledge, however, had remained mere wretched patchwork, his logic came to an end wherever bold reliance upon the intuitive process was needed to supply missing links in the ratiocinative chain. And so it came to pass that Alice, whom at first he had regarded as his scholar, his handiwork, his creature, had developed annoyingly beyond him.... Involuntarily and innocently she delivered the keenest thrusts. He had, actually, to be on guard.... In the irresponsible delight of intellectual crudity she solved the deepest problems of humanity; she repeated, full of faith, the judgments of the ephemeral rapid writer, instead of venturing upon the sources of knowledge. Yet even so she impressed him by her faculty of adaptation and her shining zeal. He was often silenced, for his slow moving mind could not follow the vagaries of that rapid little brain. What would she be at again to-day? "The old gossip Cicero...." And, "Mme. de Sévigné remarks...." What a rattling and tinkling. It provoked him. And her love! ... That was a bad business. What is one to do with a mistress who, before falling asleep, is capable of lecturing on Schopenhauer's metaphysics of sex, and will prove to you up to the hilt how unworthy it really is to permit oneself to be duped by nature if one does not share her aim for the generations to come? The man is still to be born upon whom such wisdom, uttered at such an hour--by lips however sweet--does not cast a chill. Since that philosophical night he had left untouched the little key that hung yonder over his desk and that give him, in her house, the sacred privileges of a husband. And so his life became once more a hunt after new women who filled his heart with unrest and with the foolish fires of youth. But Alice had never been angry at him. Apparently she lacked nothing.... And his thoughts wandered from her to the woman who had lain against his breast to-night, shuddering in her stolen joy. Heavens! He had almost forgotten one thing! He summoned John and said: "Go to the florist and order a bunch of Indian lilies. The man knows what I mean. If he hasn't any, let him procure some by noon." John did not move a muscle, but heaven only knew whether he did not suspect the connection between the Indian lilies and the romance of the past night. It was in his power to adduce precedents. It was an old custom of Niebeldingk's--a remnant of his half out-lived Don Juan years--to send a bunch of Indian lilies to those women who had granted him their supreme favours. He always sent the flowers next morning. Their symbolism was plain and delicate: In spite of what has taken place you are as lofty and as sacred in my eyes as these pallid, alien flowers whose home is beside the Ganges. Therefore have the kindness--not to annoy me with remorse. It was a delicate action and--a cynical one. Chapter II. At noon--Niebeldingk had just returned from his morning canter--the visitor, previously announced, was ushered in. He was a robust young fellow, long of limb and broad of shoulder. His face was round and tanned, with hot, dark eyes. With merry boldness, yet not without diffidence, he sidled, in his blue cheviot suit, into the room. "Morning, Herr von Niebeldingk." Enviously and admiringly Niebeldingk surveyed the athletic figure which moved with springy grace. "Morning, my boy ... sober?" "In honour of the day, yes." "Shall we breakfast?" "Oh, with delight, Herr von Niebeldingk!" They passed into the breakfast-room where two covers had already been laid, and while John served the caviare the flood of news burst which had mounted in their Franconian home during the past months. Three betrothals, two important transfers of land, a wedding, Papa's gout, Mama's charities, Jenny's new target, Grete's flirtation with the American engineer. And, above all things, the examination! "Dear Herr von Niebeldingk, it's a rotten farce. For nine years the gymnasium trains you and drills you, and in the end you don't get your trouble's worth! I'm sorry for every hour of cramming I did. They released me from the oral exam., simply sent me out like a monkey when I was just beginning to let my light shine! Did you ever hear of such a thing? _Did_ you ever?" "Well, and how about your university work, Fritz?" That was a ticklish business, the youth averred. Law and political science was no use. Every ass took that up. And since it was after all only his purpose to pass a few years of his green youth profitably, why he thought he'd stick to his trade and find out how to plant cabbages properly. "Have you started in anywhere yet?" Oh, there was time enough. But he had been to some lectures--agronomy and inorganic chemistry.... You have to begin with inorganic chemistry if you want to go in for organic. And the latter was agricultural chemistry which was what concerned him. He made these instructive remarks with a serious air and poured down glass after glass of Madeira. His cheeks began to glow, his heart expanded. "But that's all piffle, Herr von Niebeldingk, ... all this book-worm business can go to the devil.... Life--life--life--that's the main thing!" "What do you call life, Fritz?" With both hands he stroked the velvety surface of his close-cropped skull. "Well, how am I to tell you? D'you know how I feel? As if I were standing in front of a great, closed garden ... and I know that all Paradise is inside ... and occasionally a strain of music floats out ... and occasionally a white garment glitters ... and I'd like to get in and I can't. That's life, you see. And I've got to stand miserably outside?" "Well, you don't impress me as such a miserable creature?" "No, no, in a way, not. On the coarser side, so to speak, I have a good deal of fun. Out there around _Philippstrasse_ and _Marienstrasse_ there are women enough--stylish and fine-looking and everything you want. And my friends are great fellows, too. Every one can stand his fifteen glasses ... I suppose I am an ass, and perhaps it's only moral _katzenjammer_ on account of this past week. But when I walk the streets and see the tall, distinguished houses and think of all those people and their lives, yonder a millionaire, here a minister of state, and think that, once upon a time, they were all crude boys like myself--well, then I have the feeling as if I'd never attain anything, but always remain what I am." "Well, my dear Fritz, the only remedy for that lies in that 'book-worm business' as you call it. Sit down on your breeches and work!" "No, Herr von Niebeldingk, it isn't that either ... let me tell you. Day before yesterday I was at the opera.... They sang the _Götterddmmerung_.... You know, of course. There is _Siegfried_, a fellow like myself, ... not more than twenty ... I sat upstairs in the third row with two seamstresses. I'd picked them up in the _Chausseestrasse_--cute little beasts, too.... But when _Brunhilde_ stretched out her wonderful, white arms to him and sang: 'On to new deeds, O hero!' why I felt like taking the two girls by the scruff of the neck and pitching them down into the pit, I was so ashamed. Because, you see, _Siegfried_ had his _Brunhilde_ who inspired him to do great deeds. And what have I? ... A couple of hard cases picked up in the street." "Afterwards, I suppose, you felt more reconciled?" "That shows how little you know me. I'd promised the girls supper. So I had to eat with them. But when that was over I let 'em slide. I ran about in the streets and just--howled!" "Very well, but what exactly are you after?" "That's what I don't know, Herr von Niebeldingk. Oh, if I knew! But it's something quite indefinite--hard to think, hard to comprehend. I'd like to howl with laughter and I don't know why ... to shriek, and I don't know what about." "Blessed youth!" Niebeldingk thought, and looked at the enthusiastic boy full of emotion. ... John, who was serving, announced that the florist's girl had come with the Indian lilies. "Indian lilies, what sort of lilies are they?" asked Fritz overcome by a hesitant admiration. "You'll see," Niebeldingk answered and ordered the girl to be admitted. She struggled through the door, a half-grown thing with plump red cheeks and smooth yellow hair. Diffident and frightened, she nevertheless began to flirt with Fritz. In front of her she held the long stems of the exotic lilies whose blossoms, like gigantic narcissi, brooded in star-like rest over chaste and alien dreams. From the middle of each chalice came a sharp, green shimmer which faded gently along the petals of the flowers. "Confound it, but they're beautiful!" cried Fritz. "Surely they have quite a peculiar significance." Niebeldingk arose, wrote the address without permitting John, who stood in suspicious proximity, to throw a glance at it, handed cards and flowers to the girl, gave her a tip, and escorted her to the door himself. "So they do mean something special?" Fritz asked eagerly. He couldn't get over his enthusiasm. "Yes, my boy." "And may one know...." "Surely, one may know. I give these lilies to that lady whose lofty purity transcends all doubt--I give them as a symbol of my chaste and desireless admiration." Fritz's eyes shone. "Ah, but I'd like to know a lady like that--some day!" he cried and pressed his hands to his forehead. "That will come! That will come!" Niebeldingk tapped the youth's shoulder calmingly. "Will you have some salad?" Chapter III. Around the hour of afternoon tea Niebeldingk, true to a dear, old habit, went to see his friend. She inhabited a small second-floor apartment in the _Regentenstrasse_ which he had himself selected for her when she came as a stranger to Berlin. With flowers and palms and oriental rugs she had moulded a delicious retreat, and before her bed-room windows the nightingales sang in the springtime. She seemed to be expecting him. In the great, raised bay, separated from the rest of the drawing-room by a thicket of dark leaves, the stout tea-urn was already expectantly humming. In a bright, girlish dress, devoid of coquetry or pouting, Alice came to meet him. "I'm glad you're here again, Richard." That was all. He wanted to launch out into the tale which he had meant to tell her, but she cut him short. "Since when do I demand excuses, Richard? You come and there you are. And if you don't come, I have to be content too." "You should really be a little less tolerant," he warned her. "A blessed lot it would help me," she answered merrily. Gently she took his arm and led him to his old place. Then silently, and with that restrained eagerness that characterised all her actions she busied herself with the tea-urn. His critical and discriminating gaze followed her movements. With swift, delicate gestures she pushed forward the Chinese dish, shook the tea from the canister and poured the first drops of boiling water through a sieve.... Her quick, bird-like head moved hither and thither, and the bow of the orange-coloured ribbon which surrounded her over-delicate neck trembled a little with every motion. "She really is the most charming of all," such was the end of his reflections, "if only she weren't so damnably sensible." Silently she took her seat opposite him, folded her white hands in her lap, and looked into his eyes with such significant archness that he began to feel embarrassed. Had she any suspicion of his infidelities? Surely not. No jealous woman can look about her so calmly and serenely. "What have you been doing all this time?" he asked. "I? Good heavens! Look about you and you'll see." She pointed to a heap of books which lay scattered over the window seat and sewing table. There were Moltke's letters and the memoirs of von Schön, and Max Müller's Aryan studies. Nor was the inevitable Schopenhauer lacking. "What are you after with all that learning?" he asked. "Ah, dear friend, what is one to do? One can't always be going about in strange houses. Do you expect me to stand at the window and watch the clouds float over the old city-wall?" He had the uncomfortable impression that she was quoting something again. "My mood," she went on, "is in what Goethe calls the minor of the soul. It is the yearning that reaches out afar and yet restrains itself harmoniously within itself. Isn't that beautifully put?" "It may be, but it's too high for me!" In laughing self-protection, he stretched out his arms toward her. "Don't make fun of me," she said, slightly shamed, and arose. "And what is the object of your yearning?" he asked in order to leave the realm of Goethe as swiftly as possible. "Not you, you horrible person," she answered and, for a moment, touched his hair with her lips. "I know that, dearest," he said, "it's a long time since you've sent me two notes a day." "And since you came to see me twice daily," she returned and gazed at the floor with a sad irony. "We have both changed greatly, Alice." "We have indeed, Richard." A silence ensued. His eyes wandered to the opposite wall.... His own picture, framed in silvery maple-wood, hung there.... Behind the frame appeared a bunch of blossoms, long faded and shrivelled to a brownish, indistinguishable heap. These two alone knew the significance of the flowers.... "Were you at least happy in those days, Alice?" "You know I am always happy, Richard." "Oh yes, yes; I know your philosophy. But I meant happy with me, through me?" She stroked her delicate nose thoughtfully. The mocking expression about the corners of her mouth became accentuated. "I hardly think so, Richard," she said after an interval. "I was too much afraid of you ... I seemed so stupid in comparison to you and I feared that you would despise me." "That fear, at least, you have overcome very thoroughly?" he asked. "Not wholly, Richard. Things have only shifted their basis. Just as, in those days, I felt ashamed of my ignorance, so now I feel ashamed--no, that isn't the right word.... But all this stuff that I store up in my head seems to weigh upon me in my relations with you. I seem to be a nuisance with it.... You men, especially mature men like yourself, seem to know all these things better, even when you don't know them.... The precise form in which a given thought is presented to us may be new to you, but the thought itself you have long digested. It's for this reason that I feel intimidated whenever I approach you with my pursuits. 'You might better have held your peace,' I say to myself. But what am I to do? I'm so profoundly interested!" "So you really need the society of a rather stupid fellow, one to whom all this is new and who will furnish a grateful audience?" "Stupid? No," she answered, "but he ought to be inexperienced. He ought himself to want to learn things.... He ought not to assume a compassionate expression as who should say: 'Ah, my dear child, if you knew what I know, and how indifferent all those things are to me!' ... For these things are not indifferent, Richard, not to me, at least.... And for the sake of the joy I take in them, you ..." "Strange how she sees through me," he reflected, "I wonder she clings to me as she does." And while he was trying to think of something that might help her, the dear boy came into his mind who had to-day divulged to him the sorrows of youth and whom the unconscious desire for a higher plane of life had driven weeping through the streets. "I know of some one for you." Her expression was serious. "You know of some one for me," she repeated with painful deliberateness. "Don't misunderstand me. It's a playfellow, a pupil--something in the nature of a pastime, anything you will." He told her the story of _Siegfried_ and the two seamstresses. She laughed heartily. "I was afraid you wanted to be rid of me," she said, laying her forehead for a few moments against his sleeve. "Shame on you," he said, carelessly stroking her hair. "But what do you think? Shall I bring the young fellow?" "You may very well bring him," she answered. There was a look of pain about her mouth. "Doesn't one even train young poodles?" Chapter IV. Three days later, at the same hour of the afternoon, the student, Fritz von Ehrenberg entered Niebeldingk's study. "I have summoned you, dear friend, because I want to introduce you to a charming young woman," Niebeldingk said, arising from his desk. "Now?" Fritz asked, sharply taken aback. "Why not?" "Why, I'd have to get my--my afternoon coat first and fix myself up a bit. What is the lady to think of me?" "I'll take care of that. Furthermore, you probably know her, at least by reputation." He mentioned the name of her husband which was known far and wide in their native province. Fritz knew the whole story. "Poor lady!" he said. "Papa and Mama have often felt sorry for her. I suppose her husband is still living." Niebeldingk nodded. "People all said that you were going to marry her." "Is _that_ what people said?" "Yes, and Papa thought it would be a piece of great good fortune." "For whom?" "I beg your pardon, I suppose that was tactless, Herr von Niebeldingk." "It was, dear Fritz.--But don't worry about it, just come." The introduction went smoothly. Fritz behaved as became the son of a good family, was respectful but not stiff, and answered her friendly questions briefly and to the point. "He's no discredit to me," Niebeldingk thought. As for Alice, she treated her young guest with a smiling, motherly care which was new in her and which filled Niebeldingk with quiet pleasure.... On other occasions she had assumed toward young men a tone of wise, faint interest which meant clearly: "I will exhaust your possibilities and then drop you." To-day she showed a genuine sympathy which, though its purpose may have been to test him the more sharply, seemed yet to bear witness to the pure and free humanity of her soul. She asked him after his parental home and was charmed with his naïve rapture at escaping the psychical atmosphere of the cradle-songs of his mother's house. She was also pleased with his attitude toward his younger brothers and sisters, equally devoid, as it was, of exaggeration or condescension. Everything about him seemed to her simple and sane and full of ardour after information and maturity. Niebeldingk sat quietly in his corner ready, at need, to smooth over any outbreak of uncouth youthfulness. But there was no occasion. Fritz confined himself within the limits of modest liberty and used his mind vigorously but with devout respect and delighted obedience. Once only, when the question of the necessity of authority came up, did he go far. "I don't give a hang for any authority," he said. "Even the mild compulsion of what are called high-bred manners may go to the deuce for me!" Niebeldingk was about to interfere with some reconciling remark when he observed, to his astonishment, that Alice who, as a rule, was bitterly hostile to all strident unconventionality, had taken no offence. "Let him be, Niebeldingk," she said. "As far as he is concerned he is, doubtless, in the right. And nothing would be more shameful than if society were already to begin to make a featureless model boy of him." "That will never be, I swear to you, dear lady," cried Fritz all aglow and stretching out his hands to ward off imaginary chains. Niebeldingk smiled and thought: "So much the better for him." Then he lit a fresh cigarette. The conversation turned to learned things. Fritz, paraphrasing Tacitus, vented his hatred of the Latin civilisations. Alice agreed with him and quoted Mme. de Staël. Niebeldingk arose, quietly meeting the reproachful glance of his beloved. Fritz jumped up simultaneously, but Niebeldingk laughingly pushed him back into his seat. "You just stay," he said, "our dear friend is only too eager to slaughter a few more peoples." Chapter V. When he dropped in at Alice's a few days later he found her sitting, hot-cheeked and absorbed, over Strauss's _Life of Jesus_. "Just fancy," she said, holding up her forehead for his kiss, "that young poodle of yours is making me take notice. He gives me intellectual nuts to crack. It's strange how this young generation--" "I beg of you, Alice," he interrupted her, "you are only a very few years his senior." "That may be so," she answered, "but the little education I have derives from another epoch.... I am, metaphysically, as unexacting as the people of your generation. A certain fogless freedom of thought seemed to me until to-day the highest point of human development." "And Fritz von Ehrenberg, student of agriculture, has converted you to a kind of thoughtful religiosity?" he asked, smiling good-naturedly. In her zeal she wasn't even aware of his irony. "We're not going to give in so easily.... But it is strange what an impression is made on one by a current of strong and natural feeling.... This young fellow comes to me and says: 'There is a God, for I feel Him and I need Him. Prove the contrary if you can.' ... Well, so I set about proving the contrary to him. But our poor negations have become so glib that one has forgotten the reasons for them. Finally he defeated me along the whole line ... so I sat down at once and began to study up ... just as one would polish rusty weapons ... Bible criticism and DuBois-Reymond and 'Force and Matter' and all the things that are traditionally irrefutable." "And that amuses you?" he asked compassionately. A theoretical indignation took hold of her that always amused him greatly. "Does it amuse me? Are such things proper subjects for amusement? Surely you must use other expressions, Richard, when one is concerned for the most sacred goods of humanity...." "Forgive me," he said, "I didn't mean to touch those things irreverently." She stroked his arm softly, thus dumbly asking forgiveness in her turn. "But now," she continued, "I am equipped once more, and when he comes to-morrow--" "So he's coming to-morrow?" "Naturally, ... then you will see how I'll send him home sorely whipped ... I can defeat him with Kant's antinomies alone.... And when it comes to what people call 'revelation,' well! ... But I assure you, my dear one, I'm not very happy defending this icy, nagging criticism.... To be quite sincere, I would far rather be on his side. Warmth is there and feeling and something positive to support one. Would you like some tea?" "Thanks, no, but some brandy." Rapidly brushing the waves of hair from her drawn forehead she ran into the next room and returned with the bottle bearing three stars on its label from which she herself took a tiny drop occasionally--"when my mind loses tone for study" as she was wont to say in self-justification. A crimson afterglow, reflected from the walls of the houses opposite, filled the little drawing-room in which the mass of feminine ornaments glimmered and glittered. "I've really become quite a stranger here," he thought, regarding all these things with the curiosity of one who has come after an absence. From each object hung, like a dewdrop, the memory of some exquisite hour. "You look about you so," Alice said with an undertone of anxiety in her voice, "don't you like it here any longer?" "What are you thinking of," he exclaimed, "I like it better daily." She was about to reply but fell silent and looked into space with a smile of wistful irony. "If I except the _Life of Jesus_ and the Kantian--what do you call the things?" "Antinomies." "Aha--_anti_ and _nomos_--I understand--well, if I except these dusty superfluities, I may say that your furnishings are really faultless. The quotations from Goethe are really more appropriate, although I could do without them." "I'll have them swept out," she said in playful submission. "You are a dear girl," he said playfully and passed his hand caressingly over her severely combed hair. She grasped his arm with both hands and remained motionless for a moment during which her eyes fastened themselves upon his with a strangely rigid gleam. "What evil have I done?" he asked. "Do you remember our childhood's verse: 'I am small, my heart is pure?' Have mercy on me." "I was only playing at passion," she said with the old half-wistful, half-mocking smile, "in order that our relations may not lose solid ground utterly." "What do you mean?" he asked, pretending astonishment. "And do you really think, Richard, that between us, things, being as they are--are right?" "I can't imagine any change that could take place at present." She hid a hot flush of shame. She was obviously of the opinion that he had interpreted her meaning in the light of a desire for marriage. All earthly possibilities had been discussed between them: this one alone had been sedulously avoided in all their conversations. "Don't misunderstand me," he continued, determined to skirt the dangerous subject with grace and ease, "there's no question here of anything external, of any change of front with reference to the world. It's far too late for that. ... Let us remain--if I may so put it--in our spiritual four walls. Given our characters or, I had better say, given your character I see no other relation between us that promises any permanence.... If I were to pursue you with a kind of infatuation, or you me with jealousy--it would be insupportable to us both." She did not reply but gently rolled and unrolled the narrow, blue silk scarf of her gown. "As it is, we live happily and at peace," he went on, "Each of us has liberty and an individual existence and yet we know how deeply rooted our hearts are in each other." She heaved a sigh of painful oppression. "Aren't you content?" he asked, "For heaven's sake! Surely!" Her voice was frightened, "No one could be more content than I. If only----" "Well--what?" "If only it weren't for the lonely evenings!" A silence ensued. This was a sore point and had always been. He knew it well. But he had to have his evenings to himself. There was nothing to be done about that. "You musn't think me immodest in my demands," she went on in hasty exculpation. "I'm not even aiming my remarks at you ... I'm only thinking aloud.... But you see, I can't get any real foothold in society until--until my affairs are more clarified.... To run about the drawing-rooms as an example of frivolous heedlessness--that's not my way.... I can always hear them whisper behind me: 'She doesn't take it much to heart, that shows ...' No, I'd rather stay at home. I have no friends either and what chance had I to make them? You were always my one and only friend.... My books remain. And that's very well by day ... but when the lamps are lit I begin to throb and ache and run about ... and I listen for the trill of the door-bell. But no one comes, nothing--except the evening paper. And that's only in winter. Now it's brought before dusk. And in the end there's nothing worth while in it.... And so life goes day after day. At last one creeps into bed at half-past nine and, of course, has a wretched night." "Well, but how am I to help you, dear child?" he asked thoughtfully. He was touched by her quiet, almost serene complaint. "If we took to passing our evenings together, scandal would soon have us by the throat, and then--woe to you!" Her eager eyes gazed bravely at him. "Well," she said at last, "suppose----" "What?" "Never mind. I don't want you to think me unwomanly. And what I've been describing to you is, after all, only a symptom. There's a kind of restlessness in me that I can't explain.... If I were of a less active temper, things would be better.... It sounds paradoxical, but just because I have so much activity in me, do I weary so quickly. Goethe said once----" He raised his hands in laughing protest. She was really frightened. "Ah, yes, forgive me," she cried. "All that was to be swept out.... How forgetful one can be...." Smiling, she leaned her head against his shoulder and was not to be persuaded from her silence. Chapter VI "There are delicate boundaries within the realm of the eternal womanly,"--thus Niebeldingk reflected next day,--"in which one is sorely puzzled as to what one had better put into an envelope: a poem or a cheque." His latest adventure--the cause of these reflections--had blossomed, the evening before, like the traditional rose on the dungheap. One of his friends who had travelled about the world a good deal and who now assumed the part of the full-blown Parisian, had issued invitations to a house-warming in his new bachelor-apartment. He had invited a number of his gayer friends and ladies exclusively from so-called artistic circles. So far all was quite Parisian. Only the journalists who might, next morning, have proclaimed the glory of the festivity to the world--these were excluded. Berlin, for various reasons, did not seem an appropriate place for that. It was a rather dreary sham orgy. Even chaperones were present. Several ladies had carefully brought them and they could scarcely be put out. Other ladies even thought it incumbent upon them to ask after the wives of the gentlemen present and to turn up their noses when it appeared that these were conspicuous by their absence. It was upon this occasion, however, that some beneficent chance assigned to Niebeldingk a sighing blonde who remained at his side all evening. Her name was Meta, she belonged to one of the "best families" of Posen, she lived in Berlin with her mother who kept a boarding house for ladies of the theatre. She herself nursed the ardent desire to dedicate herself to art, for "the ideal" had always been the guiding star of her existence. At the beginning of supper she expressed herself with a fine indignation concerning the ladies present into whose midst--she assured him eagerly--she had fallen through sheer accident. Later she thawed out, assumed a friendly companionableness to these despised individuals and, in order to raise Niebeldingk's delight to the highest point, admitted with maidenly frankness the indescribable and mysterious attraction toward him which she had felt at the first glance. Of course, her principles were impregnable. He mustn't doubt that. She would rather seek a moist death in the waves than.... and so forth. Although she made this solemn proclamation over the dessert, the consequence of it all was an intimate visit to Niebeldingk's dwelling which came to a bitter sweet end at three o'clock in the morning with gentle tears concerning the wickedness of men in general and of himself in particular.... An attack of _katzenjammer_--such as is scarcely ever spared worldly people of forty--threw a sobering shadow upon this event. The shadow crept forward too, and presaged annoyance. He was such an old hand now, and didn't even know into what category she really fitted. Was it, after all, impossible that behind all this frivolity the desire to take up the struggle for existence on cleanly terms stuck in her little head? At all events he determined to spare the possible wounding of outraged womanliness and to wait before putting any final stamp upon the nature of their relations. Hence he set out to play the tender lover by means of the well-tried device of a bunch of Indian lilies. When he was about to give the order for the flowers to John who always, upon these occasions, assumed a conscientiously stupid expression, a new doubt overcame him. Was he not desecrating the gift which had brought consolation and absolution to many a remorseful heart, by sending it to a girl who, for all he knew, played a sentimental part only as a matter of decent form? ... Wasn't there grave danger of her assuming an undue self-importance when she felt that she was taken tragically? "Well, what did it matter? ... A few flowers! ..." Early on the evening of the next day Meta reappeared. She was dressed in sombre black. She wept persistently and made preparations to stay. Niebeldingk gave her to understand that, in the first place, he had no more time for her that evening, and that, in the second place, she would do well to go home at a proper hour and spare herself the reproaches of her mother. "Oh, my little mother, my little mother," she wailed. "How shall I ever present myself to her sight again? Keep me, my beloved! I can never approach my, mother again." He rang for his hat and gloves. When she saw that he was serious she wept a few more perfunctory tears and went. Her visits repeated themselves and didn't become any more delightful. On the contrary ... the heart-broken maiden gave him to understand that her lost honour could be restored only by the means of a speedy marriage. This exhausted his patience. He saw that he had been thoroughly taken in and so, observing all necessary considerateness, he sent her definitely about her business. Next day the "little mother" appeared on the scene. She was a dignified woman of fifty, equipped as the Genius of Vengeance, exceedingly glib of tongue and by no means sentimental. As she belonged to one of the first families of Posen, it was her duty to lay particular stress upon the honour of her daughter whom he had lured to his house and there wickedly seduced. ... She was prepared to repel any overtures toward a compromise. She belonged to one of the best families of Posen and was not prepared to sell her daughter's virtue. The only possible way of adjusting the matter was an immediate marriage. Thereupon she began to scream and scold and John, who acted as master of ceremonies, escorted her with a patronising smile to the door.... Next came the visits of an old gentleman in a Prince Albert and the ribbon of some decoration in his button-hole.--John had strict orders to admit no strangers. But the old gentleman was undaunted. He came morning, noon and night and finally settled down on the stairs where Niebeldingk could not avoid meeting him. He was the uncle of Miss Meta, a former servant of the government and a knight of several honourable orders. As such it was his duty to demand the immediate restitution of his niece's honour, else--Niebeldingk simply turned his back and the knight of several honourable orders trotted, grumbling, down the stairs. Up to this point Niebeldingk had striven to regard the whole business in a humorous light. It now began It now began to promise serious annoyance. He told the story at his club and the men laughed boisterously, but no one knew anything to the detriment of Miss Meta. She had been introduced by a lady who played small parts at a large theatre and important parts at a small one. The lady was called to account for her protegee. She refused to speak. "It's all the fault of those accursed Indian lilies," Niebeldingk grumbled one afternoon at his window as he watched the knight of various honourable orders parade the street as undaunted as ever. "Had I treated her with less delicacy, she would never have risked playing the part of an innocent victim." At that moment John announced Fritz von Ehrenberg. The boy came in dressed in an admirably fitting summer suit. He was radiant with youth and strength, victory gleamed in his eye; a hymn of victory seemed silently singing on his lips. "Well Fritz, you seem merry," said Niebeldingk and patted the boy's shoulder. He could not suppress a smile of sad envy. "Don't ask me! Why shouldn't I be happy? Life is so beautiful, yes, beautiful. Only you musn't have any dealings with women. That plays the deuce with one." "You don't know yourself how right you are," Niebeldingk sighed, looking out of the corner of an eye at the knight of several honourable orders who had now taken up his station in the shelter of the house opposite. "Oh, but I do know it," Fritz answered. "If I could describe to you the contempt with which I regard my former mode of life ... everything is different ... different ... so much purer ... nobler ... I'm absolutely a stoic now.... And that gives one a feeling of such peace, such serenity! And I have you to thank for it, Herr von Niebeldingk." "I don't understand that. To teach in the _stoa_ is a new employment for me." "Well, didn't you introduce me to that noble lady? Wasn't it you?" "Aha," said Niebeldingk. The image of Alice, smiling a gentle reproach, arose before him. In the midst of this silly and sordid business that had overtaken him, he had almost lost sight of her. More than a week had passed since he had crossed her threshold. "How is the dear lady?" he asked. "Oh, splendid," Fritz said, "just splendid." "Have you seen her often?" "Certainly," Fritz replied, "we're reading Marcus Aurelius together now." "Thank heaven," Niebeldingk laughed, "I see that she's well taken care of." He made up his mind to see her within the next hour. Fritz who had only come because he needed to overflow to some one with the joy of life that was in him, soon started to go. At the door he turned and said timidly and with downcast eyes. "I have one request to make----" "Fire away, Fritz! How much?" "Oh, I don't need money ... I'd like to have the address of your florist ...I'd like to send to the dear lady a bunch of the ... the Indian lilies." "What? Are you mad?" Niebeldingk cried. "Why do you ask that?" Fritz was hurt. "May I not also send that symbol to a lady whose purity and loftiness of soul I reverence. I suppose I'm old enough!" "I see. You're quite right. Forgive me." Niebeldingk bit his lips and gave the lad the address. Fritz thanked him and went. Niebeldingk gave way to his mirth and called for his hat. He wanted to go to her at once. But--for better or worse--he changed his mind, for yonder in the gateway, unabashed, stood the knight of several honourable orders. Chapter VII To be sure, one can't stand eternally in a gateway. Finally the knight deserted his post and vanished into a sausage shop. The hour had come when even the most glowing passion of revenge fades gently into a passion for supper. Niebeldingk who had waited behind his curtain, half-amused, half-bored--for in the silent, distinguished street where everyone knew him a scandal was to be avoided at any cost--Niebeldingk hastened to make up for his neglect at once. The dark fell. Here and there the street-lamps flickered through the purple air of the summer dusk.... The maid who opened the door looked at him with cool astonishment as though he were half a stranger who had the audacity to pay a call at this intimate hour. "That means a scolding," he thought. But he was mistaken. Smiling quietly, Alice arose from the couch where she had been sitting by the light of a shaded lamp and stretched out her hand with all her old kindliness. The absence of the otherwise inevitable book was the only change that struck him. "We haven't seen each other for a long time," he said, making a wretched attempt at an explanation. "Is it so long?" she asked frankly. "Thank you for your gentle punishment." He kissed her hand. Then he chatted, more or less at random, of disagreeable business matters, of preparations for a journey, and so forth. "So you are going away?" she asked tensely. The word had escaped him, he scarcely knew how. Now that he had uttered it, however, he saw very clearly that nothing better remained for him to do than to carry the casual thought into action.... Here he passed a fruitless, enervating life, slothful, restless and humiliating; at home there awaited him light, useful work, dreamless sleep, and the tonic sense of being the master. All that, in other days, held him in Berlin, namely, this modest, clever, flexible woman had almost passed from his life. Steady neglect had done its work. If he went now, scarcely the smallest gap would be torn into the fabric of his life. Or did it only seem so? Was she more deeply rooted in his heart than he had ever confessed even to himself? They were both silent. She stood very near him and sought to read the answer to her question in his eyes. A kind of anxious joy appeared upon her slightly worn features. "I'm needed at home," he said at last. "It is high time for me. If you desire I'll look after your affairs too." "Mine? Where?" "Well, I thought we were neighbours there--more than here. Or have you forgotten the estate?" "Let us leave aside the matter of being neighbours," she answered, "and I don't suppose that I have much voice in the management of the estate as long as--he lives. The guardians will see to that." "But you could run down there once in a while ... in the summer for instance. Your place is always ready for you. I saw to that." "Ah, yes, you saw to that." The wistful irony that he had so often noted was visible again. For the first time he understood its meaning. "She has made things too easy for me," he reflected. "I should have felt my chains. Then, too, I would have realised what I possessed in her." But did he not still possess her? What, after all, had changed since those days of quiet companionship? Why should he think of her as lost to him? He could not answer this question. But he felt a dull restlessness. A sense of estrangement told him: All is not here as it was. "Since when do you live in dreams, Alice?" he asked, surveying the empty table by which he had found her. His question had been innocent, but it seemed to carry a sting. She blushed and looked past him. "How do you mean?" "Good heavens, to sit all evening without books and let the light burn in vain--that was not your wont heretofore." "Oh, that's it. Ah well, one can't be poking in books all the time. And for the past few days my eyes have been aching." "With secret tears?" he teased. She gave him a wide, serious look. "With secret tears," she repeated. "_Ah perfido_!" he trilled, in order to avoid the scene which he feared ... But he was on the wrong scent. She herself interrupted him with the question whether he would stay to supper. He was curious to find the causes of the changes that he felt here. For that reason and also because he was not without compunction, he consented to stay. She rang and ordered a second cover to be laid. Louise looked at her mistress with a disapproving glance and went. "Dear me," he laughed, "the servants are against me ... I am lost." "You have taken to noticing such things very recently." She gave a perceptible shrug. "When a wife tells a husband of his newly acquired habits, he is doubly lost," he answered and gave her his arm. The silver gleamed on the table ... the tea-kettle puffed out delicate clouds ... exquisitely tinted apples, firm as in Autumn, smiled at him. A word of admiration escaped him. And then, once more, he saw that tragic smile on her lips--sad, wistful, almost compassionate. "My darling," he said with sudden tenderness and caressed her shoulder. She nodded and smiled. That was all. At table her mood was an habitual one. Perhaps she was a trifle gentler. He attributed that to his approaching departure. She drank a glass of Madeira at the beginning of the meal, the light Rhine wine she took in long, thirsty draughts, she even touched the brandy at the meal's end. An inner fire flared in her. He suspected that, he felt it. She had touched no food. But she permitted nothing to appear on the surface. On the contrary, the emotional warmth that she had shown earlier disappeared. The play of her thoughts grew cooler, clearer, more cutting, the longer she talked. Twice or thrice quotations from Goethe were about to escape her, but she did not utter them. Smiling she tapped her own lips. When he observed that she was really restraining a genuine impulse he begged her to consider the protest he had once uttered as merely a jest, perhaps even an ill-considered one. But she said: "Let be, it is as well." They conversed, as they had often done, of the perished days of their old love. They spoke like two beings who have long conquered all the struggles of the heart and who, in the calm harbour of friendship, regard with equanimity the storms which they have weathered. This way of speaking had gradually, and with a kind of jocular moroseness, crept into their intercourse. The exciting thing about it was the silent reservation felt by both: We know how different things could be, so soon as we desired. To-day, for the first time, this game at renunciation seemed to become serious. "How strange!" he thought. "Here we sit who are dearest to each other in all the world and a kind of futile arrogance drives us farther and farther apart." Alice arose. He kissed her, as was his wont, upon hand and forehead and noted how she turned aside with a slight shiver. Then suddenly she took his head in both her hands and kissed him full on the lips with a kind of desperate eagerness. "Ah," he cried, "what is that? It's more than I have a right to expect." "Forgive me," she said, withdrawing herself at once. "We're poverty stricken folk and haven't much to give each other." "After what I have just experienced, I'm inclined to believe the contrary." But she seemed little inclined to draw the logical consequences of her action. Quietly she gave him his wonted cigarette, lit her own, and sat down in her old place. With rounded lips she blew little clouds of smoke against the table-cover. "Whenever I regard you in this manner," he said, carefully feeling his way, "it always seems to me that you have some silent reservation, as though you were waiting for something." "It may be," she answered, blushing anew, "I sit by the way-side, like the man in the story, and think of the coming of my fate." "Fate? What fate?" "Ah, who can tell, dear friend? That which one foresees is no longer one's fate!" "Perhaps it's just the other way." She drew back sharply and looked past him in tense thoughtfulness. "Perhaps you are right," she said, with a little mysterious sigh. "It may be as you say." He was no wiser than he had been. But since he held it beneath his dignity to assume the part of the jealous master, he abandoned the search for her secrets with a shrug. The secrets could be of no great importance. No one knew better than himself the moderateness of her desires, no lover, in calm possession of his beloved, had so little to fear as he.... They discussed their plans for the Summer. He intended to go to the North Sea in Autumn, an old affection attracted her to Thuringia. The possibility of their meeting was touched only in so far as courtesy demanded it. And once more silence fell upon the little drawing-room. Through the twilight an old, phantastic Empire clock announced the hurrying minutes with a hoarse tick. In other days a magical mood had often filled this room--the presage of an exquisite flame and its happy death. All that had vibrated here. Nothing remained. They had little to say to each other. That was what time had left. He played thoughtfully with his cigarette. She stared into nothingness with great, dreamy eyes. And suddenly she began to weep ... He almost doubted his own perception, but the great glittering tears ran softly down her smiling face. But he was satiated with women's tears. In the fleeting amatory adventures of the past weeks and months, he had seen so many--some genuine, some sham, all superfluous. And so instead of consoling her, he conceived a feeling of sarcasm and nausea: "Now even she carries on!".... The idea did indeed flash into his mind that this moment might be decisive and pregnant with the fate of the future, but his horror of scenes and explanations restrained him. Wearily he assumed the attitude of one above the storms of the soul and sought a jest with which to recall her to herself. But before he found it she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes and slipped from the room. "So much the better," he thought and lit a fresh cigarette, "If she lets her passion spend itself in silence it will pass the more swiftly." Walking up and down he indulged in philosophic reflections concerning the useless emotionality of woman, and the duty of man not to be infected by it ... He grew quite warm in the proud consciousness of his heart's coldness. Then suddenly--from the depth of the silence that was about him--resounded in a long-drawn, shrill, whirring voice that he had never heard--his own name. "Rrricharrd!" it shrilled, stern and hard as the command of some paternal martinet. The voice seemed to come from subterranean depths. He shivered and looked about. Nothing moved. There was no living soul in the next room. "Richard!" the voice sounded a second time. This time the sound seemed but a few paces from him, but it arose from the ground as though a teasing goblin lay under his chair. He bent over and peered into dark corners. The mystery was solved: Joko, Alice's parrot, having secretly stolen from his quarters, sat on the rung of a chair and played the evil conscience of the house. The tame animal stepped with dignity upon his outstretched hand and permitted itself to be lifted into the light.... Its glittering neck-feathers stood up, and while it whetted its beak on Niebeldingk's cuff-links, it repeated in a most subterranean voice: "Richard!" And suddenly the dear feeling of belonging here, of being at home came over Niebeldingk. He had all but lost it. But its gentle power drew him on and refreshed him. It was his right and his duty to be at home here where a dear woman lived so exclusively for him that the voice of her yearning sounded even from the tongue of the brute beast that she possessed! There was no possibility of feeling free and alien here. "I must find her!" he thought quickly, "I musn't leave her alone another second." He set Joko carefully on the table and sought to reach her bed-room which he had never entered by this approach. In the door that led to the rear hall she met him. Her demeanour had its accustomed calm, her eyes were clear and dry. "My poor, dear darling!" he cried and wanted to take her in his arms. A strange, repelling glance met him and interrupted his beautiful emotion. Something hardened in him and he felt a new inclination to sarcasm. "Forgive me for leaving you," she said, "one must have patience with the folly of my sex. You know that well." And she preceded him to his old place. Screaming with pleasure Joko flew forward to meet her, and Niebeldingk remained standing to take his leave. She did not hold him back. Outside it occurred to him that he hadn't told her the anecdote of Fritz and the Indian lilies. "It's a pity," he thought, "it might have cheered her." ... Chapter VIII Next morning Niebeldingk sat at his desk and reflected with considerable discomfort on the experience of the previous evening. Suddenly he observed, across the street, restlessly waiting in the same doorway--the avenging spirit! It was an opportune moment. It would distract him to make an example of the fellow. Nothing better could have happened. He rang for John and ordered him to bring up the wretched fellow and, furthermore, to hold himself in readiness for an act of vigorous expulsion. Five minutes passed. Then the door opened and, diffidently, but with a kind of professional dignity, the knight of several honourable orders entered the room. Niebeldingk made rapid observations: A beardless, weatherworn old face with pointed, stiff, white brows. The little, watery eyes knew how to hide their cunning, for nothing was visible in them save an expression of wonder and consternation. The black frock coat was threadbare but clean, his linen was spotless. He wore a stock which had been the last word of fashion at the time of the July revolution. "A sharper of the most sophisticated sort," Niebeldingk concluded. "Before any discussion takes place," he said sharply. "I must know with whom I am dealing." The old man drew off with considerable difficulty his torn, gray, funereal gloves and, from the depths of a greasy pocket-book, produced a card which had, evidently, passed through a good many hands. "A sharper," Niebeldingk repeated to himself, "but on a pretty low plane." He read the card: "Kohleman, retired clerk of court." And below was printed the addition: "Knight of several orders." "What decorations have you?" he asked. "I have been very graciously granted the Order of the Crown, fourth class, and the general order for good behaviour." "Sit down," Niebeldingk replied, impelled by a slight instinctive respect. "Thank you, I'll take the liberty," the old gentleman answered and sat down on the extreme edge of a chair. "Once on the stairs you--" he was about to say "attacked me," but he repressed the words. "I know," he began, "what your business is. And now tell me frankly: Do you think any man in the world such a fool as to contemplate marriage because a frivolous young thing whose acquaintance he made at a supper given to 'cocottes' accompanies him, in the middle of the night, to his bachelor quarters? Do you think that a reasonable proposition?" "No," the old gentleman answered with touching honesty. "But you know it's pretty discouraging to have Meta get into that kind of a mess. I've had my suspicions for some time that that baggage is a keener, and I've often said to my sister: 'Look here, these theatrical women are no proper company for a girl--'" "Well then," Niebeldingk exclaimed, overcome with astonishment, "if that's the case, what are you after?" "I?" the old gentleman quavered and pointed a funereal glove at his breast, "I? Oh, dear sakes alive! I'm not after anything. Do you imagine, my dear sir, that I get any fun out of tramping up and down in front of your house on my old legs? I'd rather sit in a corner and leave strange people to their own business. But what can I do? I live in my sister's house, and I do pay her a little board, for I'd never take a present, not a penny--that was never my way. But what I pay isn't much, you know, and so I have to make myself a bit useful in the boarding-house. The ladies have little errands, you know. And they're quite nice, too, except that they get as nasty as can be if their rooms aren't promptly cleaned in the morning, and so I help with the dusting, too ... If only it weren't for my asthma ... I tell, you, asthma, my dear sir--" He stopped for an attack of coughing choked him. With a sudden kindly emotion Niebeldingk regarded the terrible avenger in horror of whom he had lived four mortal days. He told him to stretch his poor old legs and asked him whether he'd like a glass of Madeira. The old gentleman's face brightened. If it would surely give no trouble he would take the liberty of accepting. Niebeldingk rang and John entered with a grand inquisitorial air. He recoiled when he saw the monster so comfortable and, for the first time in his service, permitted himself a gentle shake of the head. The old gentleman emptied his glass in one gulp and wiped his mouth with a brownish cotton handkerchief. Fragments of tobacco flew about. He looked so tenderly at the destroyer of his family as though he had a sneaking desire to join the enemy. "Well, well," he began again. "What's to be done? If my sister takes something into her head.... And anyhow, I'll tell you in confidence, she is a devil. Oh deary me, what I have to put up with from her! It's no good getting into trouble with her! ... If you want to avoid any unpleasantness, I can only advise you to consent right away.... You can back out later.... But that would be the easiest way." Niebeldingk laughed heartily. "Yes, you can laugh," the old gentleman said sadly, "that's because you don't know my sister." "But _you_ know her, my dear man. And do you suppose that she may have other, that is to say, financial aims, while she----" The old gentleman looked at him with great scared eyes. "How do you mean?" he said and crushed the brown handkerchief in his hollow hand. "Well, well, well," Niebeldingk quieted him and poured a reconciling second glass of wine. But he wasn't to be bribed. "Permit me, my dear sir," he said, "but you misunderstand me entirely.... Even if I do help my sister in the house, and even if I do go on errands, I would never have consented to go on such an one.... I said to my sister: It's marriage or nothing.... We don't go in for blackmail, of that you may be sure." "Well, my dear man," Niebeldingk laughed, "If that's the alternative, then--nothing!" The old gentleman grew quite peaceable again. "Goodness knows, you're quite right. But you will have unpleasantnesses, mark my word. ... And if she has to appeal to the Emperor, my sister said. And my sister--I mention it quite in confidence--my sister--" "Is a devil, I understand." "Exactly." He laughed slyly as one who is getting even with an old enemy and drank, with every evidence of delight, the second glassful of wine. Niebeldingk considered. Whether unfathomable stupidity or equally unfathomable sophistication lay at the bottom of all this--the business was a wretched one. It was just such an affair as would be dragged through every scandal mongering paper in the city, thoroughly equipped, of course, with the necessary moral decoration. He could almost see the heavy headlines: Rascality of a Nobleman. "Yes, yes, my dear fellow," he said, and patted the terrible enemy's shoulder, "I tell you it's a dog's life. If you can avoid it any way--never go in for fast living." The old gentleman shook his gray head sadly. "That's all over," he declared, "but twenty years ago--" Niebeldingk cut short the approaching confidences. "Well, what's going to happen now?" he asked. "And what will your sister do when you come home and announce my refusal?" "I'll tell you, Baron. In fact, my sister required that I _should_ tell you, because that is to--" he giggled--"that is to have a profound effect. We've got a nephew, I must tell you, who's a lieutenant in the army. Well, he is to come at once and challenge you to a duel.... Well, now, a duel is always a pretty nasty piece of business. First, there's the scandal, and then, one _might_ get hurt. And so my sister thought that you'd rather----" "Hold on, my excellent friend," said Niebeldingk and a great weight rolled from his heart. "You have an officer in your family? That's splendid ... I couldn't ask anything better ... You wire him at once and tell him that I'll be at home three days running and ready to give him the desired explanations. I'm sorry for the poor fellow for being mixed up in such a stupid mess, but I can't help him." "Why do you feel sorry for him?" the old gentleman asked. "He's as good a marksman as you are." "Assuredly," Niebeldingk returned. "Assuredly a better one.... Only it won't come to that." He conducted his visitor with great ceremony into the outer hall. The latter remained standing for a moment in the door. He grasped Niebeldingk's hand with overflowing friendliness. "My dear baron, you have been so nice to me and so courteous. Permit me, in return, to offer you an old man's counsel: Be more careful about flowers!" "What flowers?" "Well, you sent a great, costly bunch of them. That's what first attracted my sister's attention. And when my sister gets on the track of anything, well!" ... He shook with pleasure at the sly blow he had thus delivered, drew those funereal gloves of his from the crown of his hat and took his leave. "So it was the fault of the Indian lilies," Niebeldingk thought, looking after the queer old knight with an amused imprecation. That gentleman, enlivened by the wine he had taken, pranced with a new flexibility along the side-walk. "Like the count in _Don Juan_," Niebeldingk thought, "only newly equipped and modernised." The intervention of the young officer placed the whole affair upon an intelligible basis. It remained only to treat it with entire seriousness. Niebeldingk, according to his promise, remained at home until sunset for three boresome days. On the morning of the fourth he wrote a letter to the excellent old gentleman telling him that he was tired of waiting and requesting an immediate settlement of the business in question. Thereupon he received the following answer: "SIR:-- In the name of my family I declare to you herewith that I give you over to the well-deserved contempt of your fellowmen. A man who can hesitate to restore the honour of a loving and yielding girl is not worthy of an alliance with our family. Hence we now sever any further connection with you. With that measure of esteem which you deserve, I am, KOHLEMAN, _Retired Clerk of Court_. Knight S.H.O. P.S. Best regards. Don't mind all that talk. The duel came to nothing. Our little lieutenant besought us not to ruin him and asked that his name be not mentioned. He has left town." Breathing a deep sigh of relief, Niebeldingk threw the letter aside. Now that the affair was about to float into oblivion, he became aware of the fact that it had weighed most heavily upon him. And he began to feel ashamed. He, a man who, by virtue of his name and of his wealth and, if he would be bold, by virtue of his intellect, was able to live in some noble and distinguished way--he passed his time with banalities that were half sordid and half humorous. These things had their place. Youth might find them not unfruitful of experience. They degraded a man of forty. If these things filled his life to-day, then the years of training and slow maturing had surely gone for nothing. And what would become of him if he carried these interests into his old age? His schoolmates were masters of the great sciences, distinguished servants of the government, influential politicians. They toiled in the sweat of their brows and harvested the fruits of their youth's sowing. He strove to master these discomforting thoughts, but every moment found him more defenceless against them. And shame changed into disgust. To divert himself he went out into the streets and landed, finally, in the rooms of his club. Here he was asked concerning his latest adventure. Only a certain respect which his personality inspired saved him from unworthy jests. And in this poverty-stricken world, where the very lees of experience amounted to a sensation--here he wasted his days. It must not last another week, not another day. So much suddenly grew clear to him. He hurried away. Upon the streets brooded the heat of early summer. Masses of human beings, hot but happy, passed him in silent activity. What was he to do? He must marry: that admitted of no doubt. In the glow of his own hearth he must begin a new and more tonic life. Marry? But whom? A worn out heart can no longer be made to beat more swiftly at the sight of some slim maiden. The senses might yet be stirred, but that is all. Was he to haunt watering-places and pay court to mothers on the man-hunt in order to find favour in their daughters' eyes? Was he to travel from estate to estate and alienate the affection of young _chatelaines_ from their favourite lieutenants? Impossible! He went home hopelessly enough and drowsed away the hours of the afternoon behind drawn blinds on a hot couch. Toward evening the postman brought a letter--in Alice's hand. Alice! How could he have forgotten her! His first duty should have been to see her. He opened the envelope, warmly grateful for her mere existence. "DEAR FRIEND:-- As you will probably not find time before you leave the city to bid me farewell in person. I beg you to return to me a certain key which I gave into your keeping some years ago. You have no need of it and it worries me to have it lying about. Don't think that I am at all angry. My friendship and my gratitude are yours, however far and long we may be separated. When, some day, we meet again, we will both have become different beings. With many blessings upon your way, ALICE." He struck his forehead like a man who awakens from an obscene dream. Where was his mind? He was about to go in search of that which was so close at hand, so richly his own! Where else in all the world could he find a woman so exquisitely tempered to his needs, so intimately responsive to his desires, one who would lead him into the darker land of matrimony through meadows of laughing flowers? To be sure, there was her coolness of temper, her learning, her strange restlessness. But was not all that undergoing a change? Had he not found her sunk in dreams? And her tears? And her kiss? Ungrateful wretch that he was! He had sought a home and not thought of the parrot who screamed out his name in her dear dwelling. There was a parrot like that in the world--and he wandered foolishly abroad. What madness! What baseness! He would go to her at once. But no! A merry thought struck him and a healing one. He took the key from the wall and put it into his pocket. He would go to her--at midnight. Chapter IX. He had definitely abandoned his club, the theatres were closed, the restaurants were deserted, his brother's family was in the country. It was not easy to pass the evening with that great resolve in his heart and that small key in his pocket. Until ten he drifted about under the foliage of the _Tiergarten_. He listened to the murmur of couples who thronged the dark benches, regarded those who were quietly walking in the alleys and found himself, presently, in that stream of humanity which is drawn irresistibly toward the brightly illuminated pleasure resorts. He was moved and happy at once. For the first time in years he felt himself to be a member of the family of man, a humbly serving brother in the commonweal of social purpose. His time of proud, individualistic morality was over: the ever-blessing institution of the family was about to gather him to its hospitable bosom. To be sure, his wonted scepticism was not utterly silenced. But he drove it away with a feeling of delighted comfort. He could have shouted a blessing to the married couples in search of air, he could have given a word of fatherly advice to the couples on the benches: "Children, commit no indiscretions--marry!" And when he thought of her! A mild and peaceable tenderness of which he had never thought himself capable welled up from his and heart.... Wide gardens of Paradise seemed to open, gardens with secret grottos and shady corners. And upon one of the palm-trees there sat Joko--amiable beast--and said: "Rrricharrrd!" He went over the coming scene in his imagination again and again: Her little cry of panic when he would enter the dark room and then his whispered reassurance: "It is I, my darling. I have come back to stay for ever and ever." And then happiness, gentle and heart-felt. If a divorce was necessary, the relatives of her husband would probably succeed in divesting her of most of the property. What did it matter to either of them? Was he not rich and was she not sure of him? If need were, he could, with one stroke of the pen, repay her threefold all that she might lose. But, indeed, these reflections were quite futile. For when two people are so welded together in their souls, their earthly possessions need no separation. From ten until half past eleven he sat in a corner of the _Café Bauer_ and read the paper of his native province which, usually, he never looked at. With childlike delight he read into the local notices and advertisements things pertinent to his future life. Bremsel, the delicatessen man in a neighbouring town advertised fresh crabs. And Alice liked them. "Splendid," he thought "we won't have to bring them from far." And suddenly he himself felt an appetite for the shell-fish, so thoroughly had he lived himself into his vision of domestic felicity. At twenty-five minutes of twelve he paid for his chartreuse and set out on foot. He had time to spare and he did not want to cause the unavoidable disturbance of a cab's stopping at her door. The house, according to his hope, was dark and silent. With beating heart he drew forth the key which consisted of two collapsible parts. One part was for the house door, the other for a door in her bed-room that led to a separate entrance. He had himself chosen the apartment with this advantage in view. He passed the lower hall unmolested and reached the creaking stairs which he had always hated. And as he mounted he registered an oath to pass this way no more. He would not thus jeopardise the fair fame of his betrothed. It would be bad enough if he had to rap, in case the night latch was drawn.... The outer door, at least, offered no difficulty. He touched it and it swung loose on its hinges. For a moment the mad idea came into his head that--in answer to her letter--Alice might have foreseen the possibility of his coming.... He was just about to test, by a light pressure, the knob of the inner door when, coming from the bed-room, a muffled sound of speech reached his ear. One voice was Alice's: the other--his breath stopped. It was not the maid's. He knew it well. It was the voice of Fritz von Ehrenberg. It was over then--for him.... And again and again he murmured: "It's all over." He leaned weakly against the wall. Then he listened. This woman who could not yield with sufficient fervour to the abandon of passionate speech and action--this was Alice, his Alice, with her fine sobriety, her philosophic clearness of mind. And that young fool whose mouth she closed with long kisses of gratitude for his folly--did he realise the blessedness which had fallen to the lot of his crude youth? It was over ... all over. And he was so worn, so passionless, so autumnal of soul, that he could smile wearily in the midst of his pain. Very carefully he descended the creaking stairs, locked the door of the house and stood on the street--still smiling. It was over ... all over. Her future was trodden into the mire, hers and his own. And in this supreme moment he grew cruelly aware of his crimes against her. All her love, all her being during these years had been but one secret prayer: "Hold me, do not break me, do not desert me!" He had been deaf. He had given her a stone for bread, irony for love, cold doubt for warm, human trust! And in the end he had even despised her because she had striven, with touching faith, to form herself according to his example. It was all fatally clear--now. Her contradictions, her lack of feeling, her haughty scepticism--all that had chilled and estranged him had been but a dutiful reflection of his own being. Need he be surprised that the last remnant of her lost and corrupted youth rose in impassioned rebellion against him and, thinking to save itself, hurled itself to destruction? He gave one farewell glance to the dark, silent house--the grave of the fairest hopes of all his life. Then he set out upon long, dreary, aimless wandering through the endless, nocturnal streets. Like shadows the shapes of night glided by him. Shy harlots--loud roysterers--benzin flames--more harlots--and here and there one lost in thought even as he. An evil odour, as of singed horses' hoofs, floated over the city..... The dust whirled under the street-cleaning machines. The world grew silent. He was left almost alone..... Then the life of the awakening day began to stir. A sleepy dawn crept over the roofs.... It was the next morning. There would be no "next mornings" for him. That was over. Let others send Indian lilies! THE PURPOSE Chapter I. It was a blazing afternoon, late in July. The Cheruskan fraternity entered Ellerntal in celebration of their mid-summer festivity. They had let the great wagon stand at the outskirts of the village and now marched up its street in well-formed procession, proud and vain as a company of _Schützen_ before whom all the world bows down once a year. First came the regimental band of the nearest garrison, dressed in civilian's clothes--then, under the vigilance of two brightly attired freshmen, the blue, white and golden banner of the fraternity, next the officers accompanied by other freshmen, and finally the active members in whom the dignity, decency and fighting strength of the fraternity were embodied. A gay little crowd of elderly gentlemen, ladies and guests followed in less rigid order. Last came, as always and everywhere, the barefoot children of the village. The procession came to a halt in front of the _Prussian Eagle_, a long-drawn single story structure of frame. The newly added dance hall with its three great windows protruded loftily above the house. The banner was lowered, the horns of the band gave wild, sharp signals to which no one attended, and Pastor Rhode, a sedate man of fifty dressed in the scarf and slashed cap of the order, stepped from the inn door to pronounce the address of welcome. At this moment it happened that one of the two banner bearers who had stood at the right and left of the flag with naked foils, rigid as statues, slowly tilted over forward and buried his face in the green sward. This event naturally put an immediate end to the ceremony. Everybody, men and women, thronged around the fallen youth and were quickly pushed back by the medical fraternity men who were present in various stages of professional development. The medical wisdom of this many-headed council culminated in the cry: "A glass of water!" Immediately a young girl--hot-eyed and loose-haired, exquisite in the roundedness of half maturity--rushed out of the door and handed a glass to the gentlemen who had turned the fainting lad on his back and were loosening scarf and collar. He lay there, in the traditional garb of the fraternity, like a young cavalry man of the time of the Great Elector--with his blue, gold-braided doublet, close-fitting breeches of white leather and mighty boots whose flapping tops swelled out over his firm thighs. He couldn't be above eighteen or nineteen, long and broad though he was, with his cheeks of milk and blood, that showed no sign of down, no duelling scar. You would have thought him some mother's pet, had there not been a sharp line of care that ran mournfully from the half-open lips to the chin. The cold water did its duty. Sighing, the lad opened his eyes--two pretty blue boy's eyes, long lashed and yet a little empty of expression as though life had delayed giving them the harder glow of maturity. These eyes fell upon the young girl who stood there, with hands pressed to her heaving bosom, in an ecstatic desire to help. "Where can we carry him?" asked one of the physicians. "Into my room," she cried, "I'll show you the way." Eight strong hands took hold and two minutes later the boy lay on the flowered cover of her bed. It was far too short for him, but it stood, soft and comfortable, hidden by white mull curtains in a corner of her simple room. He was summoned back to full consciousness, tapped, auscultated and examined. Finally he confessed with a good deal of hesitation that his right foot hurt him a bit--that was all. "Are the boots your own, freshie?" asked one of the physicians. He blushed, turned his gaze to the wall and shook his head. Everyone smiled. "Well, then, off with the wretched thing." But all exertion of virile strength was in vain. The boot did not budge. Only a low moan of suffering came from the patient. "There's nothing to be done," said one, "little miss, let's have a bread-knife." Anxious and with half-folded hands she had stood behind the doctors. Now she rushed off and brought the desired implement. "But you're not going to hurt him?" she asked with big, beseeching eyes. "No, no, we're only going to cut his leg off," jested one of the by-standers and took the knife from her clinging fingers. Two incisions, two rents along the shin--the leather parted. A steady surgeon's hand guided the knife carefully over the instep. At last the flesh appeared--bloody, steel-blue and badly swollen. "Freshie, you idiot, you might have killed yourself," said the surgeon and gave the patient a paternal nudge. "And now, little miss, hurry--sugar of lead bandages till evening." Chapter II. Her name was Antonie. She was the inn-keeper Wiesner's only daughter and managed the household and kitchen because her mother had died in the previous year. His name was Robert Messerschmidt. He was a physician's son and a student of medicine. He hoped to fight his way into full fraternity membership by the beginning of the next semester. This last detail was, at present, the most important of his life and had been confided to her at the very beginning of their acquaintanceship. Youth is in a hurry. At four o'clock their hands were intertwined. At five o'clock their lips found each other. From six on the bandages were changed more rarely. Instead they exchanged vows of eternal fidelity. At eight a solemn betrothal took place. And when, at ten o'clock, swaying slightly and mellow of mood, the physicians reappeared in order to put the patient to bed properly, their wedding-day had been definitely set for the fifth anniversary of that day. Next morning the procession went on to celebrate in some other picturesque locality the festival of the breakfast of "the morning after." Toni had run up on the hill which ascended, behind her father's house, toward the high plateau of the river-bank. With dry but burning eyes she looked after the wagons which gradually vanished in the silvery sand of the road and one of which carried away into the distance her life's whole happiness. To be sure, she had fallen in love with everyone whom she had met. This habit dated from her twelfth, nay, from her tenth year. But this time it was different, oh, so different. This time it was like an axe-blow from which one doesn't arise. Or like the fell disease--consumption--which had dragged her mother to the grave. She herself was more like her father, thick-set and sturdy. She had also inherited his calculating and planning nature. With tough tenacity he could sacrifice years of earning and saving and planning to acquire farms and meadows and orchards. Thus the girl could meditate and plan her fate which, until yesterday, had been fluid as water but which to-day lay definitely anchored in the soul of a stranger lad. Her education had been narrow. She knew the little that an old governess and a comfortable pastor could teach. But she read whatever she could get hold of--from the tattered "pony" to Homer which a boy friend had loaned her, to the most horrible penny-dreadfuls which were her father's delight in his rare hours of leisure. And she assimilated what she read and adapted it to her own fate. Thus her imagination was familiar with happiness, with delusion, with crime.... She knew that she was beautiful. If the humility of her play-fellows had not assured her of this fact, she would have been enlightened by the long glances and jesting admiration of her father's guests. Her father was strict. He interfered with ferocity if a traveller jested with her too intimately. Nevertheless he liked to have her come into the inn proper and slip, smiling and curtsying, past the wealthier guests. It was not unprofitable. Upon his short, fleshy bow-legs, with his suspiciously calculating blink, with his avarice and his sharp tongue, he stood between her and the world, permitting only so much of it to approach her as seemed, at a given moment, harmless and useful. His attitude was fatal to any free communication with her beloved. He opened and read every letter that she had ever received. Had she ventured to call for one at the post-office, the information would have reached him that very day. The problem was how to deceive him without placing herself at the mercy of some friend. She sat down in the arbour from which, past the trees of the orchard and the neighbouring river, one had a view of the Russian forests, and put the problem to her seventeen-year old brain. And while the summer wind played with the green fruit on the boughs and the white herons spread their gleaming wings over the river, she thought out a plan--the first of many by which she meant to rivet her beloved for life. On the same afternoon she asked her father's permission to invite the daughter of the county-physician to visit her. "Didn't know you were such great friends," he said, surprised. "Oh, but we are," she pretended to be a little hurt. "We were received into the Church at the same time." With lightning-like rapidity he computed the advantages that might result from such a visit. The county-seat was four miles distant and if the societies of veterans and marksmen in whose committees the doctor was influential could be persuaded to come hither for their outings.... The girl was cordially invited and arrived a week later. She was surprised and touched to find so faithful a friend in Toni who, when they were both boarding with Pastor Rhode, had played her many a sly trick. Two months later the girl, in her turn, invited Toni to the city whither she had never before been permitted to go alone and so the latter managed to receive her lover's first letter. What he wrote was discouraging enough. His father was ill, hence the excellent practice was gliding into other hands and the means for his own studies were growing narrow. If things went on so he might have to give up his university course and take to anything to keep his mother and sister from want. This prospect did not please Toni. She was so proud of him. She could not bear to have him descend in the social scale for the sake of bread and butter. She thought and thought how she could help him with money, but nothing occurred to her. She had to be content with encouraging him and assuring him that her love would find ways and means for helping him out of his difficulties. She wrote her letters at night and jumped out of the window in order to drop them secretly into the pillar box. It was months before she could secure an answer. His father was better, but life in the fraternity was very expensive, and it was a very grave question whether he had not better resign the scarf which he had just gained and study on as a mere "barb." In Toni's imagination the picture of her beloved was brilliantly illuminated by the glory of the tricoloured fraternity scarf, his desire for it had become so ardently her own, that she could not bear the thought of him--his yearning satisfied--returning to the gray commonplace garb of Philistia. And so she wrote him. Spring came and Toni matured to statelier maidenhood. The plump girl, half-child, droll and naïve, grew to be a thoughtful, silent young woman, secretive and very sure of her aims. She condescended to the guests and took no notice of the desperate admiration which surrounded her. Her glowing eyes looked into emptiness, her infinitely tempting mouth smiled carelessly at friends and strangers. In May Robert's father died. She read it in one of the papers that were taken at the inn, and immediately it became clear to her that her whole future was at stake. For if he was crushed now by the load of family cares, if hope were taken from him, no thought of her or her love would be left. Only if she could redeem her promises and help him practically could she hope to keep him. In the farthest corner of a rarely opened drawer lay her mother's jewels which were some day to be hers--brooches and rings, a golden chain, and a comb set with rubies which had found its way--heaven knows how--into the simple inn. Without taking thought she stole the whole and sent it as merchandise--not daring to risk the evidence of registration--to help him in his studies. The few hundred marks that the jewellery would bring would surely keep him until the end of the semester ... but what then? ... And again she thought and planned all through the long, hot nights. Pastor Rhode's eldest son, a frail, tall junior who followed her, full of timid passion, came home from college for the spring vacation. In the dusk he crept around the inn as had been his wont for years. This time he had not long to wait. How did things go at college? Badly. Would he enter the senior class at Michaelmas? Hardly. Then she would have to be ashamed of him, and that would be a pity: she liked him too well. The slim lad writhed under this exquisite torture. It wasn't his fault. He had pains in his chest, and growing pains. And all that. She unfolded her plan. "You ought to have a tutor during the long vacation, Emil, to help you work." "Papa can do that." "Oh, Papa is busy. You ought to have a tutor all to yourself, a student or something like that. If you're really fond of me ask your Papa to engage one. Perhaps he'll get a young man from his own fraternity with whom he can chat in the evening. You will ask, won't you? I don't like people who are conditioned in their studies." That same night a letter was sent to her beloved. "Watch the frat. bulletin! Our pastor is going to look for a tutor for his boy. See to it that you get the position. I'm longing to see you." Chapter III Once more it was late July--exactly a year after those memorable events--and he sat in the stage-coach and took off his crape-hung cap to her. His face was torn by fresh scars and diagonally across his breast the blue white golden scarf was to be seen. She grasped the posts of the fence with both hands and felt that she would die if she could not have him. Upon that evening she left the house no more, although for two hours he walked the dusty village street, with Emil, but also alone. But on the next evening she stood behind the fence. Their hands found each other across the obstacle. "Do you sleep on the ground-floor?" she asked whispering. "Yes." "Does the dog still bark when he sees you." "I don't know, I'm afraid so." "When you've made friends with him so that he won't bark when you get out of the window, then come to the arbour behind our orchard. I'll wait for you every night at twelve. But don't mind that. Don't come till you're sure of the dog." For three long nights she sat on the wooden bench of the arbour until the coming of dawn and stared into the bluish dusk that hid the village as in a cloak. From time to time the dogs bayed. She could distinguish the bay of the pastor's collie. She knew his hoarse voice. Perhaps he was barring her beloved's way.... At last, during the fourth night, when his coming was scarcely to be hoped for, uncertain steps dragged up the hill. She did not run to meet him. She crouched in the darkest corner of the arbour and tasted, intensely blissful, the moments during which he felt his way through the foliage. Then she clung to his neck, to his lips, demanding and according all--rapt to the very peaks of life.... They were together nightly. Few words passed between them. She scarcely knew how he looked. For not even a beam of the moon could penetrate the broad-leaved foliage, and at the peep of dawn they separated. She might have lain in the arms of a stranger and not known the difference. And not only during their nightly meetings, but even by day they slipt through life-like shadows. One day the pastor came to the inn for a glass of beer and chatted with other gentlemen. She heard him. "I don't know what's the matter with that young fellow," he said. "He does his duty and my boy is making progress. But he's like a stranger from another world. He sits at the table and scarcely sees us. He talks and you have the feeling that he doesn't know what he's talking about. Either he's anaemic or he writes poetry." She herself saw the world through a blue veil, heard the voices of life across an immeasurable distance and felt hot, alien shivers run through her enervated limbs. The early Autumn approached and with it the day of his departure. At last she thought of discussing the future with him which, until then, like all else on earth, had sunk out of sight. His mother, he told her, meant to move to Koenigsberg and earn her living by keeping boarders. Thus there was at least a possibility of his continuing his studies. But he didn't believe that he would be able to finish. His present means would soon be exhausted and he had no idea where others would come from. All that he told her in the annoyed and almost tortured tones of one long weary of hope who only staggers on in fear of more vital degradation. With flaming words she urged him to be of good courage. She insisted upon such resources as--however frugal--were, after all, at hand, and calculated every penny. She shrugged her shoulders at his gratitude for that first act of helpfulness. If only there were something else to be taken. But whence and how? Her suspicious father would have observed any shortage in his till at once and would have had the thief discovered. The great thing was to gain time. Upon her advice he was to leave Koenigsberg with its expensive fraternity life and pass the winter in Berlin. The rest had to be left to luck and cunning. In a chill, foggy September night they said farewell. Shivering they held each other close. Their hearts were full of the confused hopes which they themselves had kindled, not because there was any ground for hope, but because without it one cannot live. And a few weeks later everything came to an end. For Toni knew of a surety that she would be a mother.... Chapter IV. Into the river! For that her father would put her in the street was clear. It was equally clear what would become of her in that case.... But no, not into the river! Why was her young head so practised in skill and cunning, if it was to bow helplessly under the first severe onslaught of fate? What was the purpose of those beautiful long nights but to brood upon plans and send far thoughts out toward shining aims? No, she would not run into the river. That dear wedding-day in five, nay, in four years, was lost anyhow. But the long time could be utilised so cleverly that her beloved could be dragged across the abyss of his fate. First, then, she must have a father for her child. He must not be clever. He must not be strong of will. Nor young, for youth makes demands. ... Nor well off, for he who is certain of himself desires freedom of choice. Her choice fell upon a former inn-keeper, a down-hearted man of about fifty, moist of eye, faded, with greasy black hair.... He had failed in business some years before and now sat around in the inn, looking for a job.... To this her father did not object. For that man's condition was an excellent foil to his own success and prosperity and thus he was permitted, at times, to stay a week in the house where, otherwise, charity was scarcely at home. Her plan worked well. On the first day she lured him silently on. On the second he responded. On the third she turned sharply and rebuked him. On the fourth she forgave him. On the fifth she met him in secret. On the sixth he went on a journey, conscience smitten for having seduced her.... That very night--for there was no time to be lost--she confessed with trembling and blushing to her father that she was overcome by an unconquerable passion for Herr Weigand. As was to be expected she was driven from the door with shame and fury. During the following weeks she went about bathed in tears. Her father avoided her. Then, when the right moment seemed to have come, she made a second and far more difficult confession. This time her tremours and her blushes were real, her tears were genuine for her father used a horse-whip.... But when, that night, Toni sat on the edge of her bed and bathed the bloody welts on her body, she knew that her plan would succeed. And, to be sure, two days later Herr Weigand returned--a little more faded, a little more hesitant, but altogether, by no means unhappy. He was invited into her father's office for a long discussion. The result was that the two lovers fell into each others' arms while her father, trembling with impotent rage, hurled at them the fragments of a crushed cigar. The banns were proclaimed immediately after the betrothal, and a month later Herr Weigand, in his capacity of son-in-law, could take possession of the same garret which he had inhabited as an impecunious guest. This arrangement, however, was not a permanent one. An inn was to be rented for the young couple--with her father's money. Toni, full of zeal and energy, took part in every new undertaking, travelled hither and thither, considered prospects and dangers, but always withdrew again at the last moment in order to await a fairer opportunity. But she was utterly set upon the immediate furnishing of the new home. She went to Koenigsberg and had long sessions with furniture dealers and tradesmen of all kinds. On account of her delicate condition she insisted that she could only travel on the upholstered seats of the second class. She charged her father accordingly and in reality travelled fourth class and sat for hours between market-women and Polish Jews in order to save a few marks. In the accounts she rendered heavy meals were itemized, strengthening wines, stimulating cordials. As a matter of fact, she lived on dried slices of bread which, before leaving home, she hid in her trunk. She did not disdain the saving of a tram car fare, although the rebates which she got on the furniture ran into the hundreds. All that she sent jubilantly to her lover in Berlin, assured that he was provided for some months. Thus the great misfortune had finally resulted in a blessing. For, without these unhoped for resources, he must have long fallen by the way-side. Months passed. Her furnishings stood in a storage warehouse, but the house in which they were to live was not yet found. When she felt that her hour had come--her father and husband thought it far off--she redoubled the energy of her travels, seeking, preferably, rough and ribbed roads which other women in her condition were wont to shun. And thus, one day, in a springless vehicle, two miles distant from the county-seat, the pains of labour came upon her. She steeled every nerve and had herself carried to the house of the county-physician whose daughter was now tenderly attached to her. There she gave birth to a girl child which announced its equivocal arrival in this world lustily. The old doctor, into whose house this confusion had suddenly come, stood by her bed-side, smiling good-naturedly. She grasped him with both hands, terror in her eyes and in her voice. "Dear, dear doctor! The baby was born too soon, wasn't it?" The doctor drew back and regarded her long and earnestly. Then his smile returned and his kind hand touched her hair. "Yes, it is as you say. The baby's nails are not fully developed and its weight is slightly below normal. It's all on account of your careless rushing about. Surely the child came too soon." And he gave her the proper certification of the fact which protected her from those few people who might consider themselves partakers of her secret. For the opinion of people in general she cared little. So strong had she grown through guilt and silence. And she was a child of nineteen! ... Chapter V. When Toni had arisen from her bed of pain she found the place which she and her husband had been seeking for months with surprising rapidity. The "Hotel Germania," the most reputable hotel in the county-seat itself was for rent. Its owner had recently died. It was palatial compared to her father's inn. There were fifteen rooms for guests, a tap-room, a wine-room, a grocery-shop and a livery-stable. Weigand, intimidated by misfortune, had never even hoped to aspire to such heights of splendour. Even now he could only grasp the measure of his happiness by calculating enormous profits. And he did this with peculiar delight. For, since the business was to be run in the name of Toni's father, his own creditors could not touch him. When they had moved in and the business began to be straightened out, Weigand proved himself in flat contradiction of his slack and careless character, a tough and circumspect man of business. He knew the whereabouts of every penny and was not inclined to permit his wife to make random inroads upon his takings. Toni, who had expected to be undisputed mistress of the safe saw herself cheated of her dearest hopes, for the time approached when the savings made on the purchase of her furniture must necessarily be exhausted. And again she planned and wrestled through the long, warm nights while her husband, whose inevitable proximity she bore calmly, snored with the heaviness of many professional "treats." One day she said to him: "A few pennies must be put by for Amanda." That was the name of the little girl who flourished merrily in her cradle. "You must assign some little profits to me." "What can I do?" he asked. "For the present everything belongs to the old man." "I know what I'd like," she went on, smiling dreamily, "I'd like to have all the profits on the sale of champagne." He laughed heartily. There wasn't much call for champagne in the little county-seat. At most a few bottles were sold on the emperor's birthday or when, once in a long while, a flush commercial traveller wanted to regale a recalcitrant customer. And so Weigand fell in with what he thought a mere mood and assented. Toni at once made a trip to Koenigsberg and bought all kinds of phantastic decorations--Chinese lanterns, gilt fans, artificial flowers, gay vases and manicoloured lamp-shades. With all these things she adorned the little room that lay behind the room in which the most distinguished townspeople were wont to drink their beer. And so the place with veiled light and crimson glow looked more like a mysterious oriental shrine than the sitting-room of an honest Prussian inn-keeper's wife. She sat evening after evening in this phantastic room. She brought her knitting and awaited the things that were to come. The gentlemen who drank in the adjoining room, the judges, physicians, planters--all the bigwigs of a small town, in short--soon noticed the magical light that glimmered through the half-open door whenever Weigand was obliged to pass from the public rooms into his private dwelling. And the men grew to be curious, the more so as the inn-keeper's young wife, of whose charms many rumours were afloat, had never yet been seen by any. One evening, when the company was in an especially hilarious mood, the men demanded stormily to see the mysterious room. Weigand hesitated. He would have to ask his wife's permission. He returned with the friendly message that the gentlemen were welcome. Hesitant, almost timid, they entered as if crossing the threshold of some house of mystery. There stood--transfigured by the glow of coloured lamps--the shapely young woman with the alluring glow in her eyes, and her lips that were in the form of a heart. She gave each a secretly quivering hand and spoke a few soft words that seemed to distinguish him from the others. Then, still timid and modest, she asked them to be seated and begged for permission to serve a glass of champagne in honour of the occasion. It is not recorded who ordered the second bottle. It may have been the very fat Herr von Loffka, or the permanently hilarious judge. At all events the short visit of the gentlemen came to an end at three o'clock in the morning with wild intoxication and a sale of eighteen bottles of champagne, of which half bore French labels. Toni resisted all requests for a second invitation to her sanctum. She first insisted on the solemn assurance that the gentlemen would respect her presence and bring neither herself nor her house into ill-repute. At last came the imperial county-counsellor himself--a wealthy bachelor of fifty with the manners of an injured lady killer. He came to beg for himself and the others and she dared not refuse any longer. The champagne festivals continued. With this difference: that Toni, whenever the atmosphere reached a certain point of heated intoxication, modestly withdrew to her bed-room. Thus she succeeded not only in holding herself spotless but in being praised for her retiring nature. But she kindled a fire in the heads of these dissatisfied University men who deemed themselves banished into a land of starvation, and in the senses of the planters' sons. And this fire burned on and created about her an atmosphere of madly fevered desire.... Finally it became the highest mark of distinction in the little town, the sign of real connoisseurship in life, to have drunk a bottle of champagne with "Germania," as they called her, although she bore greater resemblance to some swarthier lady of Rome. Whoever was not admitted to her circle cursed his lowliness and his futile life. Of course, in spite of all precautions, it could not but be that her reputation suffered. The daughter of the county-physician began to avoid her, the wives of social equals followed suit. But no one dared accuse her of improper relations with any of her adorers. It was even known that the county-counsellor, desperate over her stern refusals, was urging her to get a divorce from her husband and marry him. No one suspected, of course, that she had herself spread this rumour in order to render pointless the possible leaking out of improprieties.... Nor did any one dream that a bank in Koenigsberg transmitted, in her name, monthly cheques to Berlin that sufficed amply to help an ambitious medical student to continue his work. The news which she received from her beloved was scanty. In order to remain in communication with him she had thought out a subtle method. The house of every tradesman or business man in the provinces is flooded with printed advertisements from Berlin which pour out over the small towns and the open country. Of this printed matter, which is usually thrown aside unnoticed, Toni gathered the most voluminous examples, carefully preserved the envelopes, and sent them to Robert. Her husband did not notice of course that the same advertising matter came a second time nor that faint, scarce legible pencil marks picked out words here and there which, when read consecutively, made complete sense and differed very radically from the message which the printed slips were meant to convey.... Years passed. A few ship-wrecked lives marked Toni's path, a few female slanders against her were avenged by the courts. Otherwise nothing of import took place. And in her heart burned with never-lessening glow the one great emotion which always supplied fuel to her will, which lent every action a pregnant significance and furnished absolution for every crime. In the meantime Amanda grew to be a blue-eyed, charming child--gentle and caressing and the image of the man of whose love she was the impassioned gift. But Fate, which seems to play its gigantic pranks upon men in the act of punishing them, brought it to pass that the child seemed also to bear some slight resemblance to the stranger who, bowed and servile, stupidly industrious, sucking cigars, was to be seen at her mother's side. Never was father more utterly devoted to the fruit of his loins than this gulled fellow to the strange child to whom the mother did not even--by kindly inactivity--give him a borrowed right. The more carefully she sought to separate the child from him, the more adoringly and tenaciously did he cling to it. With terror and rage Toni was obliged to admit to herself that no sum would ever suffice to make Weigand agree to a divorce that separated him definitely from the child. And dreams and visions, transplanted into her brain from evil books, filled Toni's nights with the glitter of daggers and the stain of flowing blood. And fate seemed to urge on the day when these dreams must take on flesh.... One day she found in the waste-paper basket which she searched carefully after every mail-delivery, an advertisement which commended to the buying public a new make of type-writer. "Many public institutions," thus the advertisement ran, "use our well tried machines in their offices, because these machines will bear the most rigid examination. Their reputation has crossed the ocean. The Chilean ministry has just ordered a dozen of our 'Excelsiors' by cable. Thus successfully does our invention spread over the world. And yet its victorious progress is by no means completed. Even in Japan--" and so on. If one looked at this stuff very carefully, one could observe that certain words were lightly marked in pencil. And if one read these words consecutively, the following sentence resulted: "Public--examination--just--successfully--completed." From this day on the room with the veiled lamps remained closed to her eager friends. From this day on the generous county-counsellor saw that his hopes were dead.... Chapter VI. How was the man to be disposed of? An open demand for divorce would have been stupid, for it would have thrown a very vivid suspicion upon any later and more drastic attempt. Weigand's walk and conversation were blameless. Her one hope consisted in catching him in some chance infidelity. The desire for change, she reasoned, the allurement of forbidden fruit, must inflame even this wooden creature. She had never, hitherto, paid the slightest attention to the problem of waitresses. Now she travelled to Koenigsberg and hired the handsomest women to be found in the employment bureaus. They came, one after another, a feline Polish girl, a smiling, radiantly blond child of Sweden--a Venus, a Germania--this time a genuine one. Next came a pretended Circassian princess. And they all wandered off again, and Weigand had no glance for them but that of the master. Antonie was discouraged and dropped her plan. What now? She had recoiled from no baseness. She had sacrificed to her love honour, self-respect, truth, righteousness and pride. But she had avoided hitherto the possibility of a conflict with the law. Occasional small thefts in the house did not count. But the day had come when crime itself, crime that threatened remorse and the sword of judgment, entered her life. For otherwise she could not get rid of her husband. The regions that lie about the eastern boundary of the empire are haunted by Jewish peddlers who carry in their sacks Russian drops, candied fruits, gay ribands, toys made of bark, and other pleasant things which make them welcome to young people. But they also supply sterner needs. In the bottom of their sacks are hidden love philtres and strange electuaries. And if you press them very determinedly, you will find some among them who have the little white powders that can be poured into beer ... or the small, round discs which the common folk call "crow's eyes" and which the greedy apothecaries will not sell you merely for the reason that they prepare the costlier strychnine from them. You will often see these beneficent men in the twilight in secret colloquy with female figures by garden-gates and the edges of woods. The female figures slip away if you happen to appear on the road.... Often, too, these men are asked into the house and intimate council is held with them--especially when husband and servants are busy in the fields.... One evening in the beginning of May, Toni brought home with her from a harmless walk a little box of arsenic and a couple of small, hard discs that rattled merrily in one's pocket.... Cold sweat ran down her throat and her legs trembled so that she had to sit down on a case of soap before entering the house. Her husband asked her what was wrong. "Ah, it's the spring," she answered and laughed. Soon her adorers noticed, and not these only, that her loveliness increased from day to day. Her eyes which, under their depressed brows, had assumed a sharp and peering gaze, once more glowed with their primal fire, and a warm rosiness suffused her cheeks that spread marvelously to her forehead and throat. Her appearance made so striking an impression that many a one who had not seen her for a space stared at her and asked, full of admiration: "What have you done to yourself?" "It is the spring," she answered and laughed. As a matter of fact she had taken to eating arsenic. She had been told that any one who becomes accustomed to the use of this poison can increase the doses to such an extent that he can take without harm a quantity that will necessarily kill another. And she had made up her mind to partake of the soup which she meant, some day, to prepare for her husband. That much she held to be due a faultless claim of innocence. But she was unfortunate enough to make a grievous mistake one day, and lay writhing on the floor in uncontrollable agony. The old physician at once recognized the symptoms of arsenic poisoning, prescribed the necessary antidotes and carefully dragged her back into life. The quantity she had taken, he declared, shaking his head, was enough to slay a strong man. He transmitted the information of the incident as demanded by law. Detectives and court-messengers visited the house. The entire building was searched, documents had to be signed and all reports were carefully followed up. The dear romantic public refused to be robbed of its opinion that one of Toni's rejected admirers had thus sought to avenge himself. The suspicion of the authorities, however, fastened itself upon a waitress, a plump, red-haired wanton who had taken the place of the imported beauties and whose insolent ugliness the men of the town, relieved of nobler delights, enjoyed thoroughly. The insight of the investigating judge had found in the girl's serving in the house and her apparent intimacy with its master a scent which he would by no means abandon. Only, because a few confirmatory details were still to seek, the suspicion was hidden not only from the public but even from its object. Antonie, however, ailed continually. She grew thin, her digestion was delicate. If the blow was to be struck--and many circumstances urged it--she would no longer be able to share the poison with her victim. But it seemed fairly certain that suspicion would very definitely fall not upon her but upon the other woman. The latter would have to be sacrificed, so much was clear. But that was the difficulty. The wounded conscience might recover, the crime might be conquered into forgetfulness, if only that is slain which burdens the earth, which should never have been. But Toni felt that her soul could not drag itself to any bourne of peace if, for her own advantage, she cast one who was innocent to lasting and irremediable destruction. The simplest thing would have been to dismiss the woman. In that case, however, it was possible that the courts would direct their investigations to her admirers. One of them had spoken hasty and careless words. He might not be able to clear himself, were the accusation directed against him. There remained but one hope: to ascribe the unavertible death of her husband to some accident, some heedlessness. And so she directed her unwavering purpose to this end. The Polish peddler had slipped into Toni's hand not only the arsenic but also the deadly little discs called "crow's eyes." These must help her, if used with proper care and circumspection. One day while little Amanda was playing in the yard with other girls, she found among the empty kerosene barrels a few delightful, silvery discs, no larger then a ten pfennig piece. With great delight she brought them to her mother who, attending to her knitting, had ceased for a moment to watch the children. "What's that, Mama?" "I don't know, my darling." "May we play with them?" "What would you like to play?" "We want to throw them." "No, don't do that. But I'll make you a new doll-carriage and these will be lovely wheels." The children assented and Amanda brought a pair of scissors in order to make holes in the little wheels. But they were too hard and the points of the blades slipped. "Ask father to use his small gimlet." Amanda ran to the open window behind which he for whom all this was prepared was quietly making out his monthly bills. Toni's breath failed. If he recognised the poisonous fruits, it was all over with her plan. But the risk was not to be avoided. He looked at the discs for a moment. And yet for another. No, he did not know their nature but was rather pleased with them. It did not even occur to him to warn the little girl to beware of the unknown fruit. He called into the shop ordering an apprentice to bring him a tool-case. The boy in his blue apron came and Toni observed that his eyes rested upon the fruits for a perceptible interval. Thus there was, in addition to the children, another witness and one who would be admitted to oath. Weigand bored holes into four of the discs and threw them, jesting kindly, into the children's apron. The others he kept. "He has pronounced his own condemnation," Toni thought as with trembling fingers she mended an old toy to fit the new wheels. Nothing remained but to grind the proper dose with cinnamon, to sweeten it--according to instructions--and spice a rice-pudding therewith. But fate which, in this delicate matter, had been hostile to her from the beginning, ordained it otherwise. For that very evening came the apothecary, not, as a rule, a timid person. He was pale and showed Weigand the fruits. He had, by the merest hair-breadth, prevented his little girl Marie from nibbling one of them. The rest followed as a matter of course. The new wheels were taken from the doll-carriage, all fragments were carefully sought out and all the discs were given to the apothecary who locked them into his safe. "The red-headed girl must be sacrificed after all," Toni thought. She planned and schemed, but she could think of no way by which the waitress could be saved from that destruction which hung over her. There was no room for further hesitation. The path had to be trodden to its goal. Whether she left corpses on the way-side, whether she herself broke down dead at the goal--it did not matter. That plan of her life which rivetted her fate to her beloved's forever demanded that she proceed. The old physician came hurrying to the inn next morning. He was utterly confounded by the scarcely escaped horrors. "You really look," he said to Toni, "as if you had swallowed some of the stuff, too." "Oh, I suppose my fate will overtake me in the end," she answered with a weary smile. "I feel it in my bones: there will be some misfortune in our house." "For heaven's sake!" he cried, "Put that red-headed beast into the street." "It isn't she! I'll take my oath on that," she said eagerly and thought that she had done a wonderfully clever thing. She waited in suspense, fearing that the authorities would take a closer look at this last incident. She was equipped for any search--even one that might penetrate to her own bed-room. For she had put false bottoms into the little medicine-boxes. Beneath these she kept the arsenic. On top lay harmless magnesia. The boxes themselves stood on her toilet-table, exposed to all eyes and hence withdrawn from all suspicion. She waited till evening, but nobody came. And yet the connection between this incident and the former one seemed easy enough to establish. However that might be, she assigned the final deed to the very next day. And why wait? An end had to be made of this torture of hesitation which, at every new scruple, seemed to freeze her very heart's blood. Furthermore the finding of the "crow's eyes" would be of use in leading justice astray. To-morrow, then ... to-morrow.... Weigand had gone to bed early. But Toni sat behind the door of the public room and, through a slit of the door, listened to every movement of the waitress. She had kept near her all evening. She scarcely knew why. But a strange, dull hope would not die in her--a hope that something might happen whereby her unsuspecting victim and herself might both be saved. The clock struck one. The public rooms were all but empty. Only a few young clerks remained. These were half-drunk and made rough advances to the waitress. She resisted half-serious, half-jesting. "You go out and cool yourselves in the night-air. I don't care about such fellows as you." "I suppose you want only counts and barons," one of them taunted her. "I suppose you wouldn't even think the county-counsellor good enough!" "That's my affair," she answered, "as to who is good enough for me. I have my choice. I can get any man I want." They laughed at her and she flew into a rage. "If you weren't such a beggarly crew and had anything to bet, I'd wager you any money that I'd seduce any man I want in a week. In a week, do I say? In three days! Just name the man." Antonie quivered sharply and then sank with closed eyes, against the back of her chair. A dream of infinite bliss stole through her being. Was there salvation for her in this world? Could this coarse creature accomplish that in which beauty and refinement had failed? Could she be saved from becoming a murderess? Would it be granted her to remain human, with a human soul and a human face? But this was no time for tears or weakening. With iron energy she summoned all her strength and quietude and wisdom. The moment was a decisive one. When the last guests had gone and all servants, too, had gone to their rest, she called the waitress, with some jesting reproach, into her room. A long whispered conversation followed. At its end the woman declared that the matter was child's play to her. And did not suspect that by this game she was saving her life. Chapter VII. In hesitant incredulity Antonie awaited the things that were to come. On the first day a staggering thing happened. The red-headed woman, scolding at the top of her voice, threw down a beer-glass at her master's feet, upon which he immediately gave her notice. Toni's newly-awakened hope sank. The woman had boasted. And what was worse than all: if the final deed could be accomplished, her compact with the waitress would damn her. The woman would of course use this weapon ruthlessly. The affair had never stood so badly. But that evening she breathed again. For Weigand declared that the waitress seemed to have her good qualities too and her heart-felt prayers had persuaded him to keep her. For several days nothing of significance took place except that Weigand, whenever he mentioned the waitress, peered curiously aside. And this fact Toni interpreted in a favorable light. Almost a week passed. Then, one day, the waitress approached Toni at an unwonted hour. "If you'll just peep into my room this afternoon...." Toni followed directions.... The poor substitute crept down the stairs--caught and powerless. He followed his wife who knelt sobbing beside their bed. She was not to be comforted, nor to be moved. She repulsed him and wept and wept. Weigand had never dreamed that he was so passionately loved. The more violent was the anger of the deceived wife.... She demanded divorce, instant divorce.... He begged and besought and adjured. In vain. Next he enlisted the sympathy of his father-in-law who had taken no great interest in the business during these years, but was content if the money he had invested in it paid the necessary six per cent. promptly. The old man came immediately and made a scene with his recalcitrant daughter.... There was the splendid business and the heavy investment! She was not to think that he would give her one extra penny. He would simply withdraw his capital and let her and the child starve. Toni did not even deign to reply. The suit progressed rapidly. The unequivocal testimony of the waitress rendered any protest nugatory. Three months later Toni put her possessions on a train, took her child, whom the deserted father followed with an inarticulate moan, and travelled to Koenigsberg where she rented a small flat in order to await in quiet the reunion with her beloved. The latter was trying to work up a practice in a village close to the Russian border. He wrote that things were going slowly and that, hence, he must be at his post night and day. So soon as he had the slightest financial certainty for his wife and child, he would come for them. And so she awaited the coming of her life's happiness. She had little to do, and passed many happy hours in imagining how he would rush in--by yonder passage--through this very door--tall and slender and impassioned and press her to his wildly throbbing heart. And ever again, though she knew it to be a foolish dream, did she see the blue white golden scarf upon his chest and the blue and gold cap upon his blond curls. Lonely widows--even those of the divorced variety--find friends and ready sympathy in the land of good hearts. But Antonie avoided everyone who sought her society. Under the ban of her great secret purpose she had ceased to regard men and women except as they could be turned into the instruments of her will. And her use for them was over. As for their merely human character and experience--Toni saw through these at once. And it all seemed to her futile and trivial in the fierce reflection of those infernal fires through which she had had to pass. Adorned like a bride and waiting--thus she lived quietly and modestly on the means which her divorced husband--in order to keep his own head above water--managed to squeeze out of the business. Suddenly her father died. People said that his death was due to unconquerable rage over her folly.... She buried him, bearing herself all the while with blameless filial piety and then awoke to the fact that she was rich. She wrote to her beloved: "Don't worry another day. We are in a position to choose the kind of life that pleases us." He wired back: "Expect me to-morrow." Full of delight and anxiety she ran to the mirror and discovered for the thousandth time, that she was beautiful again. The results of poisoning had disappeared, crime and degradation had burned no marks into her face. She stood there--a ruler of life. Her whole being seemed sure of itself, kindly, open. Only the wild glance might, at times, betray the fact that there was much to conceal. She kept wakeful throughout the night, as she had done through many another. Plan after plan passed through her busy brain. It was with an effort that she realised the passing of such grim necessities. Chapter VIII. A bunch of crysanthemums stood on the table, asters in vases on dresser and chiffonier--colourful and scentless. Antonie wore a dress of black lace that had been made by the best dressmaker in the city for this occasion. In festive array she desired to meet her beloved and yet not utterly discard the garb of filial grief. But she had dressed the child in white, with white silk stockings and sky-blue ribands. It was to meet its father like the incarnate spirit of approaching happiness. From the kitchen came the odours of the choicest autumn dishes--roast duck with apples and a grape-cake, such as she alone knew how to prepare. Two bottles of precious Rhine wine stood in the cool without the window. She did not want to welcome him with champagne. The memories of its subtle prickling, and of much else connected therewith, nauseated her. If he left his village at six in the morning he must arrive at noon. And she waited even as she had waited seven years. This morning seven hours had been left, there were scarcely seven minutes now. And then--the door-bell rang. "That is the new uncle," she said to Amanda who was handling her finery, flattered and astonished, and she wondered to note her brain grow suddenly so cool and clear. A gentleman entered. A strange gentleman. Wholly strange. Had she met him on the street she would not have known him. He had grown old--forty, fifty, an hundred years. Yet his real age could not be over twenty-eight! ... He had grown fat. He carried a little paunch about with him, round and comfortable. And the honourable scars gleamed in round red cheeks. His eyes seemed small and receding.... And when he said: "Here I am at last," it was no longer the old voice, clear and a little resonant, which had echoed and re-echoed in her spiritual ear. He gurgled as though he had swallowed dumplings. But when he took her hand and smiled, something slipt into his face--something affectionate and quiet, empty and without guile or suspicion. Where was she accustomed to this smile? To be sure; in Amanda. An indubitable inheritance. And for the sake of this empty smile an affectionate feeling for this stranger came into her heart. She helped him take off his overcoat. He wore a pair of great, red-lined rubber goloshes, typical of the country doctor. He took these off carefully and placed them with their toes toward the wall. "He has grown too pedantic," she thought. Then all three entered the room. When Toni saw him in the light of day she missed the blue white golden scarf at once. But it would have looked comical over his rounded paunch. And yet its absence disillusioned her. It seemed to her as if her friend had doffed the halo for whose sake she had served him and looked up to him so long. As for him, he regarded her with unconcealed admiration. "Well, well, one can be proud of you!" he said, sighing deeply, and it almost seemed as if with this sigh a long and heavy burden lifted itself from his soul. "He was afraid he might have to be ashamed of me," she thought rebelliously. As if to protect herself she pushed the little girl between them. "Here is Amanda," she said, and added with a bitter smile: "Perhaps you remember." But he didn't even suspect the nature of that which she wanted to make him feel. "Oh, I've brought something for you, little one!" he cried with the delight of one who recalls an important matter in time. With measured step he trotted back into the hall and brought out a flat paste-board box tied with pink ribands. He opened it very carefully and revealed a layer of chocolate-creams wrapped in tin-foil and offered one to Amanda. And this action seemed to him, obviously, to satisfy all requirements in regard to his preliminary relations to the child. Antonie felt the approach of a head-ache such as she had now and then ever since the arsenic poisoning. "You are probably hungry, dear Robert," she said. He wouldn't deny that. "If one is on one's legs from four o'clock in the morning on, you know, and has nothing in one's stomach but a couple of little sausages, you know!" He said all that with the same cheerfulness that seemed to come to him as a matter of course and yet did not succeed in wholly hiding an inner diffidence. They sat down at the table and Antonie, taking pleasure in seeing to his comfort, forgot for a moment the foolish ache that tugged at her body and at her soul. The wine made him talkative. He related everything that interested him--his professional trips across country, the confinements that sometimes came so close together that he had to spend twenty-four hours in his buggy. Then he told of the tricks by which people whose lives he had just saved sought to cheat him out of his modest fees. And he told also of the comfortable card-parties with the judge and the village priest. And how funny it was when the inn-keeper's tame starling promenaded on the cards.... Every word told of cheerful well-being and unambitious contentment. "He doesn't think of our common future," a torturing suspicion whispered to her. But he did. "I should like to have you try, first of all, Toni, to live there. It isn't easy. But we can both stand a good deal, thank God, and if we don't like it in the end, why, we can move away." And he said that so simply and sincerely that her suspicion vanished. And with this returning certitude there returned, too, the ambition which she had always nurtured for him. "How would it be if we moved to Berlin, or somewhere where there is a university?" "And maybe aim at a professorship?" he cried with cheerful irony. "No, Tonichen, all your money can't persuade me to that. I crammed enough in that damned medical school, I've got my income and that's good enough for me." A feeling of disgust came over her. She seemed to perceive the stuffy odour of unventilated rooms and of decaying water in which flowers had stood. "That is what I suffered for," involuntarily the thought came, "_that!_" After dinner when Amanda was sleeping off the effects of the little sip of wine which she had taken when they let her clink glasses with them, they sat opposite each other beside the geraniums of the window-box and fell silent. He blew clouds of smoke from his cigar into the air and seemed not disinclined to indulge in a nap, too. Leaning back in her wicker chair she observed him uninterruptedly. At one moment it seemed to her as though she caught an intoxicating remnant of the slim, pallid lad to whom she had given her love. And then again came the corroding doubt: "Was it for him, for him...." And then a great fear oppressed her heart, because this man seemed to live in a world which she could not reach in a whole life's pilgrimage. Walls had arisen between them, doors had been bolted--doors that rose from the depths of the earth to the heights of heaven.... As he sat there, surrounded by the blue smoke of his cigar, he seemed more and more to recede into immeasurable distances.... Then, suddenly, as if an inspiration had come to him, he pulled himself together, and his face became serious, almost solemn. He laid the cigar down on the window-box and pulled out of his inner pocket a bundle of yellow sheets of paper and blue note-books. "I should have done this a long time ago," he said, "because we've been free to correspond with each other. But I put it off to our first meeting." "Done what?" she asked, seized by an uncomfortable curiosity. "Why, render an accounting." "An accounting?" "But dear Toni, surely you don't think me either ungrateful or dishonourable. For seven years I have accepted one benefaction after another from you.... That was a very painful situation for me, dear child, and I scarcely believe that the circumstances, had they been known, would ever have been countenanced by a court of honour." "Ah, yes," she said slowly. "I confess I never thought of _that_ consideration...." "But I did all the more, for that very reason. And only the consciousness that I would some day be able to pay you the last penny of my debt sustained me in my consciousness as a decent fellow." "Ah, well, if that's the case, go ahead!" she said, suppressing the bitter sarcasm that she felt. First came the receipts: The proceeds of the stolen jewels began the long series. Then followed the savings in fares, food and drink and the furniture rebates. Next came the presents of the county-counsellor, the profits of the champagne debauches during which she had flung shame and honour under the feet of the drinking men. She was spared nothing, but heard again of sums gained by petty thefts from the till, small profits made in the buying of milk and eggs. It was a long story of suspense and longing, an inextricable web of falsification and trickery, of terror and lying without end. The memory of no guilt and no torture was spared her. Then he took up the account of his expenditures. He sat there, eagerly handling the papers, now frowning heavily when he could not at once balance some small sum, now stiffening his double chin in satisfied self-righteousness as he explained some new way of saving that had occurred to him.... Again and again, to the point of weariness, he reiterated solemnly: "You see, I'm an honest man." And always when he said that, a weary irony prompted her to reply: "Ah, what that honesty has cost me." ... But she held her peace. And again she wanted to cry out: "Let be! A woman like myself doesn't care for these two-penny decencies." But she saw how deep an inner necessity it was to him to stand before her in this conventional spotlessness. And so she didn't rob him of his childlike joy. At last he made an end and spread out the little blue books before her--there was one for each year. "Here," he said proudly, "you can go over it yourself. It's exact." "It had better be!" she cried with a jesting threat and put the little books under a flower-pot. A prankish mood came upon her now which she couldn't resist. "Now that this important business is at an end," she said, "there is still another matter about which I must have some certainty." "What is that?" he said, listening intensely. "Have you been faithful to me in all this time?" He became greatly confused. The scars on his left cheek glowed like thick, red cords. "Perhaps he's got a betrothed somewhere," she thought with a kind of woeful anger, "whom he's going to throw over now." But it wasn't that. Not at all. "Well," he said, "there's no help for it. I'll confess. And anyhow, _you've_ even been married in the meantime." "I would find it difficult to deny that," she said. And then everything came to light. During the early days in Berlin he had been very intimate with a waitress. Then, when he was an assistant in the surgical clinic, there had been a sister who even wanted to be married. "But I made short work of that proposition," he explained with quiet decision. And as for the Lithuanian servant girl whom he had in the house now, why, of course he would dismiss her next morning, so that the house could be thoroughly aired before she moved in. This was the moment in which a desire came upon her--half-ironic, half-compassionate--to throw her arms about him and say: "You silly boy!" But she did not yield and in the next moment the impulse was gone. Only an annoyed envy remained. He dared to confess everything to her--everything. What if she did the same? If he were to leave her in horrified silence, what would it matter? She would have freed her soul. Or perhaps he would flare up in grateful love? It was madness to expect it. No power of heaven or earth could burst open the doors or demolish the walls that towered between them for all eternity. A vast irony engulfed her. She could not rest her soul upon this pigmy. She felt revengeful rather toward him--revengeful, because he could sit there opposite her so capable and faithful, so truthful and decent, so utterly unlike the companion whom she needed. Toward twilight he grew restless. He wanted to slip over to his mother for a moment and then, for another moment, he wanted to drop in at the fraternity inn. He had to leave at eight. "It would be better if you remained until to-morrow," she said with an emphasis that gave him pause. "Why?" "If you don't feel that...." She shrugged her shoulders. It wasn't to be done, he assured her, with the best will in the world. There was an investigation in which he had to help the county-physician. A small farmer had died suddenly of what did not seem an entirely natural death. "I suppose," he continued, "one of those love philtres was used with which superfluous people are put under ground there. It's horrible that a decent person has to live among such creatures. If you don't care to do it, I can hardly blame you." She had grown pale and smiled weakly. She restrained him no longer. "I'll be back in a week," he said, slipping on his goloshes, "and then we can announce the engagement." She nodded several times but made no reply. The door was opened and he leaned toward her. Calmly she touched his lips with hers. "You might have the announcement cards printed," he called cheerfully from the stairs. Then he disappeared.... "Is the new uncle gone?" Amanda asked. She was sitting in her little room, busy with her lessons. He had forgotten her. The mother nodded. "Will he come back soon?" Antonie shook her head. "I scarcely think so," she answered. That night she broke the purpose of her life, the purpose that had become interwoven with a thousand others, and when the morning came she wrote a letter of farewell to the beloved of her youth. THE SONG OF DEATH With faint and quivering beats the clock of the hotel announced the hour to the promenaders on the beach. "It is time to eat, Nathaniel," said a slender, yet well-filled-out young woman, who held a book between her fingers, to a formless bundle, huddled in many shawls, by her side. Painfully the bundle unfolded itself, stretched and grew gradually into the form of a man--hollow chested, thin legged, narrow shouldered, attired in flopping garments, such as one sees by the thousands on the coasts of the Riviera in winter. The midday glow of the sun burned down upon the yellowish gray wall of cliff into which the promenade of Nervi is hewn, and which slopes down to the sea in a zigzag of towering bowlders. Upon the blue mirror of the sea sparkled a silvery meshwork of sunbeams. So vast a fullness of light flooded the landscape that even the black cypress trees which stood, straight and tall, beyond the garden walls, seemed to glitter with a radiance of their own. The tide was silent. Only the waters of the imprisoned springs that poured, covered with iridescent bubbles, into the hollows between the rocks, gurgled and sighed wearily. The breakfast bell brought a new pulsation of life to the huddled figures on the beach. "He who eats is cured," is the motto of the weary creatures whose arms are often too weak to carry their forks to their mouths. But he who comes to this land of eternal summer merely to ease and rest his soul, trembles with hunger in the devouring sweetness of the air and can scarcely await the hour of food. With a gentle compulsion the young woman pushed the thin, wrinkled hand of the invalid under her arm and led him carefully through a cool and narrow road, which runs up to the town between high garden walls and through which a treacherous draught blows even on the sunniest days. "Are you sure your mouth is covered?" she asked, adapting her springy gait with difficulty to the dragging steps of her companion. An inarticulate murmur behind the heavy shawl was his only answer. She stretched her throat a little--a round, white, firm throat, with two little folds that lay rosy in the rounded flesh. Closing her eyes, she inhaled passionately the aromatic perfumes of the neighbouring gardens. It was a strange mixture of odours, like that which is wafted from the herb chamber of an apothecary. A wandering sunbeam glided over the firm, short curve of her cheek, which was of almost milky whiteness, save for the faint redness of those veins which sleepless nights bring out upon the pallid faces of full-blooded blondes. A laughing group of people went swiftly by--white-breeched Englishmen and their ladies. The feather boas, whose ends fluttered in the wind, curled tenderly about slender throats, and on the reddish heads bobbed little round hats, smooth and shining as the tall head-gear of a German postillion. The young woman cast a wistful glance after those happy folk, and pressed more firmly the arm of her suffering husband. Other groups followed. It was not difficult to overtake this pair. "We'll be the last, Mary," Nathaniel murmured, with the invalid's ready reproach. But the young woman did not hear. She listened to a soft chatting, which, carried along between the sounding-boards of these high walls, was clearly audible. The conversation was conducted in French, and she had to summon her whole stock of knowledge in order not to lose the full sense of what was said. "I hope, Madame, that your uncle is not seriously ill?" "Not at all, sir. But he likes his comfort. And since walking bores him, he prefers to pass his days in an armchair. And it's my function to entertain him." An arch, pouting _voila_ closed the explanation. Next came a little pause. Then the male voice asked: "And are you never free, Madame?" "Almost never." "And may I never again hope for the happiness of meeting you on the beach?" "But surely you may!" "_Mille remerciments; Madame_." A strangely soft restrained tone echoed in this simple word of thanks. Secret desires murmured in it and unexpressed confessions. Mary, although she did not look as though she were experienced in flirtation or advances, made a brief, timid gesture. Then, as though discovered and ashamed, she remained very still. Those two then.... That's who it was.... And they had really made each others' acquaintance! She was a delicately made and elegant Frenchwoman. Her bodice was cut in a strangely slender way, which made her seem to glide along like a bird. Or was it her walk that caused the phenomenon? Or the exquisite arching of her shoulders? Who could tell? ... She did not take her meals at the common table, but in a corner of the dining-hall in company of an old gouty gentleman with white stubbles on his chin and red-lidded eyes. When she entered the hall she let a smiling glance glide along the table, but without looking at or saluting any one. She scarcely touched the dishes--at least from the point of view of Mary's sturdy appetite--but even before the soup was served she nibbled at the dates meant for dessert, and then the bracelets upon her incredibly delicate wrists made a strange, fairy music. She wore a wedding ring. But it had always been open to doubt whether the old gentleman was her husband. For her demeanour toward him was that of a spoiled but sedulously watched child. And he--he sat opposite Mary at table. He was a very dark young man, with black, melancholy eyes--Italian eyes, one called them in her Pomeranian home land. He had remarkably white, narrow hands, and a small, curly beard, which was clipped so close along the cheeks that the skin itself seemed to have a bluish shimmer. He had never spoken to Mary, presumably because he knew no German, but now and then he would let his eyes rest upon her with a certain smiling emotion which seemed to her to be very blameworthy and which filled her with confusion. Thus, however, it had come to pass that, whenever she got ready to go to table her thoughts were busy with him, and it was not rare for her to ask herself at the opening of the door to the dining-hall: "I wonder whether he's here or will come later?" For several days there had been noticeable in this young man an inclination to gaze over his left shoulder to the side table at which the young Frenchwoman sat. And several times this glance had met an answering one, however fleeting. And more than that! She could be seen observing him with smiling consideration as, between the fish and the roast, she pushed one grape after another between her lips. He was, of course, not cognisant of all that, but Mary knew of it and was surprised and slightly shocked. And they had really made each others' acquaintance! And now they were both silent, thinking, obviously, that they had but just come within hearing distance. Then they hurried past the slowly creeping couple. The lady looked downward, kicking pebbles; the gentleman bowed. It was done seriously, discreetly, as befits a mere neighbour at table. Mary blushed. That happened often, far too often. And she was ashamed. Thus it happened that she often blushed from fear of blushing. The gentleman saw it and did not smile. She thanked him for it in her heart, and blushed all the redder, for he _might_ have smiled. "We'll have to eat the omelettes cold again," the invalid mumbled into his shawls. This time she understood him. "Then we'll order fresh ones." "Oh," he said reproachfully, "you haven't the courage. You're always afraid of the waiters." She looked up at him with a melancholy smile. It was true. She was afraid of the waiters. That could not be denied. Her necessary dealings with these dark and shiny-haired gentlemen in evening clothes were a constant source of fear and annoyance. They scarcely gave themselves the trouble to understand her bad French and her worse Italian. And when they dared to smile...! But his concern had been needless. The breakfast did not consist of omelettes, but of macaroni boiled in water and mixed with long strings of cheese. He was forbidden to eat this dish. Mary mixed his daily drink, milk with brandy, and was happy to see the eagerness with which he absorbed the life-giving fumes. The dark gentleman was already in his seat opposite her, and every now and then the glance of his velvety eyes glided over her. She was more keenly conscious of this glance than ever, and dared less than ever to meet it. A strange feeling, half delight and half resentment, overcame her. And yet she had no cause to complain that his attention passed the boundary of rigid seemliness. She stroked her heavy tresses of reddish blonde hair, which curved madonna-like over her temples. They had not been crimped or curled, but were simple and smooth, as befits the wife of a North German clergyman. She would have liked to moisten with her lips the fingers with which she stroked them. This was the only art of the toilet which she knew. But that would have been improper at table. He wore a yellow silk shirt with a pattern of riding crops. A bunch of violets stuck in his button-hole. Its fragrance floated across the table. Now the young Frenchwoman entered the hall too. Very carefully she pressed her old uncle's arm, and talked to him in a stream of charming chatter. The dark gentleman quivered. He compressed his lips but did not turn around. Neither did the lady take any notice of him. She rolled bread pellets with her nervous fingers, played with her bracelets and let the dishes go by untouched. The long coat of cream silk, which she had put on, increased the tall flexibility of her form. A being woven of sunlight and morning dew, unapproachable in her serene distinction--thus she appeared to Mary, whose hands had been reddened by early toil, and whose breadth of shoulder was only surpassed by her simplicity of heart. When the roast came Nathaniel revived slightly. He suffered her to fasten the shawl about his shoulders, and rewarded her with a contented smile. It was her sister Anna's opinion that at such moments he resembled the Saviour. The eyes in their blue hollows gleamed with a ghostly light, a faint rosiness shone upon his cheek-bones, and even the blonde beard on the sunken cheeks took on a certain glow. Grateful for the smile, she pressed his arm. She was satisfied with so little. Breakfast was over. The gentleman opposite made his silent bow and arose. "Will he salute her?" Mary asked herself with some inner timidity. No. He withdrew without glancing at the corner table. "Perhaps they have fallen out again," Mary; said to herself. The lady looked after him. A gentle smile played about the corners of her mouth--a superior, almost an ironical smile. Then, her eyes still turned to the door, she leaned across toward the old gentleman in eager questioning. "She doesn't care for him," Mary reasoned, with a slight feeling of satisfaction. It was as though some one had returned to her what she had deemed lost. He had been gone long, but his violets had left their fragrance. Mary went up to her room to get a warmer shawl for Nathaniel. As she came out again, she saw in the dim hall the radiant figure of the French lady come toward her and open the door to the left of her own room. "So we are neighbours," Mary thought, and felt flattered by the proximity. She would have liked to salute her, but she did not dare. Then she accompanied Nathaniel down to the promenade on the beach. The hours dragged by. He did not like to have his brooding meditation interrupted by questions or anecdotes. These hours were dedicated to getting well. Every breath here cost money and must be utilised to the utmost. Here breathing was religion, and falling ill a sin. Mary looked dreamily out upon the sea, to which the afternoon sun now lent a deeper blue. Light wreaths of foam eddied about the stones. In wide semicircles the great and shadowy arms of the mountains embraced the sea. From the far horizon, in regions of the upper air, came from time to time an argent gleam. For there the sun was reflected by unseen fields of snow. There lay the Alps, and beyond them, deep buried in fog and winter, lay their home land. Thither Mary's thoughts wandered. They wandered to a sharp-gabled little house, groaning under great weights of snow, by the strand of a frozen stream. The house was so deeply hidden in bushes that the depending boughs froze fast in the icy river and were not liberated till the tardy coming of spring. And a hundred paces from it stood the white church and the comfortable parsonage. But what did she care for the parsonage, even though she had grown to womanhood in it and was now its mistress? That little cottage--the widow's house, as the country folk called it--that little cottage held everything that was dear to her at home. There sat by the green tile oven--and oh, how she missed it here, despite the palms and the goodly sun--her aged mother, the former pastor's widow, and her three older sisters, dear and blonde and thin and almost faded. There they sat, worlds away, needy and laborious, and living but in each others' love. Four years had passed since the father had been carried to the God's acre and they had had to leave the parsonage. That had marked the end of their happiness and their youth. They could not move to the city, for they had no private means, and the gifts of the poor congregation, a dwelling, wood and other donations, could not be exchanged for money. And so they had to stay there quietly and see their lives wither. The candidate of theology, Nathaniel Pogge, equipped with mighty recommendations, came to deliver his trial sermon. As he ascended the pulpit, long and frail, flat-chested and narrow shouldered, she saw him for the first time. His emaciated, freckled hand which held the hymn book, trembled with a kind of fever. But his blue eyes shone with the fires of God. To be sure, his voice sounded hollow and hoarse, and often he had to struggle for breath in the middle of a sentence. But what he said was wise and austere, and found favour in the eyes of his congregation. His mother moved with him into the parsonage. She was a small, fussy lady, energetic and very business-like, who complained of what she called previous mismanagement and seemed to avoid friendly relations. But her son found his way to the widow's house for all that. He found it oftener and oftener, and the only matter of uncertainty was as to which of the four sisters had impressed him. She would never have dreamed that his eye had fallen upon her, the youngest. But a refusal was not to be thought of. It was rather her duty to kiss his hands in gratitude for taking her off her mother's shoulders and liberating her from a hopeless situation. Certainly she would not have grudged her happiness to one of her sisters; if it could be called happiness to be subject to a suspicious mother-in-law and the nurse of a valetudinarian. But she tried to think it happiness. And, after all, there was the widow's house, to which one could slip over to laugh or to weep one's fill, as the mood of the hour dictated. Either would have been frowned upon at home. And of course she loved him. Assuredly. How should she not have loved him? Had she not sworn to do so at the altar? And then his condition grew worse from day to day and needed her love all the more. It happened ever oftener that she had to get up at night to heat his moss tea; and ever more breathlessly he cowered in the sacristy after his weekly sermon. And that lasted until the hemorrhage came, which made the trip south imperative. Ah, and with what grave anxieties had this trip been undertaken! A substitute had to be procured. Their clothes and fares swallowed the salary of many months. They had to pay fourteen francs board a day, not to speak of the extra expenses for brandy, milk, fires and drugs. Nor was this counting the physician who came daily. It was a desperate situation. But he recovered. At least it was unthinkable that he shouldn't. What object else would these sacrifices have had? He recovered. The sun and sea and air cured him; or, at least, her love cured him. And this love, which Heaven had sent her as her highest duty, surrounded him like a soft, warm garment, exquisitely flexible to the movement of every limb, not hindering, but yielding to the slightest impulse of movement; forming a protection against the rough winds of the world, surer than a wall of stone or a cloak of fire. The sun sank down toward the sea. His light assumed a yellow, metallic hue, hard and wounding, before it changed and softened into violet and purple shades. The group of pines on the beach seemed drenched in a sulphurous light and the clarity of their outlines hurt the eye. Like a heavy and compact mass, ready to hurtle down, the foliage of the gardens bent over the crumbling walls. From the mountains came a gusty wind that announced the approaching fall of night. The sick man shivered. Mary was about to suggest their going home, when she perceived the form of a man that had intruded between her and the sinking sun and that was surrounded by a yellow radiance. She recognised the dark gentleman. A feeling of restlessness overcame her, but she could not turn her eyes from him. Always, when he was near, a strange presentiment came to her--a dreamy knowledge of an unknown land. This impression varied in clearness. To-night she was fully conscious of it. What she felt was difficult to put into words. She seemed almost to be afraid of him. And yet that was impossible, for what was he to her? She wasn't even interested in him. Surely not. His eyes, his violet fragrance, the flexible elegance of his movements--these things merely aroused in her a faint curiosity. Strictly speaking, he wasn't even a sympathetic personality, and had her sister Lizzie, who had a gift for satire, been here, they would probably have made fun of him. The anxious unquiet which he inspired must have some other source. Here in the south everything was so different--richer, more colourful, more vivid than at home. The sun, the sea, houses, flowers, faces--upon them all lay more impassioned hues. Behind all that there must be a secret hitherto unrevealed to her. She felt this secret everywhere. It lay in the heavy fragrance of the trees, in the soft swinging of the palm leaves, in the multitudinous burgeoning and bloom about her. It lay in the long-drawn music of the men's voices, in the caressing laughter of the women. It lay in the flaming blushes that, even at table, mantled her face; in the delicious languor that pervaded her limbs and seemed to creep into the innermost marrow of her bones. But this secret which she felt, scented and absorbed with every organ of her being, but which was nowhere to be grasped, looked upon or recognised--this secret was in some subtle way connected with the man who stood there, irradiated, upon the edge of the cliff, and gazed upon the ancient tower which stood, unreal as a piece of stage scenery, upon the path. Now he observed her. For a moment it seemed as though he were about to approach to address her. In his character of a neighbour at table he might well have ventured to do so. But the hasty gesture with which she turned to her sick husband forbade it. "That would be the last inconvenience," Mary thought, "to make acquaintances." But as she was going home with her husband, she surprised herself in speculation as to how she might have answered his words. "My French will go far enough," she thought. "At need I might have risked it." The following day brought a sudden lapse in her husband's recovery. "That happens often," said the physician, a bony consumptive with the manners of a man of the world and an equipment in that inexpensive courtesy which doctors are wont to assume in hopeless and poorly paying cases. To listen to him one would think that pulmonary consumption ended in invariable improvement. "And if something happens during the night?" Mary asked anxiously. "Then just wait quietly until morning," the doctor said with the firm decision of a man who doesn't like to have his sleep disturbed. Nathaniel had to stay in bed and Mary was forced to request the waiters to bring meals up to their room. Thus passed several days, during which she scarcely left the sick-bed of her husband. And when she wasn't writing home, or reading to him from the hymn book, or cooking some easing draught upon the spirit lamp, she gazed dreamily out of the window. She had not seen her beautiful neighbour again. With all the more attention she sought to catch any sound, any word that might give her a glimpse into the radiant Paradise of that other life. A soft singing ushered in the day. Then followed a laughing chatter with the little maid, accompanied by the rattle of heated curling-irons and splashing of bath sponges. Occasionally, too, there was a little dispute on the subject of ribands or curls or such things. Mary's French, which was derived from the _Histoire de Charles douze,_ the _Aventures de Télémaque_ and other lofty books, found an end when it came to these discussions. About half-past ten the lady slipped from her room. Then one could hear her tap at her uncle's door, or call a laughing good-morning to him from the hall. From now on the maid reigned supreme in the room. She straightened it, sang, rattled the curling-irons even longer than for her mistress, tripped up and down, probably in front of the mirror, and received the kindly attentions of several waiters. From noon on everything was silent and remained silent until dusk. Then the lady returned. The little songs she sang were of the very kind that one might well sing if, with full heart, one gazes out upon the sea, while the orange-blossoms are fragrant and the boughs of the eucalyptus rustle. They proved to Mary that in that sunny creature, as in herself, there dwelt that gentle, virginal yearning that had always been to her a source of dreamy happiness. At half-past five o'clock the maid knocked at the door. Then began giggling and whispering as of two school-girls. Again sounded the rattle of the curling-irons and the rustling of silken skirts. The fragrance of unknown perfumes and essences penetrated into Mary's room, and she absorbed it eagerly. The dinner-bell rang and the room was left empty. At ten o'clock there resounded a merry: "_Bonne nuit, mon oncle!_" Angeline, the maid, received her mistress at the door and performed the necessary services more quietly than before. Then she went out, received by the waiters, who were on the stairs. Then followed, in there, a brief evening prayer, carelessly and half poutingly gabbled as by a tired child. At eleven the keyhole grew dark. And during the hours of Mary's heaviest service, there sounded within the peaceful drawing of uninterrupted breath. This breathing was a consolation to her during the terrible, creeping hours, whose paralysing monotony was only interrupted by anxious crises in the patient's condition. The breathing seemed to her a greeting from a pure and sisterly soul--a greeting from that dear land of joy where one can laugh by day and sing in the dusk and sleep by night. Nathaniel loved the hymns for the dying. He asserted that they filled him with true mirth. The more he could gibe at hell or hear the suffering of the last hours put to scorn, the more could he master a kind of grim humour. He, the shepherd of souls, felt it his duty to venture upon the valley of the shadow to which he had so often led the trembling candidate of death, with the boldness of a hero in battle. This poor, timid soul, who had never been able to endure the angry barking of a dog, played with the terror of death like a bull-necked gladiator. "Read me a song of death, but a strengthening one," he would say repeatedly during the day, but also at night, if he could not sleep. He needed it as a child needs its cradle song. Often he was angry when in her confusion and blinded by unshed tears, she chose a wrong one. Like a literary connoisseur who rolls a Horatian ode or a Goethean lyric upon his tongue--even thus he enjoyed these sombre stanzas. There was one: "I haste to my eternal home," in which the beyond was likened to a bridal chamber and to a "crystal sea of blessednesses." There was another: "Greatly rejoice now, O my soul," which would admit no redeeming feature about this earth, and was really a prayer for release. And there was one filled with the purest folly of Christendom: "In peace and joy I fare from hence." And this one promised a smiling sleep. But they were all overshadowed by that rejoicing song: "Thank God, the hour has come!" which, like a cry of victory, points proudly and almost sarcastically to the conquered miseries of the earth. The Will to Live of the poor flesh intoxicated itself with these pious lies as with some hypnotic drug. But at the next moment it recoiled and gazed yearningly and eager eyed out into the sweet and sinful world, which didn't tally in the least with that description of it as a vale of tears, of which the hymns were so full. Mary read obediently what he demanded. Close to her face she held the narrow hymn-book, fighting down her sobs. For he did not think of the tortures he prepared for his anxiously hoping wife. Why did he thirst for death since he knew that he _must_ not die? Not yet. Ah, not yet! Now that suddenly a whole, long, unlived life lay between them--a life they had never even suspected. She could not name it, this new, rich life, but she felt it approaching, day by day. It breathed its fragrant breath into her face and poured an exquisite bridal warmth into her veins. It was on the fourth day of his imprisonment in his room. The physician had promised him permission to go out on the morrow. His recovery was clear. She sat at the window and inhaled with quivering nostrils the sharp fragrance of the burning pine cones that floated to her in bluish waves. The sun was about to set. An unknown bird sat, far below, in the orange grove and, as if drunk with light and fragrance, chirped sleepily and ended with a fluting tone. Now that the great dread of the last few days was taken from her, that sweet languor the significance of which she could not guess came over her again. Her neighbour had already come home. She opened her window and closed it, only to open it again. From time to time she sang a few brief tones, almost like the strange bird in the grove. Then her door rattled and Angeline's voice cried out with jubilant laughter: "_Une lettre, Madame, une lettre_!" "_Une lettre--de qui?_" "_De lui!_" Then a silence fell, a long silence. Who was this "he?" Surely some one at home. It was the hour of the mail delivery. But the voice of the maid soon brought enlightenment. She had managed the affair cleverly. She had met him in the hall and saluted him so that he had found the courage to address her. And just now he had pressed the envelope, together with a twenty-franc piece, into her hand. He asserted that he had an important communication to make to her mistress, but had never found an opportunity to address himself to her in person. "_Tais-toi donc--on nous entend_!" And from now on nothing was to be heard but whispering and giggling. Mary felt now a wave of hotness, started from her nape and overflowing her face. Listening and with beating heart, she sat there. What in all the world could he have written? For that it was he, she could no longer doubt. Perhaps he had declared his love and begged for the gift of her hand. A dull feeling of pain, the cause of which was dark to her, oppressed her heart. And then she smiled--a smile of renouncement, although there was surely nothing here for her to renounce! And anyhow--the thing was impossible. For she, to whom such an offer is made does not chat with a servant girl. Such an one flees into some lonely place, kneels down, and prays to God for enlightenment and grace in face of so important a step. But indeed she did send the girl away, for the latter's slippers could he heard trailing along the hall. Then was heard gentle, intoxicated laughter, full of restrained jubilation and arch triumph: "_O comme je suis heureuse! Comme je suis heureuse!"_ Mary felt her eyes grow moist. She felt glad and poignantly sad at the same time. She would have liked to kiss and bless the other woman, for now it was clear that he had come to claim her as his bride. "If she doesn't pray, I will pray for her," she thought, and folded her hands. Then a voice sounded behind her, hollow as the roll of falling earth; rasping as coffin cords: "Read me a song of death, Mary." A shudder came over her. She jumped up. And she who had hitherto taken up the hymn-book at his command without hesitation or complaint, fell down beside his bed and grasped his emaciated arm: "Have pity--I can't! I can't!" Three days passed. The sick man preferred to stay in bed, although his recovery made enormous strides. Mary brewed his teas, gave him his drops, and read him his songs of death. That one attempt at rebellion had remained her only one. She heard but little of her neighbour. It seemed that that letter had put an end to her talkative merriment. The happiness which she had so jubilantly confessed seemed to have been of brief duration. And in those hours when Mary was free to pursue her dreams, she shared the other's yearning and fear. Probably the old uncle had made difficulties; had refused his consent, or even demanded the separation of the lovers. Perhaps the dark gentleman had gone away. Who could tell? "What strange eyes he had," she thought at times, and whenever she thought that, she shivered, for it seemed to her that his hot, veiled glance was still upon her. "I wonder whether he is really a good man?" she asked herself. She would have liked to answer this question in the affirmative, but there was something that kept her from doing so. And there was another something in her that took but little note of that aspect, but only prayed that those two might be happy together, happy as she herself had never been, happy as--and here lay the secret. It was a Sunday evening, the last one in January. Nathaniel lay under the bed-clothes and breathed with difficulty. His fever was remarkably low, but he was badly smothered. The lamp burned on the table--a reading lamp had been procured with difficulty and had been twice carried off in favour of wealthier guests. Toward the bed Mary had shaded the lamp with a piece of red blotting paper from her portfolio. A rosy shimmer poured out over the couch of the ill man, tinted the red covers more red, and caused a deceptive glow of health to appear on his cheek. The flasks and vials on the table glittered with an equivocal friendliness, as though something of the demeanour of him who had prescribed their contents adhered to them. Between them lay the narrow old hymnal and the gilt figures, "1795" shimmered in the middle of the worn and shabby covers. The hour of retirement had come. The latest of the guests, returning from the reading room, had said good-night to each other in the hall. Angeline had been dismissed. Her giggles floated away into silence along the bannisters and the last of her adorers tiptoed by to turn out the lights. From the next room there came no sound. She was surely asleep, although her breathing was inaudible. Mary sat at the table. Her head was heavy and she stared into the luminous circle of the lamp. She needed sleep. Yet she was not sleepy. Every nerve in her body quivered with morbid energy. A wish of the invalid called her to his side. "The pillow has a lump," he said, and tried to turn over on his other side. Ah, these pillows of sea-grass. She patted, she smoothed, she did her best, but his head found no repose. "Here's another night full of the torment and terror of the flesh," he said with difficulty, mouthing each word. "Do you want a drink?" she asked. He shook his head. "The stuff is bitter--but you see--this fear--there's the air and it fills everything--they say it's ten miles high--and a man like myself can't--get enough--you see I'm getting greedy." The mild jest upon his lips was so unwonted that it frightened her. "I'd like to ask you to open the window." She opposed him. "The night air," she urged; "the draught----" But that upset him. "If you can't do me so small a favour in my suffering--" "Forgive me," she said, "it was only my anxiety for you--" She got up and opened the French window that gave upon a narrow balcony. The moonlight flooded the room. Pressing her hands to her breast, she inhaled the first aromatic breath of the night air which cooled and caressed her hot face. "Is it better so?" she asked, turning around. He nodded. "It is better so." Then she stepped out on the balcony. She could scarcely drink her fill of air and moonlight. But she drew back, affrighted. What she had just seen was like an apparition. On the neighbouring balcony stood, clad in white, flowing garments of lace, a woman's figure, and stared with wide open eyes into the moonlight. It was she--her friend. Softly Mary stepped out again and observed her, full of shy curiosity. The moonlight shone full upon the delicate slim face, that seemed to shine with an inner radiance. The eye had a yearning glow. A smile, ecstatic and fearful at once, made the lips quiver, and the hands that grasped the iron railing pulsed as if in fear and expectation. Mary heard her own heart begin to beat. A hot flush rose into her face? What was all that? What did it mean? Such a look, such a smile, she had never seen in her life. And yet both seemed infinitely familiar to her. Thus a woman must look who-- She had no time to complete the thought, for a fit of coughing recalled her to Nathaniel. A motion of his hand directed her to close the window and the shutters. It would have been better never to have opened them. Better for her, too, perhaps. Then she sat down next to him and held his head until the paroxysm was over. He sank back, utterly exhausted. His hand groped for hers. With abstracted caresses she touched his weary fingers. Her thoughts dwelt with that white picture without. That poignant feeling of happiness that she had almost lost during the past few days, arose in her with a hitherto unknown might. And now the sick man began to speak. "You have always been good to me, Mary," he said. "You have always had patience with me." "Ah, don't speak so," she murmured. "And I wish I could say as full of assurance as you could before the throne of God: 'Father, I have been true to the duty which you have allotted to me.'" Her hand quivered in his. A feeling of revulsion smothered the gentleness of their mood. His words had struck her as a reproach. Fulfillment of duty! That was the great law to which all human kind was subject for the sake of God. This law had joined her hand to his, had accompanied her into the chastity of her bridal bed, and had kept its vigil through the years by her hearth and in her heart. And thus love itself had not been difficult to her, for it was commanded to her and consecrated before the face of God. And he? He wished for nothing more, knew nothing more. Indeed, what lies beyond duty would probably have seemed burdensome to him, if not actually sinful. But there was something more! She knew it now. She had seen it in that glance, moist with yearning, lost in the light. There was something great and ecstatic and all-powerful, something before which she quailed like a child who must go into the dark, something that she desired with every nerve and fibre. Her eye fastened itself upon the purple square of blotting paper which looked, in the light of the lamp, like glowing metal. She did not know how long she had sat there. It might have been minutes or hours. Often enough the morning had caught her brooding thus. The sick man's breath came with greater difficulty, his fingers grasped hers more tightly. "Do you feel worse?" she asked. "I am a little afraid," he said; "therefore, read me----" He stopped, for he felt the quiver of her hand. "You know, if you don't want to--" He was wounded in his wretched valetudinarian egotism, which was constantly on the scent of neglect. "Oh, but I do want to; I want to do everything that might----" She hurried to the table, pushed the glittering bottles aside, grasped the hymnal and read at random. But she had to stop, for it was a prayer for rain that she had begun. Then, as she was turning the leaves of the book, she heard the hall door of the next room open with infinite caution; she heard flying, trembling footsteps cross the room from the balcony. _"Chut!"_ whispered a trembling voice. And the door closed as with a weary moan. What was that? A suspicion arose in her that brought the scarlet of shame into her cheek. The whispering next door began anew, passionate, hasty, half-smothered by anxiety and delight. Two voices were to be distinguished: a lighter voice which she knew, and a duller voice, broken into, now and then, by sonorous tones. The letters dislimned before her eyes. The hymn-book slipped from her hands. In utter confusion she stared toward the door. _That_ really existed? Such things were possible in the world; possible among people garbed in distinction, of careful Christian training, to whom one looks up as to superior beings? There was a power upon earth that could make the delicate, radiant, distinguished woman so utterly forget shame and dignity and womanliness, that she would open her door at midnight to a man who had not been wedded to her in the sight of God? If that could happen, what was there left to cling to in this world? Where was one's faith in honour, fidelity, in God's grace and one's own human worth? A horror took hold of her so oppressive that she thought she must cry out aloud. With a shy glance she looked at her husband. God grant that he hear nothing. She was ashamed before him. She desired to call out, to sing, laugh, only to drown the noise of that whispering which assailed her ear like the wave of a fiery sea. But no, he heard nothing. His sightless eyes stared at the ceiling. He was busied with his breathing. His chest heaved and fell like a defective machine. He didn't even expect her to read to him now. She went up to the bed and asked, listening with every nerve: "Do you want to sleep, Nathaniel?" He lowered his eyelids in assent. "Yes--read," he breathed. "Shall I read softly?" Again he assented. "But read--don't sleep." Fear flickered in his eyes. "No, no," she stammered. He motioned her to go now, and again became absorbed in the problem of breathing. Mary took up the hymnal. "You are to read a song of death," she said to herself, for her promise must be kept. And as though she had not understood her own admonition, she repeated: "You are to read a song of death." But her hearing was morbidly alert, and while the golden figures on the book danced a ghostly dance before her eyes, she heard again what she desired to hear. It was like the whispering of the wind against a forbidden gate. She caught words: "_Je t'aime--follement--j'en mourrai--je t'adore--mon amour--mon amour._" Mary closed her eyes. It seemed to her again as though hot waves streamed over her. And she had lost shame, too. For there was something in all that which silenced reproach, which made this monstrous deed comprehensible, even natural. If one was so mad with love, if one felt that one could die of it! So that existed, and was not only the lying babble of romances? And her spirit returned and compared her own experience of love with what she witnessed now. She had shrunk pitifully from his first kiss. When he had gone, she had embraced her mother's knees, in fear and torment at the thought of following this strange man. And she remembered how, on the evening of her wedding, her mother had whispered into her ear, "Endure, my child, and pray to God, for that is the lot of woman." And it was that which, until to-day, she had called love. Oh, those happy ones there, those happy ones! "Mary," the hollow voice from the bed came. She jumped up. "What?" "You--don't read." "I'll read; I'll read." Her hands grovelled among the rough, sticky pages. An odour as of decaying foliage, which she had never noted before, came from the book. It was such an odour as comes from dark, ill-ventilated rooms, and early autumn and everyday clothes. At last she found what she was seeking. "Kyrie eleison! Christe eleison! Dear God, Father in heaven, have mercy upon us!" Her lips babbled what her eyes saw, but her heart and her senses prayed another prayer: "Father in Heaven, who art love and mercy, do not count for sin to those two that which they are committing against themselves. Bless their love, even if they do not desire Thy blessing. Send faithfulness into their hearts that they cleave to one another and remain grateful for the bliss which Thou givest them. Ah, those happy ones, those happy ones!" Tears came into her eyes. She bent her face upon the yellow leaves of the book to hide her weeping. It seemed to her suddenly as though she understood the speech spoken in this land of eternal spring by sun and sea, by hedges of flowers and evergreen trees, by the song of birds and the laughter of man. The secret which she had sought to solve by day and by night lay suddenly revealed before her eyes. In a sudden change of feeling her heart grew cold toward that sinful pair for which she had but just prayed. Those people became as strangers to her and sank into the mist. Their whispering died away as if it came from a great distance. It was her own life with which she was now concerned. Gray and morose with its poverty stricken notion of duty, the past lay behind her. Bright and smiling a new world floated into her ken. She had sworn to love him. She had cheated him. She had let him know want at her side. Now that she knew what love was, she would reward him an hundred-fold. She, too, could love to madness, to adoration, to death. And she must love so, else she would die of famishment. Her heart opened. Waves of tenderness, stormy, thunderous, mighty, broke forth therefrom. Would he desire all that love? And understand it? Was he worthy of it? What did that matter? She must give, give without measure and without reward, without thought and without will, else she would smother under all her riches. And though he was broken and famished and mean of mind and wretched, a weakling in body and a dullard in soul; and though he lay there emaciated and gasping, a skeleton almost, moveless, half given over to dust and decay--what did it matter? She loved him, loved him with that new and great love because he alone in all the world was her own. He was that portion of life and light and happiness which fate had given her. She sprang up and stretched out her arms toward him. "You my only one, my all," she whispered, folding her hands under her chin and staring at him. His chest seemed quieter. He lay there in peace. Weeping with happiness, she threw herself down beside him and kissed his hands. And then, as he took no notice of all that, a slow astonishment came over her. Also, she had an insecure feeling that his hand was not as usual. Powerless to cry out, almost to breathe, she looked upon him. She felt his forehead; she groped for his heart. All was still and cold. Then she knew. The bell--the waiters--the physician--to what purpose? There was no need of help here. She knelt down and wanted to pray, and make up for her neglect. A vision arose before her: the widow's house at home; her mother; the tile oven; her old maidenish sisters rattling their wooden crocheting hooks--and she herself beside them, her blonde hair smoothed with water, a little riband at her breast, gazing out upon the frozen fields, and throttling, throttling with love. For he whom fate had given her could use her love no longer. From the next room sounded the whispering, monotonous, broken, assailing her ears in glowing waves: "_J'en mourrai--je t'adore--mon amour._" That was his song of death. She felt that it was her own, too. THE VICTIM Madame Nelson, the beautiful American, had come to us from Paris, equipped with a phenomenal voice and solid Italian technique. She had immediately sung her way into the hearts of Berlin music-lovers, provided that you care to call a mixture of snobbishness, sophisticated impressionableness and goose-like imitativeness--heart. She had, therefore, been acquired by one of our most distinguished opera houses at a large salary and with long leaves of absence. I use the plural of opera house in order that no one may try to scent out the facts. Now we had her, more especially our world of Lotharios had her. Not the younger sons of high finance, who make the boudoirs unsafe with their tall collars and short breeches; nor the bearers of ancient names who, having hung up their uniforms in the evening, assume monocle and bracelet and drag these through second and third-class drawing-rooms. No, she belonged to those worthy men of middle age, who have their palaces in the west end, whose wives one treats with infinite respect, and to whose evenings one gives a final touch of elegance by singing two or three songs for nothing. Then she committed her first folly. She went travelling with an Italian tenor. "For purposes of art," was the official version. But the time for the trip--the end of August--had been unfortunately chosen. And, as she returned ornamented with scratches administered by the tenor's pursuing wife--no one believed her. Next winter she ruined a counsellor of a legation and magnate's son so thoroughly that he decamped to an unfrequented equatorial region, leaving behind him numerous promissory notes of questionable value. This poor fellow was revenged the following winter by a dark-haired Roumanian fiddler, who beat her and forced her to carry her jewels to a pawnshop, where they were redeemed at half price by their original donour and used to adorn the plump, firm body of a stupid little ballet dancer. Of course her social position was now forfeited. But then Berlin forgets so rapidly. She became proper again and returned to her earlier inclinations for gentlemen of middle life with extensive palaces and extensive wives. So there were quite a few houses--none of the strictest tone, of course--that were very glad to welcome the radiant blonde with her famous name and fragrant and modest gowns--from Paquin at ten thousand francs a piece. At the same time she developed a remarkable business instinct. Her connections with the stock exchange permitted her to speculate without the slightest risk. For what gallant broker would let a lovely woman lose? Thus she laid the foundation of a goodly fortune, which was made to assume stately proportions by a tour through the United States, and was given a last touch of solidity by a successful speculation in Dresden real estate. Furthermore, it would be unjust to conceal the fact that her most recent admirer, the wool manufacturer Wormser, had a considerable share in this hurtling rise of her fortunes. Wormser guarded his good repute carefully. He insisted that his illegitimate inclinations never lack the stamp of highest elegance. He desired that they be given the greatest possible publicity at race-meets and first nights. He didn't care if people spoke with a degree of rancour, if only he was connected with the temporary lady of his heart. Now, to be sure, there was a Mrs. Wormser. She came of a good Frankfort family. Dowry: a million and a half. She was modern to the very tips of her nervous, restless fingers. This lady was inspired by such lofty social ideals that she would have considered an inelegant _liaison_ on her husband's part, an insult not only offered to good taste in general, but to her own in particular. Such an one she would, never have forgiven. On the other hand, she approved of Madame Nelson thoroughly. She considered her the most costly and striking addition to her household. Quite figuratively, of course. Everything was arranged with the utmost propriety. At great charity festivals the two ladies exchanged a friendly glance, and they saw to it that their gowns were never made after the same model. Then it happened that the house of Wormser was shaken. It wasn't a serious breakdown, but among the good things that had to be thrown overboard belonged--at the demand of the helping Frankforters--Madame Nelson. And so she waited, like a virgin, for love, like a man in the weather bureau, for a given star. She felt that her star was yet to rise. This was the situation when, one day, Herr von Karlstadt had himself presented to her. He was a captain of industry; international reputation; ennobled; the not undistinguished son of a great father. He had not hitherto been found in the market of love, but it was said of him that notable women had committed follies for his sake. All in all, he was a man who commanded the general interest in quite a different measure from Wormser. But artistic successes had raised Madame Nelson's name once more, too, and when news of the accomplished fact circulated, society found it hard to decide as to which of the two lent the other a more brilliant light, or which was the more to be envied. However that was, history was richer by a famous pair of lovers. But, just as there had been a Mrs. Wormser, so there was a Mrs. von Karlstadt. And it is this lady of whom I wish to speak. Mentally as well as physically Mara von Karlstadt did not belong to that class of persons which imperatively commands the attention of the public. She was sensitive to the point of madness, a little sensuous, something of an enthusiast, coquettish only in so far as good taste demanded it, and hopelessly in love with her husband. She was in love with him to the extent that she regarded the conquests which occasionally came to him, spoiled as he was, as the inevitable consequences of her fortunate choice. They inspired her with a certain woeful anger and also with a degree of pride. The daughter of a great land owner in South Germany, she had been brought up in seclusion, and had learned only very gradually how to glide unconcernedly through the drawing-rooms. A tense smile upon her lips, which many took for irony, was only a remnant of her old diffidence. Delicate, dark in colouring, with a fine cameo-like profile, smooth hair and a tawny look in her near-sighted eyes--thus she glided about in society, and few but friends of the house took any notice of her. And this woman who found her most genuine satisfaction in the peacefulness of life, who was satisfied if she could slip into her carriage at midnight without the annoyance of one searching glance, of one inquiring word, saw herself suddenly and without suspecting the reason, become the centre of a secret and almost insulting curiosity. She felt a whispering behind her in society; she saw from her box the lenses of many opera glasses pointing her way. The conversation of her friends began to teem with hints, and into the tone of the men whom she knew there crept a kind of tender compassion which pained her even though she knew not how to interpret it. For the present no change was to be noted in the demeanour of her husband. His club and his business had always kept him away from home a good deal, and if a few extra hours of absence were now added, it was easy to account for these in harmless ways, or rather, not to account for them at all, since no one made any inquiry. Then, however, anonymous letters began to come--thick, fragrant ones with stamped coronets, and thin ones on ruled paper with the smudges of soiled fingers. She burned the first batch; the second she handed to her husband. The latter, who was not far from forty, and who had trained himself to an attitude of imperious brusqueness, straightened up, knotted his bushy Bismarck moustache, and said: "Well, suppose it is true. What have you to lose?" She did not burst into tears of despair; she did not indulge in fits of rage; she didn't even leave the room with quiet dignity; her soul seemed neither wounded nor broken. She was not even affrighted. She only thought: "I have forgiven him so much; why not forgive him this, too?" And as she had shared him before without feeling herself degraded, so she would try to share him again. But she soon observed that this logic of the heart would prove wanting in this instance. In former cases she had concealed his weakness under a veil of care and considerateness. The fear of discovery had made a conscious but silent accessory of her. When it was all over she breathed deep relief at the thought; "I am the only one who even suspected." This time all the world seemed invited to witness the spectacle. For now she understood all that, in recent days had tortured her like an unexplained blot, an alien daub in the face which every one sees but he whom it disfigures. Now she knew what the smiling hints of her friends and the consoling desires of men had meant. Now she recognised the reason why she was wounded by the attention of all. She was "the wife of the man whom Madame Nelson ..." And so torturing a shame came upon her as though she herself were the cause of the disgrace with which the world seemed to overwhelm her. This feeling had not come upon her suddenly. At first a stabbing curiosity had awakened in her a self-torturing expectation, not without its element of morbid attraction. Daily she asked herself: "What will develope to-day?" With quivering nerves and cramped heart, she entered evening after evening, for the season was at its height, the halls of strangers on her husband's arm. And it was always the same thing. The same glances that passed from her to him and from him to her, the same compassionate sarcasm upon averted faces, the same hypocritical delicacy in conversation, the same sudden silence as soon as she turned to any group of people to listen--the same cruel pillory for her evening after evening, night after night. And if all this had not been, she would have felt it just the same. And in these drawing-rooms there were so many women whose husbands' affairs were the talk of the town. Even her predecessor, Mrs. Wormser, had passed over the expensive immorality of her husband with a self-sufficing smile and a condescending jest, and the world had bowed down to her respectfully, as it always does when scenting a temperament that it is powerless to wound. Why had this martyrdom come to her, of all people? Thus, half against her own will, she began to hide, to refuse this or that invitation, and to spend the free evenings in the nursery, watching over the sleep of her boys and weaving dreams of a new happiness. The illness of her older child gave her an excuse for withdrawing from society altogether and her husband did not restrain her. It had never come to an explanation between them, and as he was always considerate, even tender, and as sharp speeches were not native to her temper, the peace of the home was not disturbed. Soon it seemed to her, too, as though the rude inquisitiveness of the world were slowly passing away. Either one had abandoned the critical condition of her wedded happiness for more vivid topics, or else she had become accustomed to the state of affairs. She took up a more social life, and the shame which she had felt in appearing publicly with her husband gradually died out. What did not die out, however, was a keen desire to know the nature and appearance of the woman in whose hands lay her own destiny. How did she administer the dear possession that fate had put in her power? And when and how would she give it back? She threw aside the last remnant of reserve and questioned friends. Then, when she was met by a smile of compassionate ignorance, she asked women. These were more ready to report. But she would not and could not believe what she was told. He had surely not degraded himself into being one of a succession of moneyed rakes. It was clear to her that, in order to soothe her grief, people slandered the woman and him with her. In order to watch her secretly, she veiled heavily and drove to the theatre where Madame Nelson was singing. Shadowlike she cowered in the depths of a box which she had rented under an assumed name and followed with a kind of pained voluptuousness the ecstasies of love which the other woman, fully conscious of the victorious loveliness of her body, unfolded for the benefit of the breathless crowd. With such an abandoned raising of her radiant arms, she threw herself upon _his_ breast; with that curve of her modelled limbs, she lay before _his_ knees. And in her awakened a reverent, renouncing envy of a being who had so much to give, beside whom she was but a dim and poor shadow, weary with motherhood, corroded with grief. At the same time there appeared a California mine owner, a multi-millionaire, with whom her husband had manifold business dealings. He introduced his daughters into society and himself gave a number of luxurious dinners at which he tried to assemble guests of the most exclusive character. Just as they were about to enter a carriage to drive to the "Bristol," to one of these dinners, a message came which forced Herr von Karlstadt to take an immediate trip to his factories. He begged his wife to go instead, and she did not refuse. The company was almost complete and the daughter of the mine owner was doing the honours of the occasion with appropriate grace when the doors of the reception room opened for the last time and through the open doorway floated rather than walked--Madame Nelson. The petrified little group turned its glance of inquisitive horror upon Mrs. von Karlstadt, while the mine owner's daughter adjusted the necessary introductions with a grand air. Should she go or not? No one was to be found who would offer her his arm. Her feet were paralysed. And she remained. The company sat down at table. And since fate, in such cases, never does its work by halves, it came to pass that Madame Nelson was assigned to a seat immediately opposite her. The people present seemed grateful to her that they had not been forced to witness a scene, and overwhelmed her with delicate signs of this gratitude. Slowly her self-control returned to her. She dared to look about her observantly, and, behold, Madame Nelson appealed to her. Her French was faultless, her manners equally so, and when the Californian drew her into the conversation, she practised the delicate art of modest considerateness to the extent of talking past Mrs. von Karlstadt in such a way that those who did not know were not enlightened and those who knew felt their anxiety depart. In order to thank her for this alleviation of a fatally painful situation, Mrs. von Karlstadt occasionally turned perceptibly toward the singer. For this Madame Nelson was grateful in her turn. Thus their glances began to meet in friendly fashion, their voices to cross, the atmosphere became less constrained from minute to minute, and when the meal was over the astonished assembly had come to the conclusion that Mrs. von Karlstadt was ignorant of the true state of affairs. The news of this peculiar meeting spread like a conflagration. Her women friends hastened to congratulate her on her strength of mind; her male friends praised her loftiness of spirit. She went through the degradation which she had suffered as though it were a triumph. Only her husband went about for a time with an evil conscience and a frowning forehead. Months went by. The quietness of summer intervened, but the memory of that evening rankled in her and blinded her soul. Slowly the thought arose in her which was really grounded in vanity, but looked, in its execution, like suffering love--the thought that she would legitimise her husband's irregularity in the face of society. Hence when the season began again she wrote a letter to Madame Nelson in which she invited her, in a most cordial way, to sing at an approaching function in her home. She proffered this request, not only in admiration of the singer's gifts, but also, as she put it, "to render nugatory a persistent and disagreeable rumour." Madame Nelson, to whom this chance of repairing her fair fame was very welcome, had the indiscretion to assent, and even to accept the condition of entire secrecy in regard to the affair. The chronicler may pass over the painful evening in question with suitable delicacy of touch. Nothing obvious or crass took place. Madame Nelson sang three enchanting songs, accompanied by a first-rate pianist. A friend of the house of whom the hostess had requested this favour took Madame Nelson to the _buffet_. A number of guileless individuals surrounded that lady with hopeful adoration. An ecstatic mood prevailed. The one regrettable feature of the occasion was that the host had to withdraw--as quietly as possible, of course--on account of a splitting head-ache. Berlin society, which felt wounded in the innermost depth of its ethics, never forgave the Karlstadts for this evening. I believe that in certain circles the event is still remembered, although years have passed. Its immediate result, however, was a breach between man and wife. Mara went to the Riviera, where she remained until spring. An apparent reconciliation was then patched up, but its validity was purely external. Socially, too, things readjusted themselves, although people continued to speak of the Karlstadt house with a smile that asked for indulgence. Mara felt this acutely, and while her husband appeared oftener and more openly with his mistress, she withdrew into the silence of her inner chambers. * * * * * Then she took a lover. Or, rather, she was taken by him. A lonely evening ... A fire in the chimney ... A friend who came in by accident ... The same friend who had taken care of Madame Nelson for her on that memorable evening ... The fall of snow without ... A burst of confidence ... A sob ... A nestling against the caressing hand ... It was done ... Months passed. She experienced not one hour of intoxication, not one of that inner absolution which love brings. It was moral slackness and weariness that made her yield again.... Then the consequences appeared. Of course, the child could not, must not, be born. And it was not born. One can imagine the horror of that tragic time: the criminal flame of sleepless nights, the blood-charged atmosphere of guilty despair, the moans of agony that had to be throttled behind closed doors. What remained to her was lasting invalidism. The way from her bed to an invalid's chair was long and hard. Time passed. Improvements came and gave place to lapses in her condition. Trips to watering-places alternated with visits to sanatoriums. In those places sat the pallid, anaemic women who had been tortured and ruined by their own or alien guilt. There they sat and engaged in wretched flirtations with flighty neurasthenics. And gradually things went from bad to worse. The physicians shrugged their friendly shoulders. And then it happened that Madame Nelson felt the inner necessity of running away with a handsome young tutor. She did this less out of passion than to convince the world--after having thoroughly fleeced it--of the unselfishness of her feelings. For it was her ambition to be counted among the great lovers of all time. * * * * * One evening von Karlstadt entered the sick chamber of his wife, sat down beside her bed and silently took her hand. She was aware of everything, and asked with a gentle smile upon her white lips: "Be frank with me: did you love her, at least?" He laughed shrilly. "What should have made me love this--business lady?" They looked at each other long. Upon her face death had set its seal. His hair was gray, his self-respect broken, his human worth squandered.... And then, suddenly, they clung to each other, and leaned their foreheads against each other, and wept. AUTUMN Chapter I. It was on a sunny afternoon in October. Human masses streamed through the alleys of the _Tiergarten_. With the desperate passion of an ageing woman who feels herself about to be deserted, the giant city received the last caresses of summer. A dotted throng that was not unlike the chaos of the _Champs Élysées_, filled the broad, gray road that leads to Charlottenburg. Berlin, which cannot compete with any other great European city, as far as the luxury of vehicular traffic is concerned, seemed to have sent out to-day all it possessed in that kind. The weather was too beautiful for closed _coupés_, and hence the comfortable family landau was most in evidence. Only now and then did an elegant victoria glide along, or an aristocratic four-in-hand demand the respectful yielding of the crowd. A dog-cart of dark yellow, drawn by a magnificent trotter, attracted the attention of experts. The noble animal, which seemed to feel the security of the guiding hand, leaned, snorting, upon its bit. With far out-reaching hind legs, it flew along, holding its neck moveless, as became a scion of its race. The man who drove was sinewy, tall, about forty, with clear, gray eyes, sharply cut profile and a close-clipped moustache. In his thin, brownish cheeks were several deep scars, and between the straight, narrow brows could be seen two salient furrows. His attire--an asphalt-gray, thick-seamed overcoat, a coloured shirt and red gloves--did not deny the sportsman. His legs, which pressed against the footboard, were clad in tight, yellow riding boots. Many people saluted him. He returned their salutations with that careless courtesy which belongs to those who know themselves to have transcended the judgment of men. If one of his acquaintances happened to be accompanied by a lady, he bowed deeply and respectfully, but without giving the ladies in question a single glance. People looked after him and mentioned his name: Baron von Stueckrath. Ah, that fellow ... And they looked around once more. At the square of the _Great Star_ he turned to the left, drove along the river, passed the well-known resort called simply _The Tents_, and stopped not far from the building of the general staff of the army and drew up before a large distinguished house with a fenced front garden and cast-iron gate to the driveway. He threw the reins to the groom, who sat statuesquely behind him, and said: "Drive home." Jumping from the cart, he observed the handle of the scraper sticking in the top of one of his boots. He drew it out, threw it on the seat, and entered the house. The janitor, an old acquaintance, greeted him with the servile intimacy of the tip-expecting tribe. On the second floor he stopped and pulled the bell whose glass knob glittered above a neat brass plate. "Ludovika Kraissl," was engraved upon it. A maid, clad with prim propriety in a white apron and white lace cap, opened the door. He entered and handed her his hat. "Is Madame at home?" "No, sir." He looked at her through half-closed lids, and observed how her milk-white little madonna's face flushed to the roots of her blonde hair. "Where did she go?" "Madame meant to go to the dressmaker," the girl stuttered, "and to make some purchases." She avoided his eyes. She had been in service only three months and had not yet perfected herself in lying. He whistled a tune between his set teeth and entered the drawing-room. A penetrating perfume streamed forth. "Open the window, Meta." She passed noiselessly through the room and executed his command. Frowning, he looked about him. The empty pomp of the light woman offended his taste. The creature who lived here had a gift for filling every corner with banal and tasteless trivialities. When he had turned over the flat to her it had been a charming little place, full of delicate tints and the simple lines of Louis Seize furniture. In a few years she had made a junk shop of it. "Would you care for tea, sir, or anything else?" the girl asked. "No, thank you. Pull off my boots, Meta. I'll change my dress and then go out again." Modestly, almost humbly, she bowed before him and set his spurred foot gently on her lap. Then she loosened the top straps. He let his glance rest, well pleased, upon her smooth, silvery blonde hair. How would it work if he sent his mistress packing and installed this girl in her place? But he immediately abandoned the thought. He had seen the thing done by some of his friends. In a single year the chastest and most modest servant girl was so thoroughly corrupted that she had to be driven into the streets. "We men seem to emit a pestilential air," he reflected, "that corrupts every woman." "Or at least men of my kind," he added carefully. "Have you any other wishes, sir?" asked the girl, daintily wiping her hands on her apron. "No, thank you." She turned to the door. "One thing more, Meta. When did Madame say she would be back?" Her face was again mantled with blood. "She didn't say anything definite. I was to make her excuses. She intended to return home by evening, at all events." He nodded and the girl went with a sigh of relief, gently closing the door behind her. He continued to whistle, and looked up at a hanging lamp, which defined itself against the window niche by means of a wreath of gay artificial flowers. In this hanging lamp, which hung there unnoticed and unreachable from the floor, he had, a year ago, quite by accident, discovered a store of love letters. His mistress had concealed them there since she evidently did not even consider the secret drawer of her desk a sufficiently safe repository. He had carefully kept the secret of the lamp to himself, and had only fed his grim humour from time to time by observing the changes of her heart by means of added missives. In this way he had been able to observe the number of his excellent friends with whom she deceived him. Thus his contempt for mankind assumed monstrous proportions, but this contempt was the one emotional luxury which his egoism was still capable of. He grasped a chair and seemed, for a moment about to mount to the lamp to inspect her latest history. But he let his hand fall. After all, it was indifferent with whom she was unfaithful to-day.... And he was tired. A bad day's work lay behind him. A three-year-old full-blooded horse, recently imported from Hull, had proven itself abnormally sensitive and had brought him to the verge of despair by its fearfulness and its moods. He had exercised it for hours, and had only succeeded in making the animal more nervous than before. Great sums were at stake if the fault should prove constitutional and not curable. He felt the impulse to share his worries with some one, but he knew of no one. From the point of view of Miss Ludi's naïve selfishness, it was simply his duty to be successful. She didn't care for the troublesome details. At his club, again, each one was warily guarding his own interests. Hence it was necessary there to speak carefully, since an inadvertent expression might affect general opinion. He almost felt impelled to call in the maid and speak to her of his worries. Then his own softness annoyed him. It was his wont to pass through life in lordly isolation and to astonish the world by his successes. That was all he needed. Yawning he stretched himself out on the _chaise longue_. Time dragged. Three hours would pass until Ludi's probable return. He was so accustomed to the woman's society that he almost longed for her. Her idle chatter helped him. Her little tricks refreshed him. But the most important point was this: she was no trouble. He could caress her or beat her, call to her and drive her from him like a little dog. He could let her feel the full measure of his contempt, and she would not move a muscle. She was used to nothing else. He passed two or three hours daily in her company, for time had to be killed somehow. Sometimes, too, he took her to the circus or the theatre. He had long broken with the families of his acquaintance and could appear in public with light women. And yet he felt a sharp revulsion at the atmosphere that surrounded him. A strange discomfort invaded his soul in her presence. He didn't feel degraded. He knew her to be a harlot. But that was what he wanted. None but such an one would permit herself to be so treated. It was rather a disguised discouragement that held him captive. Was life to pass thus unto the very end? Was life worth living, if it offered a favourite of fortune, a master of his will and of his actions, nothing better than this? "Surely I have the spleen," he said to himself, sprang up, and went into the next room to change his clothes. He had a wardrobe in Ludi's dressing room in order to be able to go out from here in the evening unrestrainedly. Chapter II. It was near four o'clock. The sun laughed through the window. Its light was deep purple, changing gradually to violet. Masses of leaves, red as rust, gleamed over from the _Tiergarten_. The figure of Victory upon the triumphal column towered toward heaven like a mighty flame. He felt an impulse to wander through the alleys of the park idly and aimlessly, at most to give a coin to a begging child. He left the house and went past the Moltke monument and the winding ways that lead to the Charlottenburg road. The ground exhaled the sweetish odour of decaying plants. Rustling heaps of leaves, which the breezes of noon had swept together, flew apart under his tread. The westering sun threw red splotches of light on the faint green of the tree trunks that exuded their moisture in long streaks. Here it was lonely. Only beyond the great road, whose many-coloured pageant passed by him like a kinematograph, did he hear again in the alleys the sounds of children's voices, song and laughter. In the neighbourhood of the _Rousseau Island_ he met a gentleman whom he knew and who had been a friend of his youth. Stout of form, his round face surrounded by a close-clipped beard, he wandered along, leading two little girls in red, while a boy in a blue sailor suit rode ahead, herald-like, on his father's walking-stick. The two men bowed to each other coolly, but without ill-will. They were simply estranged. The busy servant of the state and father of a family was scarcely to be found in those circles were the daily work consists in riding and betting and gambling. Stueckrath sat down on a bench and gazed after the group. The little red frocks gleamed through the bushes, and Papa's admonishing and restraining voice was to be heard above the noise of the boy who made a trumpet of his hollow hand. "Is that the way happiness looks?" he asked himself. "Can a man of energy and action find satisfaction in these banal domesticities?" And strangely enough, these fathers of families, men who serve the state and society, who occupy high offices, make important inventions and write good books--these men have red cheeks and laughing eyes. They do not look as though the burden which they carry squeezes the breath of life out of them. They get ahead, in spite of the childish hands that cling to their coats, in spite of the trivialities with which they pass their hours of leisure. An indeterminate feeling of envy bored into his soul. He fought it down and went on, right into the throng that filled the footpaths of the _Tiergarten_. Groups of ladies from the west end went by him in rustling gowns of black. He did not know them and did not wish to know them. Here, too, he recognized fewer of the men. The financiers who have made this quarter their own appear but rarely at the races. Accompanying carriages kept pace with the promenaders in order to explain and excuse their unusual exertion. For in this world the continued absence of one's carriage may well shake one's credit. The trumpeting motor-cars whirred by with gleaming brasses. Of the beautiful women in them, little could be seen in the swift gleams. It was the haste of a new age that does not even find time to display its vanity. Upon the windows of the villas and palaces opposite lay the iridescent glow of the evening sun. The façades took on purple colours, and the decaying masses of vines that weighed heavily upon the fences seemed to glow and shine from within with the very phosphorescence of decay. Flooded by this light, a slender, abnormally tall girl came into Stueckrath's field of vision. She led by the arm an aged lady, who hobbled with difficulty along the pebbly path. A closed carriage with escutcheon and coronet followed the two slowly. He stopped short. An involuntary movement had passed through his body, an impulse to turn off into one of the side paths. But he conquered himself at once, and looked straight at the approaching ladies. Like a mere line of blackness, thin of limb and waist, attired with nun-like austerity in garments that hung as if withering upon her, she stood against the background of autumnal splendour. Now she recognised him, too. A sudden redness that at once gave way to lifeless pallor flashed across her delicate, stern face. They looked straight into each other's eyes. He bowed deeply. She smiled with an effort at indifference. "And so she is faded, too," he thought. To be sure, her face still bore the stamp of a simple and severe beauty, but time and grief had dealt ungently with it. The lips were pale and anaemic, two or three folds, sharp as if made with a knife, surrounded them. About the eyes, whose soft and lambent light of other days had turned into a hard and troubled sharpness, spread concentric rings, united by a net-work of veins and wrinkles. He stood still, lost in thought, and looked after her. She still trod the earth like a queen, but her outline was detestable. Only hopelessness bears and attires itself thus. He calculated. She must be thirty-six. Thirteen years ago he had known her and--loved her? Perhaps.... At least he had left her the evening before their formal betrothal was to take place because her father had dared to remark upon his way of life. He loved his personal liberty more than his beautiful and wealthy betrothed who clung to him with every fibre of her delicate and noble soul. One word from her, had it been but a word of farewell, would have recalled him. That word remained unspoken. Thus her life's happiness had been wrecked. Perhaps his, too. What did it matter? Since then he had nothing but contempt for the daughters of good families. Other women were less exacting; they did not attempt to circumscribe his freedom. He gazed after her long. Now groups of other pedestrians intervened; now her form reappeared sharp and narrow against the trees. From time to time she stooped lovingly toward the old lady, who, as is the wont of aged people, trod eagerly and fearfully. This fragile heap of bones, with the dull eyes and the sharp voice--he remembered the voice well: it had had part in his decision. This strange, unsympathetic, suspicious old woman, he would have had to call "Mother." What madness! What hypocrisy! And yet his hunger for happiness, which had not yet died, reminded him of all that might have been. A sea of warm, tender and unselfish love would have flooded him and fructified and vivified the desert of his soul. And instead of becoming withered and embittered, she would have blossomed at his side more richly from day to day. Now it was too late. A long, thin, wretched little creature--she went her way and was soon lost in the distance. But there clung to his soul the yearning for a woman--one who had more of womanliness than its name and its body, more than the harlot whom he kept because he was too slothful to drive her from him. He sought the depths of his memory. His life had been rich in gallant adventures. Many a full-blooded young woman had thrown herself at him, and had again vanished from his life under the compulsion of his growing coldness. He loved his liberty. Even an unlawful relation felt like a fetter so soon as it demanded any sacrifice of time or interests. Also, he did not like to give less than he received. For, since the passing of his unscrupulous youth, he had not cared to receive the gift of a human destiny only to throw it aside as his whim demanded. And therefore his life had grown quiet during the last few years. He thought of one of his last loves ... the very last ... and smiled. The image of a delicately plump brunette little woman, with dreamy eyes and delicious little curls around her ears, rose up before him. She dwelt in his memory as she had seemed to him: modest, soulful, all ecstatic yielding and charming simple-heartedness. She did not belong to society. He had met her at a dinner given by a financial magnate. She was the wife of an upper clerk who was well respected in the business world. With adoring curiosity, she peeped into the great strange world, whose doors opened to her for the first time. He took her to the table, was vastly entertained by the lack of sophistication with which she received all these new impressions, and smilingly accepted the undisguised adoration with which she regarded him in his character of a famous horseman and rake. He flirted with her a bit and that turned her head completely. In lonely dreams her yearning for elegant and phantastic sin had grown to enormity. She was now so wholly and irresistibly intoxicated that he received next morning a deliciously scribbled note in which she begged him for a secret meeting--somewhere in the neighbourhood of the _Arkona Place_ or _Weinmeisterstrasse_, regions as unknown to him as the North Cape or Yokohama. Two or three meetings followed. She appeared, modest, anxious and in love, a bunch of violets for his button-hole in her hand, and some surprise for her husband in her pocket. Then the affair began to bore him and he refused an appointment. One evening, during the last days of November, she appeared, thickly veiled, in his dwelling, and sank sobbing upon his breast. She could not live without seeing him; she was half crazed with longing; he was to do with her what he would. He consoled her, warmed her, and kissed the melting snow from her hair. But when in his joy at what he considered the full possession of a jewel his tenderness went beyond hers, her conscience smote her. She was an honest woman. Horror and shame would drive her into her grave if she went hence an adulteress. He must have pity on her and be content with her pure adoration. He had the requisite pity, dismissed her with a paternal kiss upon her forehead, but at the same time ordered his servant to admit her no more. Then came two or three letters. In her agony over the thought of losing him, she was willing to break down the last reserve. But he did not answer the letters. At the same time the thought came to him of going up the Nile in a dahabiyeh. He was bored and had a cold. On the evening of his departure he found her waiting in his rooms. "What do you want?" "Take me along." "How do you know?" "Take me along." She said nothing else. The necessity of comforting her was clear. A thoroughgoing farewell was celebrated, with the understanding that it was a farewell forever. The pact had been kept. After his return and for two years more she had given no sign of life. He now thought of this woman. He felt a poignant longing for the ripe sweetness of her oval face, the veiled depth of her voice. He desired once more to be embraced by her firm arms, to be kissed by her mad, hesitating lips. Why had he dropped her? How could he have abandoned her so rudely? The thought came into his head of looking her up now, in this very hour. He had a dim recollection of the whereabouts of her dwelling. He could soon ascertain its exact situation. Then again the problems of his racing stable came into his head. The thought of "Maidenhood," the newly purchased horse, worried him. He had staked much upon one throw. If he lost, it would take time to repair the damage. Suddenly he found himself in a tobacconist's shop, looking for her name in the directory. _Friedrich-Wilhelm Strasse_ was the address. Quite near, as he had surmised. He was not at loss for an excuse. Her husband must still be in his office at this hour. He would not be asked for any very strict accounting for his action. At worst there was an approaching riding festival, for which he could request her cooperation. Perhaps she had forgotten him and would revenge herself for her humiliation. Perhaps she would be insulted and not even receive him. At best he must count upon coldness, bitter truths and that appearance of hatred which injured love assumes. What did it matter? She was a woman, after all. The vestibule of the house was supported by pillars; its walls were ornately stuccoed; the floor was covered with imitation oriental rugs. It was the rented luxury with which the better middle-class loves to surround itself. He ascended three flights of stairs. An elderly servant in a blue apron regarded the stranger suspiciously. He asked for her mistress. She would see. Holding his card gingerly, she disappeared. Now _he_ would see.... Then, as he bent forward, listening, he heard through the open door a cry--not of horrified surprise, but of triumph and jubilation, such a cry of sudden joy as only a long and hopeless and unrestrainable yearning can send forth. He thought he had heard wrong, but the smiling face of the returning servant reassured him. He was to be made welcome. Chapter III. He entered. With outstretched hands, tears in her eyes, her face a-quiver with a vain attempt at equanimity--thus she came forward to meet him. "There you are ... there you are ... you...." Overwhelmed and put to shame by her forgiveness and her happiness, he stood before her in silence. What could he have said to her that would not have sounded either coarse or trivial? And she demanded neither explanation nor excuse. He was here--that was enough for her. As he let his glance rest upon her, he confessed that his mental image of her fell short of the present reality. She had grown in soul and stature. Her features bore signs of power and restraint, and of a strong inner tension. Her eyes sought him with a steady light; in her bosom battled the pent-up joy. She asked him to be seated. "In that corner," she said, and led him to a tiny sofa covered with glittering, light-green silk, above which hung a withered palm-leaf fan. "I have sat there so often," she went on, "so often, and have thought of you, always--always. You'll drink tea, won't you?" He was about to refuse, but she interrupted him. "Oh, but you must, you must. You can't refuse! It has been my dream all this time to drink tea with you here just once--just once. To serve you on this little table and hand you the basket with cakes! Do you see this little lacquer table, with the lovely birds of inlaid mother-of-pearl? I had that given to me last Christmas for the especial purpose of serving you tea on it. For I said to myself: 'He is accustomed to the highest elegance.' And you are here and are going to refuse? No, no, that's impossible. I couldn't bear that." And she flew to the door and called out her orders to the servant. He regarded her in happy astonishment. In all her movements there was a rhythm of unconscious loveliness, such as he had rarely seen in any woman. With simple, unconscious elegance, her dress flowed about her taller figure, whose severe lines were softened by the womanly curves of her limbs. And all that belonged to him. He could command this radiant young body and this radiant young soul. All that was one hunger to be possessed by him. "Bind her to yourself," cried his soul, "and build yourself a new happiness!" Then she returned. She stopped a few paces from him, folded her hands under her chin, gazed at him wide-eyed and whispered: "There he is! There he is!" He grew uncomfortable under this expense of passion. "I should wager that I sit here with a foolish face," he thought. "But now I'm going to be sensible," she went on, sitting down on a low stool that stood next to the sofa. "And while the tea is steeping you must tell me how things have gone with you all this long time. For it is a very long time since ... Ah, a long time...." It seemed to him that there was a reproach behind these words. He gave but a dry answer to her question, but threw the more warmth into his inquiries concerning her life. She laughed and waved her hand. "Oh, I!" she cried. "I have fared admirably. Why should I not? Life makes me as happy as though I were a child. Oh, I can always be happy.... That's characteristic of me. Nearly every day brings something new and usually something delightful.... And since I've been in love with you.... You mustn't take that for a banal declaration of passion, dear friend.... Just imagine you are merely my confidant, and that I'm telling you of my distant lover who takes little notice of a foolish woman like myself. But then, that doesn't matter so long as I know that he is alive and can fear and pray for him; so long as the same morning sun shines on us both. Why, do you know, it's a most delicious feeling, when the morning is fair and the sun golden and one may stand at the window and say: 'Thank God, it is a beautiful day for him.'" He passed his hand over his forehead. "It isn't possible," he thought. "Such things don't exist in this world." And she went on, not thinking that perhaps he, too, would want to speak. "I don't know whether many people have the good fortune to be as happy as I. But I am, thank God. And do you know, the best part of it all and the sunniest, I owe to you. For instance: Summer before last we went to Heligoland, last summer to Schwarzburg.... Do you know it? Isn't it beautiful? Well, for instance: I wake up; I open my eyes to the dawn. I get up softly, so as not to disturb my husband, and go on my bare feet to the window. Without, the wooded mountains lie dark and peaceful. There is a peace over it all that draws one's tears ... it is so beautiful ... and behind, on the horizon, there shines a broad path of gold. And the fir-trees upon the highest peaks are sharply defined against the gold, like little men with many outstretched arms. And already the early piping of a few birds is heard. And I fold my hands and think: I wonder where he is.... And if he is asleep, has he fair dreams? Ah, if he were here and could see all this loveliness. And I think of _him_ with such impassioned intensity that it is not hard to believe him here and able to see it all. And at last a chill comes up, for it is always cool in the mountains, as you know.... And then one slips back into bed, and is annoyed to think that one must sleep four hours more instead of being up and thinking of him. And when one wakes up for a second time, the sun throws its golden light into the windows, and the breakfast table is set on the balcony. And one's husband has been up quite a while, but waits patiently. And his dear, peaceful face is seen through the glass door. At such moments one's heart expands in gratitude to God who has made life so beautiful and one can hardly bear one's own happiness--and--there is the tea." The elderly maid came in with a salver, which she placed on the piano, in order to set the little table properly. A beautiful napkin of damask silk lay ready. The lady of the house scolded jestingly. It would injure the polish of the piano, and what was her guest to think of such shiftlessness. The maid went out. She took up the tea-kettle, and asked in a voice full of bliss. "Strong or weak, dear master?" "Strong, please." "One or two lumps of sugar?" "Two lumps, please." She passed him the cup with a certain solemnity. "So this is the great moment, the pinnacle of all happiness as I have dreamed of it! Now, tell me yourself: Am I not to be envied? Whatever I wish is fulfilled. And, do you know, last year in Heligoland I had a curious experience. We capsised by the dunes and I fell into the water. As I lost consciousness, I thought that you were there and were saving me. Later when I lay on the beach, I saw, of course, that it had been only a stupid old fisherman. But the feeling was so wonderful while it lasted that I almost felt like jumping into the water again. Speaking of water, do you take rum in your tea?" He shook his head. Her chatter, which at first had enraptured him, began to fill him with sadness. He did not know how to respond. His youthfulness and flexibility of mind had passed from him long ago: he had long lost any inner cheerfulness. And while she continued to chat, his thoughts wandered, like a horse, on their accustomed path on the road of his daily worries. He thought of an unsatisfactory jockey, of the nervous horse. What was this woman to him, after all? "By the way," he heard her say, "I wanted to ask you whether 'Maidenhood' has arrived?" He sat up sharply and stared at her. Surely he had heard wrong. "What do you know about 'Maidenhood'?" "But, my dear friend, do you suppose I haven't heard of your beautiful horse, by 'Blue Devil' out of 'Nina'? Now, do you see? I believe I know the grandparents, too. Anyhow, you are to be congratulated on your purchase. The English trackmen are bursting with envy. To judge by that, you ought to have an immense success." "But, for heaven's sake, how do you know all this?" "Dear me, didn't your purchase appear in all the sporting papers?" "Do you read those papers?" "Surely. You see, here is the last number of the _Spur_, and yonder is the bound copy of the _German Sporting News_." "I see; but to what purpose?" "Oh, I'm a sporting lady, dear master. I look upon the world of horses--is that the right expression?--with benevolent interest. I hope that isn't forbidden?" "But you never told me a word about that before!" She blushed a little and cast her eyes down. "Oh, before, before.... That interest didn't come until later." He understood and dared not understand. "Don't look at me so," she besought him; there's nothing very remarkable about it. I just said to myself: "Well, if he doesn't want you, at least you can share his life from afar. That isn't immodest, is it? And then the race meets were the only occasions on which I could see you from afar. And whenever you yourself rode--oh, how my heart beat--fit to burst. And when you won, oh, how proud I was! I could have cried out my secret for all the world to hear. And my poor husband's arm was always black and blue. I pinched him first in my anxiety and then in my joy." "So your husband happily shares your enthusiasm?" "Oh, at first he wasn't very willing. But then, he is so good, so good. And as I couldn't go to the races alone, why he just had to go with me! And in the end he has become as great an enthusiast as I am. We can sit together for hours and discuss the tips. And he just admires you so--almost more than I. Oh, how happy he'd be to meet you here. You mustn't refuse him that pleasure. And now you're laughing at me. Shame on you!" "I give you my word that nothing--" "Oh, but you smiled. I saw you smile." "Perhaps. But assuredly with no evil intention. And now you'll permit me to ask a serious question, won't you?" "But surely!" "Do you love your husband?" "Why, of course I love him. You don't know him, or you wouldn't ask. How could I help it? We're like two children together. And I don't mean anything silly. We're like that in hours of grief, too. Sometimes when I look at him in his sleep--the kind, careworn forehead, the silent serious mouth--and when I think how faithfully and carefully he guides me, how his one dreaming and waking thought is for my happiness--why, then I kneel down and kiss his hands till he wakes up. Once he thought it was our little dog, and murmured 'Shoo, shoo!' Oh, how we laughed! And if you imagine that such a state of affairs can't be reconciled with my feeling for you, why, then you're quite wrong. _That_ is upon an entirely different plane." "And your life is happy?" "Perfectly, perfectly." Radiantly she folded her hands. She did not suspect her position on the fearful edge of an abyss. She had not yet realised what his coming meant, nor how defenceless she was. He had but to stretch out his arms and she would fly to him, ready to sacrifice her fate to his mood. And this time there would be no returning to that well-ordered content. A dull feeling of responsibility arose in him and paralysed his will. Here was all that he needed in order to conquer a few years of new freshness and joy for the arid desert of his life. Here was the spring of life for which he was athirst. And he had not the courage to touch it with his lips. Chapter IV. A silence ensued in which their mood threatened to darken and grow turbid. Then he pulled himself together. "You don't ask me why I came, dear friend." She shrugged her shoulders and smiled. "A moment's impulse--or loneliness. That's all." "And a bit of remorse, don't you think so?" "Remorse? For what? You have nothing with which to reproach yourself. Was not our agreement made to be kept?" "And yet I couldn't wholly avoid the feeling as if my unbroken silence must have left a sting in your soul which would embitter your memory of me." Thoughtfully she stirred her tea. "No," she said at last, "I'm not so foolish. The memory of you is a sacred one. If that were not so, how could I have gone on living? That time, to be sure, I wanted to take my life. I had determined on that before I came to you. For that one can leave the man with whom.... I never thought that possible.... But one learns a good deal--a good deal.... And now I'll tell you how it came to pass that I didn't take my life that night. When everything was over, and I stood in the street before your house, I said to myself: 'Now the river is all that is left.' In spite of rain and storm, I took an open cab and drove out to the _Tiergarten_. Wasn't the weather horrible! At the _Great Star_ I left the cab and ran about in the muddy ways, weeping, weeping. I was blind with tears, and lost my way. I said to myself that I would die at six. There were still four minutes left. I asked a policeman the way to _Bellevue_, for I did remember that the river flows hard behind the castle. The policeman said: 'There it is. The hour is striking in the tower now.' And when I heard the clock strike, the thought came to me: 'Now my husband is coming home, tired and hungry, and I'm not there. If at least he wouldn't let his dinner get cold. But of course he will wait. He'd rather starve than eat without me. And he'll be frightened more and more as the hours pass. Then he'll run to the police. And next morning he'll be summoned by telegram to the morgue. There he'll break down helplessly and hopelessly and I won't be able to console him.' And when I saw that scene in my mind, I called out: 'Cab! cab!' But there was no cab. So I ran back to the _Great Star_, and jumped into the street-car, and rode home and rushed into his arms and cried my fill." "And had your husband no questions to ask? Did he entertain no suspicion?" "Oh, no, he knows me, I am taken that way sometimes. If anything moves or delights me deeply--a lovely child on the street--you see, I haven't any--or some glorious music, or sometimes only the park in spring and some white statue in the midst of the greenery. Oh, sometimes I seem to feel my very soul melt, and then he lays his cool, firm hand on my forehead and I am healed." "And were you healed on that occasion, too?" "Yes. I was calmed at once. 'Here,' I said to myself, 'is this dear, good man, to whom you can be kind. And as far as the other is concerned, why it was mere mad egoism to hope to have a share in his life. For to give love means, after all, to demand love. And what can a poor, supersensitive thing like you mean to him? He has others. He need but stretch forth his hand, and the hearts of countesses and princesses are his!'" "Dear God," he thought, and saw the image of the purchasable harlot, who was supposed to satisfy his heart's needs. But she chatted on, and bit by bit built up for him the image of him which she had cherished during these two years. All the heroes of Byron, Poushkine, Spielhagen and Scott melted into one glittering figure. There was no splendour of earth with which her generous imagination had not dowered him. He listened with a melancholy smile, and thought: "Thank God, she doesn't know me. If I didn't take a bit of pleasure in my stable, the contrast would be too terrible to contemplate." And there was nothing forward, nothing immodest, in this joyous enthusiasm. It was, in fact, as if he were a mere confidant, and she were singing a hymn in praise of her beloved. And thus she spared him any feeling of shame. But what was to happen now? It went without saying that this visit must have consequences of some sort. It was her right to demand that he do not, for a second time, take her up and then fling her aside at the convenience of a given hour. Almost timidly he asked after her thoughts of the future. "Let's not speak of it. You won't come back, anyhow." "How can you think...." "Oh, no, you won't come back. And what is there here for you? Do you want to be adored by me? You spoiled gentlemen soon tire of that sort of thing.... Or would you like to converse with my husband? That wouldn't amuse you. He's a very silent man and his reserve thaws only when he is alone with me.... But it doesn't matter.... You have been here. And the memory of this hour will always be dear and precious to me. Now, I have something more in which my soul can take pleasure." A muffled pain stirred in him. He felt impelled to throw himself at her feet and bury his head in her lap. But he respected the majesty of her happiness. "And if I myself desired...." That was all he said; all he dared to say. The sudden glory in her face commanded his silence. Under the prudence which his long experience dictated, his mood grew calmer. But she had understood him. In silent blessedness, she leaned her head against the wall. Then she whispered, with closed eyes: "It is well that you said no more. I might grow bold and revive hopes that are dead. But if you...." She raised her eyes to his. A complete surrender to his will lay in her glance. Then she raised her head with a listening gesture. "My husband," she said, after she had fought down a slight involuntary fright, and said it with sincere joy. Three glowing fingers barely touched his. Then she hastened to the door. "Guess who is here," she called out; "guess!" On the threshold appeared a sturdy man of middle size and middle age. His round, blonde beard came to a grayish point beneath the chin. His thin cheeks were yellow, but with no unhealthful hue. His quiet, friendly eyes gleamed behind glasses that sat a trifle too far down his nose, so that in speaking his head was slightly thrown back and his lids drawn. With quiet astonishment he regarded the elegant stranger. Coming nearer, however, he recognised him at once in spite of the twilight, and, a little confused with pleasure, stretched out his hand. Upon his tired, peaceful features, there was no sign of any sense of strangeness, any desire for an explanation. Stueckrath realized that toward so simple a nature craft would have been out of place, and simply declared that he had desired to renew an acquaintance which he had always remembered with much pleasure. "I don't want to speak of myself, Baron," the man replied, "but you probably scarcely realise what pleasure you are giving my wife." And he nodded down at her who stood beside him, apparently unconcerned except for her wifely joy. A few friendly words were exchanged. Further speech was really superfluous, since the man's unassailable innocence demanded no caution. But Stueckrath was too much pleased with him to let him feel his insignificance by an immediate departure. Hence he sat a little longer, told of his latest purchases, and was shamed by the satisfaction with which the man rehearsed the history of his stable. He did not neglect the courtesy of asking them both to call on him, and took his leave, accompanied by the couple to the door. He could not decide which of the two pressed his hand more warmly. When in the darkness of the lower hall he looked upward, he saw two faces which gazed after him with genuine feeling. * * * * * Out amid the common noises of the street he had the feeling as though he had returned from some far island of alien seas into the wonted current of life. He shuddered at the thought of what lay before him. Then he went toward the _Tiergarten_. A red afterglow eddied amid the trees. In the sky gleamed a harmony of delicate blue tints, shading into green. Great white clouds towered above, but rested upon the redness of the sunset. The human stream flooded as always between the flickering, starry street-lamps of the _Tiergartenstrasse_. Each man and woman sought to wrest a last hour of radiance from the dying day. Dreaming, estranged, Stueckrath made his way through the crowd, and hurriedly sought a lonely footpath that disappeared in the darkness of the foliage. Again for a moment the thought seared him: "Take her and rebuild the structure of your life." But when he sought to hold the thought and the accompanying emotion, it was gone. Nothing remained but a flat after taste--the dregs of a weary intoxication. The withered leaves rustled beneath his tread. Beside the path glimmered the leaf-flecked surface of a pool. "It would be a crime, to be sure," he said to himself, "to shatter the peace of those two poor souls. But, after all, life is made up of such crimes. The life of one is the other's death; one's happiness the other's wretchedness. If only I could be sure that some happiness would result, that the sacrifice of their idyl would bring some profit." But he had too often had the discouraging and disappointing experience that he had become incapable of any strong and enduring emotion. What had he to offer that woman, who, in a mixture of passion, and naïve unmorality of soul, had thrown herself at his breast? The shallow dregs of a draught, a power to love that had been wasted in sensual trifling--emptiness, weariness, a longing for sensation and a longing for repose. That was all the gift he could bring her. And how soon would he be satiated! Any sign of remorse or of fear in her would suffice to make her a burden, even a hated burden! "Be her good angel," he said to himself, "and let her be." He whistled and the sound was echoed by the trees. He sought a bench on which to sit down, and lit a cigarette. As the match flared up, he became conscious of the fact that night had fallen. A great quietude rested upon the dying forest. Like the strains of a beautifully perishing harmony the sound of the world's distant strife floated into this solitude. Attentively Stueckrath observed the little point of glowing fire in his hand, from which eddied upward a wreath of fragrant smoke. "Thank God," he said, "that at least remains--one's cigarette." Then he arose and wandered thoughtfully onward. Without knowing how he had come there, he found himself suddenly in front of his mistress's dwelling. Light shimmered in her windows--the raspberry coloured light of red curtains which loose women delight in. "Pah!" he said and shuddered. But, after all, up there a supper table was set for him; there was laughter and society, warmth and a pair of slippers. He opened the gate. A chill wind rattled in the twigs of the trees and blew the dead leaves about in conical whirls. They fluttered along like wandering shadows, only to end in some puddle ... Autumn ... MERRY FOLK The Christmas tree bent heavily forward. The side which was turned to the wall had been hard to reach, and had hence not been adorned richly enough to keep the equilibrium of the tree against the weighty twigs of the front. Papa noted this and scolded. "What would Mamma say if she saw that? You know, Brigitta, that Mamma doesn't love carelessness. If the tree falls over, think how ashamed we shall be." Brigitta flushed fiery red. She clambered up the ladder once more, stretched her arms forth as far as possible, and hung on the other side of the tree all that she could gather. There _had_ been very little there. But then one couldn't see.... And now the lights could be lit. "Now we will look through the presents," said Papa. "Which is Mamma's plate?" Brigitta showed it to him. This time he was satisfied. "It's a good thing that you've put so much marchpane on it," he said. "You know she always loves to have something to give away." Then lie inspected the polished safety lock that lay next to the plate and caressed the hard leaves of the potted palm that shadowed Mamma's place at the Christmas table. "You have painted the flower vase for her?" he asked. Brigitta nodded. "It is exclusively for roses," she said, "and the colours are burned in and will stand any kind of weather." "What the boys have made for Mamma they can bring her themselves. Have you put down the presents from her?" Surely she had done so. For Fritz, there was a fishing-net and a ten-bladed knife; for Arthur a turning lathe with foot-power, and in addition a tall toy ship with a golden-haired nymph as figurehead. "The mermaid will make an impression," said Papa and laughed. There was something else which Brigitta had on her conscience. She stuck her firm little hands under her apron, which fell straight down over her flat little chest, and tripped up and down on her heels. "I may as well betray the secret," she said. "Mamma has something for you, too." Papa was all ear. "What is it?" he asked, and looked over his place at the table, where nothing was noticeable in addition to Brigitta's fancy work. Brigitta ran to the piano and pulled forth from under it a paper wrapped box, about two feet in height, which seemed singularly light for its size. When the paper wrappings had fallen aside, a wooden cage appeared, in which sat a stuffed bird that glittered with all the colours of the rainbow. His plumage looked as though the blue of the sky and the gold of the sun had been caught in it. "A roller!" Papa cried, clapping his hands, and something like joy twitched about his mouth. "And she gives me this rare specimen?" "Yes," said Brigitta, "it was found last autumn in the throstle springe. The manager kept it for me until now. And because it is so beautiful, and, one might really say, a kind of bird of paradise, therefore Mamma gives it to you." Papa stroked her blonde hair and again her face flushed. "So; and now we'll call the boys," he said. "First let me put away my apron," she cried, loosened the pin and threw the ugly black thing under the piano where the cage had been before. Now she stood there in her white communion dress, with its blue ribands, and made a charming little grimace. "You have done quite right," said Papa. "Mamma does not like dark colours. Everything about her is to be bright and gay." Now the boys were permitted to come in. They held their beautifully written Christmas poems carefully in their hands and rubbed their sides timidly against the door-posts. "Come, be cheerful," said Papa. "Do you think your heads will be torn off to-day?" And then he took them both into his arms and squeezed them a little so that Arthur's poetry was crushed right down the middle. That was a misfortune, to be sure. But Papa consoled the boy, saying that he would be responsible since it was his fault. Brueggemann, the long, lean private tutor, now stuck his head in the door, too. He had on his most solemn long coat, nodded sadly like one bidden to a funeral, and sniffed through his nose: "Yes--yes--yes--yes--" "What are you sighing over so pitiably, you old weeping-willow?" Papa said, laughing. "There are only merry folk here. Isn't it so, Brigitta?" "Of course that is so," the girl said. "And here, Doctor, is your Christmas plate." She led him to his place where a little purse of calf's leather peeped modestly out from, under the cakes. "This is your present from Mamma," she continued, handing him a long, dark-covered book. "It is 'The Three Ways to Peace,' which you always admired so much." The learned gentleman hid a tear of emotion but squinted again at the little pocket-book. This represented the fourth way to peace, for he had old beer debts. The servants were now ushered in, too. First came Mrs. Poensgen, the housekeeper, who carried in her crooked, scarred hands a little flower-pot with Alpine violets. "This is for Mamma," she said to Brigitta, who took the pot from her and led her to her own place. There were many good things, among them a brown knitted sweater, such as she had long desired, for in the kitchen an east wind was wont to blow through the cracks. Mrs. Poensgen saw the sweater as rapidly as Brueggemann had seen the purse. And when Brigitta said: "That is, of course, from Mamma," the old woman was not in the least surprised. For in her fifteen years of service she had discovered that the best things always came from Mamma. The two boys, in the meantime, were anxious to ease their consciences and recite their poems. They stood around Papa. He was busy with the inspectors of the estate, and did not notice them for a moment. Then he became aware of his oversight and took the sheets from their hands, laughing and regretting his neglect. Fritz assumed the proper attitude, and Papa did the same, but when the latter saw the heading of the poem: "To his dear parents at Christmastide," he changed his mind and said: "Let's leave that till later when we are with Mamma." And so the boys could go on to their places. And as their joy expressed itself at first in a happy silence, Papa stepped up behind them and shook them and said: "Will you be merry, you little scamps? What is Mamma to think if you're not!" That broke the spell which had held them heretofore. Fritz set his net, and when Arthur discovered a pinnace on his man-of-war, the feeling of immeasurable wealth broke out in jubilation. But this is the way of the heart. Scarcely had they discovered their own wealth but they turned in desire to that which was not for them. Arthur had discovered the shiny patent lock that lay between Mamma's plate and his own. It seemed uncertain whether it was for him or her. He felt pretty well assured that it was not for him; on the other hand, he couldn't imagine what use she could put it to. Furthermore, he was interested in it, since it was made upon a certain model. It is not for nothing that one is an engineer with all one's heart and mind. Now, Fritz tried to give an expert opinion, too. He considered it a combination Chubb lock. Of course that was utter nonsense. But then Fritz would sometimes talk at random. However that may be, this lock was undoubtedly the finest thing of all. And when one turned the key in it, it gave forth a soft, slow, echoing tone, as though a harp-playing spirit sat in its steel body. But Papa came and put an end to their delight. "What are you thinking of, you rascals?" he said in jesting reproach. "Instead of giving poor Mamma something for Christmas, you want to take the little that she has." At that they were mightily ashamed. And Arthur said that of course they had something for Mamma, only they had left it in the hall, so that they could take it at once when they went to her. "Get it in," said Papa, "in order that her place may not look so meager." They ran out and came back with their presents. Fritz had carved a flower-pot holder. It consisted of six parts, which dove-tailed delicately into each other. But that was nothing compared to Arthur's ventilation window, which was woven of horse hair. Papa was delighted. "Now we needn't be ashamed to be seen," he said. Then, too, he explained to them the mechanism of the lock, and told them that its purpose was to guard dear Mamma's flowers better. For recently some of her favourite roses had been stolen and the only way to account for it was that some one had a pass key. "So, and now we'll go to her at last," he concluded. "We have kept her waiting long. And we will be happy with her, for happiness is the great thing, as Mamma says.... Get us the key, Brigitta, to the gate and the chapel." And Brigitta got the key to the gate and the chapel. THEA _A Phantasy over the Samovar_ Chapter I. She is a faery and yet she is none.... But she is my faery surely. She has appeared to me only in a few moments of life when I least expected her. And when I desired to hold her, she vanished. Yet has she often dwelt near me. I felt her in the breath of winter winds sweeping over sunny fields of snow; I breathed her presence in the morning frost that clung, glittering, to my beard; I saw the shadow of her gigantic form glide over the smoky darkness of heaven which hung with the quietude of hopelessness over the dull white fields; I heard the whispering of her voice in the depths of the shining tea urn surrounded by a dancing wreath of spirit flames. But I must tell the story of those few times when she stood bodily before me--changed of form and yet the same--my fate, my future as it should have been and was not, my fear and my trust, my good and my evil star. Chapter II. It was many, many years ago on a late evening near Epiphany. Without whirled the snow. The flakes came fluttering to the windows like endless swarms of moths. Silently they touched the panes and then glided straight down to earth as though they had broken their wings in the impact. The lamp, old and bad for the eyes, stood on the table with its polished brass foot and its raveled green cloth shade. The oil in the tank gurgled dutifully. Black fragments gathered on the wick, which looked like a stake over which a few last flames keep watch. Yonder in the shabby upholstered chair my mother had fallen into a doze. Her knitting had dropped from her hands and lay on the flower-patterned apron. The wool-thread cut a deep furrow in the skin of her rough forefinger. One of the needles swung behind her ear. The samovar with its bellied body and its shining chimney stood on a side table. From time to time a small, pale-blue cloud of steam whirled upward, and a gentle odour of burning charcoal tickled my nostrils. Before me on the table lay open Sallust's "Catilinarian Conspiracy!" But what did I care for Sallust? Yonder on the book shelf, laughing and alluring in its gorgeous cover stood the first novel that I ever read--"The Adventures of Baron Muenchausen!" Ten pages more to construe. Then I was free. I buried my hands deep into my breeches pockets, for I was cold. Only ten pages more. Yearningly I stared at my friend. And behold, the bookbinder's crude ornamentation--ungraceful arabesques of vine leaves which wreathe about broken columns, a rising sun caught in a spider's web of rays--all that configuration begins to spread and distend until it fills the room. The vine leaves tremble in a morning wind; a soft blowing shakes the columns, and higher and higher mounts the sun. Like a dance of flickering torches his rays shoot to and fro, his glistening arms are outstretched as though they would grasp the world and pull it to the burning bosom of the sun. And a great roaring arises in the air, muffled and deep as distant organ strains. It rises to the blare of trumpets, it quivers with the clash of cymbals. Then the body of the sun bursts open. A bluish, phosphorescent flame hisses forth. Upon this flame stands erect in fluttering _chiton_ a woman, fair and golden haired, swan's wings at her shoulders, a harp held in her hand. She sees me and her face is full of laughter. Her laughter sounds simple, childlike, arch. And surely, it is a child's mouth from which it issues. The innocent blue eyes look at me in mad challenge. The firm cheeks glow with the delight of life. Heavens! What is this child's head doing on that body? She throws the harp upon the clouds, sits down on the strings, scratches her little nose swiftly with her left wing and calls out to me: "Come, slide with me!" I stare at her open-mouthed. Then I gather all my courage and stammer: "Who are you?" "My name is Thea," she giggles. "But _who_ are you?" I ask again. "Who? Nonsense. Come, pull me! But no; you can't fly. I'll pull you. That will go quicker." And she arises. Heavens! What a form! Magnificently the hips curve over the fallen girdle; in how noble a line are throat and bosom married. No sculptor can achieve the like. With her slender fingers she grasps the blue, embroidered riband that is attached to the neck of the harp. She grasps it with the gesture of one who is about to pull a sleigh. "Come," she cries again. I dare not understand her. Awkwardly I crouch on the strings. "I might break them," I venture. "You little shaver," she laughs. "Do you know how light you are? And now, hold fast!" I have scarcely time to grasp the golden frame with both hands. I hear a mighty rustling in front of me. The mighty wings unfold. My sleigh floats and billows in the air. Forward and upward goes the roaring flight. Far, far beneath me lies the paternal hut. Scarcely does its light penetrate to my height. Gusts of snow whirl about my forehead. Next moment the light is wholly lost. Dawn breaks through the night. A warm wind meets us and blows upon the strings so that they tremble gently and lament like a sleeping child whose soul is troubled by a dream of loneliness. "Look down!" cried my faery, turning her laughing little head toward me. Bathed in the glow of spring I see an endless carpet of woods and hills, fields and lakes spread out below me. The landscape gleams with a greenish silveriness. My glance can scarcely endure the richness of the miracle. "But it has become spring," I say trembling. "Would you like to go down?" she asks. "Yes, yes." At once we glide downward. "Guess what that is!" she says. An old, half-ruined castle rears its granite walls before me.... A thousand year old ivy wreathes about its gables.... Black and white swallows dart about the roofs.... All about arises a thicket of hawthorn in full bloom.... Wild roses emerge from the darkness, innocently agleam like children's eyes. A sleepy tree bends its boughs above them. There is life at the edge of the ancient terrace where broad-leaved clover grows in the broken urns. A girlish form, slender and lithe, swinging a great, old-fashioned straw hat, having a shawl wound crosswise over throat and waist, has stepped forth from the decaying old gate. She carries a little white bundle under her arm, and looks tentatively to the right and to the left as one who is about to go on a journey. "Look at her," says my friend. The scales fall from my eyes. "That is Lisbeth," I cried out in delight, "who is going to the mayor's farm." Scarcely have I mentioned that farm but a fragrance of roasting meat rises up to me. Clouds of smoke roll toward me, dim flames quiver up from it. There is a sound of roasting and frying and the seething fat spurts high. No wonder; there's going to be a wedding. "Would you like to see the executioner's sword?" my friend asks. A mysterious shudder runs down my limbs. "I'd like to well enough," I say fearfully. A rustle, a soft metallic rattle--and we are in a small, bare chamber.... Now it is night again and the moonlight dances on the rough board walls. "Look there," whispers my friend and points to a plump old chest. Her laughing face has grown severe and solemn. Her body seems to have grown. Noble and lordly as a judge she stands before me. I stretch my neck; I peer at the chest. There it lies, gleaming and silent, the old sword. A beam of moonlight glides along the old blade, drawing a long, straight line. But what do those dark spots mean which have eaten hollows into the metal? "That is blood," says my friend and crosses her arms upon her breast. I shiver but my eyes seem to have grown fast to the terrible image. "Come," says Thea. "I can't." "Do you want it?" "What? The sword?" She nods. "But may you give it away? Does it belong to you?" "I may do anything. Everything belongs to me." A horror grips me with its iron fist. "Give it to me!" I cry shuddering. The iron lightening gleams up and it lies cold and moist in my arms. It seems to me as though the blood upon it began to flow afresh. My arms feel dead, the sword falls from them and sinks upon the strings. These begin to moan and sing. Their sounds are almost like cries of pain. "Take care," cries my friend. "The sword may rend the strings; it is heavier than you." We fly out into the moonlit night. But our flight is slower than before. My friend breathes hard and the harp swings to and fro like a paper kite in danger of fluttering to earth. But I pay no attention to all that. Something very amusing captures my senses. Something has become alive in the moon which floats, a golden disc, amid the clouds. Something black and cleft twitches to and fro on her nether side. I look more sharply and discover a pair of old riding-boots in which stick two long, lean legs. The leather on the inner side of the boots is old and worn and glimmers with a dull discoloured light. "Since when does the moon march on legs through the world?" I ask myself and begin to laugh. And suddenly I see something black on the upper side of the moon--something that wags funnily up and down. I strain my eyes and recognise my old friend Muenchausen's phantastic beard and moustache. He has grasped the edges of the moon's disc with his long lean fingers and laughs, laughs. "I want to go there," I call to my friend. She turns around. Her childlike face has now become grave and madonna like. She seems to have aged by years. Her words echo in my ear like the sounds of broken chimes. "He who carries the sword cannot mount to the moon." My boyish stubbornness revolts. "But I want to get to my friend Muenchausen." "He who carries the sword has no friend." I jump up and tug at the guiding riband. The harp capsises.... I fall into emptiness ... the sword above me ... it penetrates my body ... I fall ... I fall.... "Yes, yes," says my mother, "why do you call so fearfully? I am awake." Calmly she took the knitting-needle from behind her ear, stuck it into the wool and wrapped the unfinished stocking about it. Chapter III. Six years passed. Then Thea met me again. She had been gracious enough to leave her home in the island valley of Avilion, to play the soubrette parts in the theatre of the university town in which I was fencing and drinking for the improvement of my mind. Upon her little red shoes she tripped across the stage. She let her abbreviated skirts wave in the boldest curves. She wore black silk stockings which flowed about her delicate ankles in ravishing lines and disappeared all too soon, just above the knee, under the hem of her skirt. She plaited herself two thick braids of hair the blue ribands of which she loved to chew when the modesty that belonged to her part overwhelmed her. She sucked her thumb, she stuck out her tongue, she squeaked and shrieked and turned up her little nose. And, oh, how she laughed. It was that sweet, sophisticated, vicious soubrette laughter which begins with the musical scale and ends in a long coo. Show me the man among us whom she cannot madden into love with all the traditional tricks of her trade. Show me the student who did not keep glowing odes deep-buried in his lecture notes--deep-buried as the gigantic grief of some heroic soul.... And one afternoon she appeared at the skating rink. She wore a gleaming plush jacket trimmed with sealskin, and a fur cap which sat jauntily over her left ear. The hoar frost clung like diamond dust to the reddish hair that framed her cheeks, and her pink little nose sniffed up the cold air. After she had made a scene with the attendant who helped her on with her shoes, during which such expressions as "idiot," had escaped her sweet lips, she began to skate. A child, just learning to walk, could have done better. We foolish boys stood about and stared at her. The desire to help her waxed in us to the intensity of madness. But when pouting she stretched out her helpless arms at us, we recoiled as before an evil spirit. Not one of us found the courage simply to accept the superhuman bliss for which he had been hungering by day and night for months. Then suddenly--at an awful curve--she caught her foot, stumbled, wavered first forward and then backward and finally fell into the arms of the most diffident and impassioned of us all. And that was I. Yes, that was I. To this day my fists are clenched with rage at the thought that it might have been another. Among those who remained behind as I led her away in triumph there was not one who could not have slain me with a calm smile. Under the impact of the words which she wasted upon my unworthy self, I cast down my eyes, smiling and blushing. Then I taught her how to set her feet and showed off my boldest manoeuvres. I also told her that I was a student in my second semester and that it was my ambition to be a poet. "Isn't that sweet?" she exclaimed. "I suppose you write poetry already?" I certainly did. I even had a play in hand which treated of the fate of the troubadour Bernard de Ventadours in rhymeless, irregular verse. "Is there a part for me in it?" she asked. "No," I answered, "but it doesn't matter. I'll put one in." "Oh, how sweet that is of you!" she cried. "And do you know? You must read me the play. I can help you with my practical knowledge of the stage." A wave of bliss under which I almost suffocated, poured itself out over me. "I have also written poems--to you!" I stammered. The wave carried me away. "Think of that," she said quite kindly instead of boxing my ears. "You must send them to me." "Surely."... And then I escorted her to the door while my friends followed us at a seemly distance like a pack of wolves. The first half of the night I passed ogling beneath her window; the second half at my table, for I wanted to enrich the packet to be sent her by some further lyric pearls. At the peep of dawn I pushed the envelope, tight as a drum with its contents, into the pillar box and went to cool my burning head on the ramparts. On that very afternoon came a violet-tinted little letter which had an exceedingly heady fragrance and bore instead of a seal a golden lyre transfixed by a torch. It contained the following lines: "DEAR POET: "Your verses aren't half bad; only too fiery. I'm really in a hurry to hear your play. My old chaperone is going out this evening. I will be at home alone and will, therefore, be bored. So come to tea at seven. But you must give me your word of honour that you do not give away this secret. Otherwise I won't care for you the least bit. "Your THEA." Thus did she write, I swear it--she, my faery, my Muse, my Egeria, she to whom I desired to look up in adoration to the last drawing of my breath. Swiftly I revised and corrected and recited several scenes of my play. I struck out half a dozen superfluous characters and added a dozen others. At half past six I set out on my way. A thick, icy fog lay in the air. Each person that I met was covered by a cloud of icy breath. I stopped in front of a florist's shop. All the treasures of May lay exposed there on little terraces of black velvet. There were whole beds of violets and bushes of snow-drops. There was a great bunch of long-stemmed roses, carelessly held together by a riband of violet silk. I sighed deeply. I knew why I sighed. And then I counted my available capital: Eight marks and seventy pfennigs. Seven beer checks I have in addition. But these, alas, are good only at my inn--for fifteen pfennigs worth of beer a piece. At last I take courage and step into the shop. "What is the price of that bunch of roses?" I whisper. I dare not speak aloud, partly by reason of the great secret and partly through diffidence. "Ten marks," says the fat old saleswoman. She lets the palm leaves that lie on her lap slip easily into an earthen vessel and proceeds to the window to fetch the roses. I am pale with fright. My first thought is: Run to the inn and try to exchange your checks for cash. You can't borrow anything two days before the first of the month. Suddenly I hear the booming of the tower clock. "Can't I get it a little cheaper?" I ask half-throttled. "Well, did you ever?" she says, obviously hurt. "There are ten roses in the bunch; they cost a mark a piece at this time. We throw in the riband." I am disconsolate and am about to leave the shop. But the old saleswoman who knows her customers and has perceived the tale of love lurking under my whispering and my hesitation, feels a human sympathy. "You might have a few roses taken out," she says. "How much would you care to expend, young man?" "Eight marks and seventy pfennigs," I am about to answer in my folly. Fortunately it occurs to me that I must keep out a tip for her maid. The ladies of the theatre always have maids. And I might leave late. "Seven marks," I answer therefore. With quiet dignity the woman extracts _four_ roses from my bunch and I am too humble and intimidated to protest. But my bunch is still rich and full and I am consoled to think that a wooing prince cannot do better. Five minutes past seven I stand before her door. Need I say that my breath gives out, that I dare not knock, that the flowers nearly fall from my nerveless hand? All that is a matter of course to anyone who has ever, in his youth, had dealings with faeries of Thea's stamp. It is a problem to me to this day how I finally did get into her room. But already I see her hastening toward me with laughter and burying her face in the roses. "O you spendthrift!" she cries and tears the flowers from my hand in order to pirouette with them before the mirror. And then she assumes a solemn expression and takes me by a coat button, draws me nearer and says: "So, and now you may kiss me as a reward." I hear and cannot grasp my bliss. My heart seems to struggle out at my throat, but hard before me bloom her lips. I am brave and kiss her. "Oh," she says, "your beard is full of snow." "My beard! Hear it, ye gods! Seriously and with dignity she speaks of my beard." A turbid sense of being a kind of Don Juan or Lovelace arises in me. My self-consciousness assumes heroic dimensions, and I begin to regard what is to come with a kind of daemonic humour. The mist that has hitherto blurred my vision departs. I am able to look about me and to recognise the place where I am. To be sure, that is a new and unsuspected world--from the rosy silken gauze over the toilet mirror that hangs from the beaks of two floating doves, to the row of exquisite little laced boots that stands in the opposite corner. From the candy boxes of satin, gold, glass, saffron, ivory, porcelain and olive wood which adorn the dresser to the edges of white billowy skirts which hang in the next room but have been caught in the door--I see nothing but miracles, miracles. A maddening fragrance assaults my senses, the same which her note exhaled. But now that fragrance streams from her delicate, graceful form in its princess gown of pale yellow with red bows. She dances and flutters about the room with so mysterious and elf-like a grace as though she were playing Puck in the "Midsummer Night's Dream," the part in which she first enthralled my heart. Ah, yes, she meant to get tea. "Well, why do you stand there so helplessly, you horrid creature? Come! Here is a tablecloth, here are knives and forks. I'll light the spirit lamp in the meantime." And she slips by me not without having administered a playful tap to my cheek and vanishes in the dark room of mystery. I am about to follow her, but out of the darkness I hear a laughing voice: "Will you stay where you are, Mr. Curiosity?" And so I stand still on the threshold and lay my head against those billowy skirts. They are fresh and cool and ease my burning forehead. Immediately thereafter I see the light of a match flare up in the darkness, which for a moment sharply illuminates the folds of her dress and is then extinguished. Only a feeble, bluish flame remains. This flame plays about a polished little urn and illuminates dimly the secrets of the forbidden sanctuary. I see bright billowy garments, bunches of flowers and wreaths of leaves, with long, silken, shimmering bands--and suddenly the Same flares high.... "Now I've spilt the alcohol," I hear the voice of my friend. But her laughter is full of sarcastic arrogance. "Ah, that'll be a play of fire!" Higher and higher mount the flames. "Come, jump into it!" she cries out to me, and instead of quenching the flame she pours forth more alcohol into the furious conflagration. "For heaven's sake!" I cry out. "Do you know now who I am?" she giggles. "I'm a witch!" With jubilant screams she loosens her hair of reddish gold which now falls about her with a flaming glory. She shows me her white sharp teeth and with a sudden swift movement she springs into the flame which hisses to the very ceiling and clothes the chamber in a garb of fire. I try to call for help, but my throat is tied, my breath stops. I am throttled by smoke and flames. Once more I hear her elfin laughter, but now it comes to me from subterranean depths. The earth has opened; new flames arise and stretch forth fiery arms toward me. A voice cries from the fires: "Come! Come!" And the voice is like the sound of bells. Then suddenly the night enfolds me. * * * * * The witchery has fled. Badly torn and scarred I find myself again on the street. Next to me on the ground lies my play. "Did you not mean to read that to some one?" I ask myself. A warm and gentle air caresses my fevered face. A blossoming lilac bush inclines its boughs above me and from afar, there where the dawn is about to appear, I hear the clear trilling of larks. I dream no longer.... But the spring has come.... Chapter IV And again the years pass by. It was on an evening during the carnival season and the world, that is, the world that begins with the baron and ends with the stockjobber, floated upon waves of pleasure as bubbles of fat float on the surface of soup. Whoever did not wallow in the mire was sarcastically said not to be able to sustain himself on his legs. There were those among my friends who had not gone to bed till morning for thirty days. Some of them slept only to the strains of a world-famous virtuoso; others only in the cabs that took them from dinner to supper. Whenever three of them met, one complained of shattered nerves, the second of catarrh of the stomach, the third of both. That was the pace of our amusement. Of mine, too. It was nearly one o'clock in the morning. I sat in a _café_, that famous _café_ which unacknowleged geniuses affirm to be the very centre of all intellectual life. No spot on earth is said to have so fruitful an effect upon one's genius. Yet, strangely enough, however eager for inspiration I might lounge about its red upholstery, however ardently aglow for inspiration I might drink expensive champagnes there, yet the supreme, immense, all-liberating thought did not come. Nor would that thought come to me to-day. Less than ever, in fact. Red circles danced before my eyes and in my veins hammered the throbs of fever. It wasn't surprising. For I, too, could scarcely remember to have slept recently. It is an effort to raise my lids. The hand that would stroke the hair with the gesture of genius--alas, how thin the hair is getting--sinks down in nerveless weakness. But I may not go home. Mrs. Elsbeth--we bachelors call her so when her husband is not by--Mrs. Elsbeth has ordered me to be here.... She intended to drop in at midnight on her return from dinner with her husband. The purpose of her coming is to discuss with me the surprises which I am to think up for her magic festival. She is exacting enough, the sweet little woman, but the world has it that I love her. And in order to let the world be in the right a man is not averse to making a fool of herself. The stream of humanity eddies about me. Like endless chains rotating in different directions, thus seem the two lines of those who enter and those who depart. There are dandies in coquettish furs, their silk hats low on their foreheads, their canes held vertically in their pockets. There are fashionable ladies in white silk opera cloaks set with ermine, their eyes peering from behind Spanish veils in proud curiosity. And all are illuminated by the spirit of festivity. Also one sees shop-girls, dragged here by some chance admirer. They wear brownish cloaks, ornamented with knots--the kind that looks worn the day it is taken from the shop. And there are ladies of that species whom one calls "ladies" only between quotation marks. These wear gigantic picture hats trimmed with rhinestones. The hems of their dresses are torn and flecked with last season's mud. There are students who desire to be intoxicated through the lust of the eye; artists who desire to regain a lost sobriety of vision; journalists who find stuff for leader copy in the blue despatches that are posted here; Bohemians and loungers of every station, typical of every degree of sham dignity and equally sham depravity. They all intermingle in manicoloured waves. It is the mad masque of the metropolis.... A friend comes up to me, one of the three hundred bosom friends with whom I am wont to swap shady stories. He is pallid with sleeplessness, deep horizontal lines furrow his forehead, his brows are convulsively drawn. So we all look.... "Look here," he says, "you weren't at the Meyers' yesterday." "I was invited elsewhere." "Where?" I've got to think a minute before I can remember the name. We all suffer from weakness in the head. "Aha," he cries. "I'm told it was swell. Magnificent women ... and that fellow ... er ... thought reader and what's her name ... yes ... the Sembrich ... swell ... you must introduce me there some day...." Stretching his legs he sinks down at my side on the sofa. Silence. My bosom friend and I have exhausted the common stock of interests. He has lit a cigarette and is busy catching the white clouds which he blows from his nose with his mouth. This employment seems to satisfy his intellect wholly. I, for my part, stare at the ceiling. There the golden bodies of snakes wind themselves in mad arabesques through chains of roses. The pretentious luxury offends my eye. I look farther, past the candelabrum of crystal which reflects sharp rainbow tints over all, past the painted columns whose shafts end in lily leaves as some torturing spear does in flesh. My glance stops yonder on the wall where a series of fresco pictures has been painted. The forms of an age that was drunk with beauty look down on me in their victorious calm. They are steeped in the glow of a southern heaven. The rigid splendour of the marble walls is contrasted with the magnificent flow of long garments. It is a Roman supper. Rose-crowned men lean upon Indian cushions, holding golden beakers in their right hands. Women in yielding nakedness cower at their feet. Through the open door streams in a Bacchic procession with fauns and panthers, the drunken Pan in its midst. Brown-skinned slaves with leopard skins about their loins make mad music. Among them is one who at once makes me forget the tumult. She leans her firm, naked body surreptitiously against the pillar. Her form is contracted with weariness. Thoughtlessly and with tired lips she blows the _tibia_ which her nerveless hands threaten to drop. Her cheeks are yellow and fallen in, her eyes are glassy, but upon her forehead are seen the folds of lordship and about her mouth wreaths a stony smile of irony. Who is she? Whence does she come? I ask myself. But I feel a dull thud against my shoulder. My bosom friend has fallen asleep and is using me as a pillow. "Look here, you!" I call out to him, for I have for the moment forgotten his name. "Go home and go to bed." He starts up and gazes at me with swimming eyes. "Do you mean me?" he stutters. "That's a good joke." And next moment he begins to snore. I hide him as well as possible with my broad back and bend down over the glittering samovar before me. The fragrant steam prickles my nose. It is time that the little woman turn up if I am to amuse her guests. I think of the brown-skinned woman yonder in the painting. I open my eyes. Merciful heaven! What is that? For the woman stands erect now in all the firm magnificence of her young limbs, presses her clenched fists against her forehead and stares down at me with glowing eyes. And suddenly she hurls the flutes from her in a long curve and cries with piercing voice: "No more ... I will play no more!" It is the voice of a slave at the moment of liberation. "For heaven's sake, woman!" I cry. "What are you doing? You will be slain; you will be thrown to the wild beasts!" She points about her with a gesture that is full of disgust and contempt. Then I see what she means. All that company has fallen asleep. The men lie back with open mouths, the goblets still in their hands. Golden cascades of wine fall glittering upon the marble. The women writhe in these pools of wine. But even in the intoxication of their dreams they try to guard their elaborate hair dress. The whole mad band, musicians and animals, lies there with limbs dissolved, panting for air, overwhelmed by heavy sleep. "The way is free!" cries the flute player jubilantly and buries her twitching fingers into the flesh of her breasts. "What is there to hinder my flight?" "Whither do you flee, mad woman?" I ask. A gleam of dreamy ecstasy glides over her grief-worn face which seems to flush and grow softer of outline. "Home--to freedom," she whispers down to me and her eyes burn. "Where is your home?" "In the desert," she cries. "Here I play for their dances; there I am queen. My name is Thea and it is resonant through storms. They chained me with golden chains; they lured me with golden speeches until I left my people and followed them to their prison that is corroded with lust.... Ah, if you knew with my knowledge, you would not sit here either.... But the slave of the moment knows not liberty." "I have known it," I say drearily and let my chin sink upon the table. "And you are here?" Contemptuously she turns her back to me. "Take me with you, Thea," I cry, "take me with you to freedom." "Can you still endure it." "I will endure the glory of freedom or die of it." "Then come." A brown arm that seems endless stretches down to me. An iron grasp lifts me upward. Noise and lights dislimn in the distance. Our way lies through great, empty, pillared halls which curve above us like twilit cathedrals. Great stairs follow which fall into black depths like waterfalls of stone. Thence issues a mist, green with silvery edges.... A dizziness seizes me as I strive to look downward. I have a presentiment of something formless, limitless. A vague awe and terror fill me. I tremble and draw back but an alien hand constrains me. We wander along a moonlit street. To the right and left extend pallid plains from which dark cypress trees arise, straight as candles. It is all wide and desolate like those halls. In the far distance arise sounds like half smothered cries of the dying, but they grow to music. Shrill jubilation echoes between the sounds and it too grows to music. But this music is none other than the roaring of the storm which lashes us on when we dare to faint. And we wander, wander ... days, weeks, months. Who knows how long? Night and day are alike. We do not rest; nor speak. The road is far behind us. We wander upon trackless wastes. Stonier grows the way, an eternal up and down over cliffs and through chasms.... The edges of the weathered stones become steps for our feet. Breathlessly we climb the peaks. Beyond them we clatter into new abysms. My feet bleed. My limbs jerk numbly like those of a jumping-jack. An earthy taste is on my lips. I have long lost all sense of progress. One cliff is like another in its jagged nakedness; one abysm dark and empty as another. Perhaps I wander in a circle. Perhaps this brown hand is leading me wildly astray, this hand whose grasp has penetrated my flesh, and has grown into it like the fetter of a slave. Suddenly I am alone. I do not know how it came to pass. I drag myself to a peak and look about me. There spreads in the crimson glow of dawn the endless, limitless rocky desert--an ocean turned to stone. Jagged walls tower in eternal monotony into the immeasurable distance which is hid from me by no merciful mist. Out of invisible abysms arise sharp peaks. A storm from the south lashes their flanks from which the cracked stone fragments roll to become the foundations of new walls. The sun, hard and sharp as a merciless eye, arises slowly in this parched sky and spreads its cloak of fire over this dead world. The stone upon which I sit begins to glow. The storm drives splinters of stone into my flesh. A fiery stream of dust mounts toward me. Madness descends upon me like a fiery canopy. Shall I wander on? Shall I die? I wander on, for I am too weary to die. At last, far off, on a ledge of rock, I see the figure of a man. Like a black spot it interrupts this sea of light in which the very shadows have become a crimson glow. An unspeakable yearning after this man fills my soul. For his steps are secure. His feet are scarcely lifted, yet quietly does he fare down the chasms and up the heights. I want to rush to meet him but a great numbness holds me back. He comes nearer and nearer. I see a pallid, bearded countenance with high cheek-bones, and emaciated cheeks.... The mouth, delicate and gentle as a girl's, is drawn in a quiet smile. A bitterness that has grown into love, into renunciation, even into joy, shines in this smile. And at the sight of it I feel warm and free. And then I see his eye which is round and sharp as though open through the watches of many nights. With moveless clearness of vision he measures the distances, and is careless of the way which his foot finds without groping. In this look lies a dreaming glow which turns to waking coldness. A tremour of reverence seizes my body. And now I know who this man is who fares through the desert in solitary thought, and to whom horror has shown the way to peace. He looks past me! How could it be different? I dare not call to him. Movelessly I stare after him until his form has vanished in the guise of a black speck behind the burning cliffs. Then I wander farther ... and farther ... and farther.... * * * * * It was on a grayish yellow day of autumn that I sat again after an interval on the upholstery of the famous _café_, I looked gratefully up at the brown slave-girl in the picture who blew upon her flutes as sleepily and dully as ever. I had come to see her. I start for I feel a tap on my shoulder. In brick-red gloves, his silk-hat over his forehead, a little more tired and world-worn than ever, that bosom friend whose name I have now definitely forgotten stood before me. "Where the devil have you been all this time?" he asks. "Somewhere," I answer laughing. "In the desert." ... "Gee! What were you looking for there?" "_Myself_."... Chapter V. And ever swifter grows the beat of time's wing. My breath can no longer keep the same pace. Thoughtless enjoyment of life has long yielded to a life and death struggle. And I am conquered. Wretchedness and want have robbed me of my grasping courage and of my laughing defiance. The body is sick and the soul droops its wings. * * * * * Midnight approaches. The smoky lamp burns more dimly and outside on the streets life begins to die out. Only from time to time the snow crunches and groans under the hurrying foot of some belated and freezing passer-by. The reflection of the gas lamps rests upon the frozen windows as though a yellow veil had been drawn before them. In the room hovers a dull heat which weighs upon my brain and even amid shivering wrings the sweat from my pores. I had the fire started again toward night for I was cold. Now I am no longer cold. "Take care of yourself," my friend the doctor said to me, "you have worked yourself to pieces and must rest." "Rest, rest"--the word sounds like a gnome's irony from all the corners of my room, for my work is heaping up on all sides and threatens to smother me. "Work! Work!" This is the voice of conscience. It is like the voice of a brutal waggoner that would urge a dead ass on to new efforts. My paper is in its place. For hours I have sat and stared at it brooding. It is still empty. A disagreeably sweetish odour which arises impudently to my nose makes me start. There stands the pitcher of herb tea which my landlady brought in at bedtime. The dear woman. "Man must sweat," she had declared. "If the whole man gets into a sweat then the evil humours are exuded, and the healthy sap gets a chance to circulate until one is full of it." And saying that she wiped her greasy lips for she likes to eat a piece of rye bread with goose grease before going to bed. Irritatedly I push the little pitcher aside, but its grayish green steam whirls only the more pertinaciously about me. The clouds assume strange forms, which tower over each other and whirl into each other like the phantoms over a witch's cauldron. And at last the fumes combine into a human form, at first misty and without outlines but gradually becoming more sharply defined. Gray, gray, gray. An aged woman. So she seems, for she creeps along by the help of a crutch. But over her face is a veil which falls to the ground over her arms like the folded wings of a bat. I begin to laugh, for spirits have long ceased to inspire me with reverence. "Is your name by any chance Thea, O lovely, being?" I ask. "My name is Thea," she answers and her voice is weary, gentle and a little hoarse. A caressing shimmer as of faintly blue velvet, an insinuating fragrance as of dying mignonette--both lie in this voice. The voice fills my heart. But I won't be taken in, least of all by some trite ghost which is in the end only a vision of one's own sick brain. "It seems that the years have not changed you for the better, charming Thea," I say and point sarcastically to the crutch. "My wings are broken and I am withered like yourself." I laugh aloud. "So that is the meaning of this honoured apparition! A mirror of myself--spirit of ruin--symbolic poem on the course of my ideas. Pshaw! I know that trick. Every brainless Christmas poet knows it, too. You must come with a more powerful charm, O Thea, spirit of the herb tea! Good-bye. My time is too precious to be wasted by allegories." "What have you to do that is so important?" she asks, and I seem to see the gleam of her eyes behind the folds of the veil, whether in laughter or in grief I cannot tell. "If I have nothing more to do, I must die," I answer and feel with joy how my defiance steels itself in these words. "And that seems important to you?" "Moderately so." "Important to whom?" "To myself, I should think, if to no one else." "And your creditor--the world?" That was the last straw. "The world, oh, yes, the world. And what, pray, do I owe it?" "Love." "Love? To that harlot? Because it sucked the fire from my veins and poured poison therein instead? Behold me here--wrecked, broken, a plaything of any wave. That is what the world has made of me!" "That is what you have made of yourself! ... The world came to you as a smiling guide.... With gentle finger it touched your shoulder and desired you to follow. But you were stubborn. You went your own way in dark and lonely caverns where the laughing music of the fight that sounds from above becomes a discordant thunder. You were meant to be wise and merry; you became dull and morose." "Very well; if that is what I became, at least the grave will release me from my condition." "Test yourself thoroughly." "What is the use of that now? Life has crippled me.... What of joy it has to offer becomes torture to me.... I am cut loose from all the kindly bonds that bind man to man.... I cannot bear hatred, neither can I bear love.... I tremble at a thousand dangers that have never threatened and will never threaten me. A very straw has become a cliff to me against which I founder and against which my weary limbs are dashed in pieces.... And this is the worst of all. My vision sees clearly that it is but a straw before which my strength writhes in the dust.... You have come at the right time, Thea. Perhaps you carry in the folds of your robe some little potion that will help me to hurry across the verge." Again I see a gleam behind the veil--a smiling salutation from some far land where the sun is still shining. And my heart seems about to burst under that gleam. But I control myself and continue to gaze at her with bitter defiance. "It needs no potion," she says and raises her right hand. I have never seen such a hand.... It seem to be without bones, formed of the petals of flowers. The hand might seem deformed, dried and yet swollen as with disease, were it not so delicate, so radiant, so lily-like. An unspeakable yearning for this poor, sick hand overcomes me. I want to fall on my knees before it and press my lips to it in adoration. But already the hand lays itself softly upon my hair. Gentle and cool as a flake of snow it rests there. But from moment to moment it waxes heavier until the weight of mountains seems to lie upon my head. I can bear the pressure no longer. I sink ... I sink ... the earth opens.... Darkness is all about me.... Recovering consciousness, I find myself lying in a bed surrounded by impenetrable night. "One of my stupid dreams," I say to myself and grope for the matches on my bed side table to see the time.... But my hand strikes hard against a board that rises diagonally at my shoulder. I grope farther and discover that my couch is surrounded by a cloak of wood. And that cloak is so narrow, so narrow that I can scarcely raise my head a few inches without knocking against it. "Perhaps I am buried," I say to myself. "Then indeed my wish would have fulfilled itself promptly." A fresh softly prickling scent of flowers, as of heather and roses, floats to me. "Aha," I say to myself, "the odour of the funeral flowers. My favourites have been chosen. That was kind of people." And, as I turn my head the cups of flowers nestle soft and cool against my cheek. "You are buried amid roses," I say to myself, "as you always desired." And then I touch my breast to discover what gift has been placed upon my heart. My fingers touch hard, jagged leaves. "What is that?" I ask myself in surprise. And then I laugh shrilly. It is a wreath of laurel leaves which has been pressed with its rough, woodlike leaves between my body and the coffin lid. "Now you have everything that you so ardently desired, you fool of fame," I cry out and a mighty irony takes hold of me. And then I stretch out my legs until my feet reach the end of the coffin, nestle my head amid the flowers, and make ready to enjoy my great peace with all my might. I am not in the least frightened or confounded, for I know that air to breathe will never again be lacking now for I need it no longer. I am dead, properly and honestly dead. Nothing remains now but to flow peacefully and gently into the realm of the unconscious, and to let the dim dream of the All surge over me to eternity. "Good-night, my dear former fellow-creatures," I say and turn contemptuously on my other side. "You can all go to the dickens for all I care." And then I determine to lie still as a mouse and discover whether I cannot find some food for the malice that yet is in me, by listening to man's doings upon the wretched earth above me. At first I hear nothing but a dull roaring. But that may proceed as well from the subterranean waters that rush through the earth somewhere in my neighbourhood. But no, the sound comes from above. And from time to time I also hear a rattling and hissing as of dried peas poured out over a sieve. "Of course, it's wretched weather again," I say and rub my hands comfortably, not, to be sure, without knocking my elbows against the side of the coffin. "They could have made this place a little roomier," I say to myself. But when it occurs to me that, in my character of an honest corpse, I have no business to move at all if I want to be a credit to my new station. But the spirit of contradiction in me at once rebels against this imputation. "There are no classes in the grave and no prejudices," I cry. "In the grave we are all alike, high and low, poor and rich. The rags of the beggar, my masters, have here just the same value as the purple cloak that falls from the shoulders of a king. Here even the laurel loses its significance as the crown of fame and is given to many a one." I cease, for my fingers have discovered a riband that hangs from the wreath. Upon it, I am justified in assuming, there is written some flattering legend. The letters are just raised enough to be indistinctly felt. I am about to call for matches, but remember just in time that it is forbidden to strike a light in the grave or rather, that it is contrary to the very conception of the grave to be illuminated. This thought annoys me and I continue: "The laurel is given here not to the distinguished alone. I must correct that expression. Are not we corpses distinguished _per se_ as compared to the miserable plebeian living? Is not this noble rest in which we dwell an unmistakable sign of true aristocracy? And the laurel that is given to the dead, that laurel, my masters, fills me with as high a pride as would the diadem of a king." I ceased. For I could rightly expect enthusiastic applause at the close of this effective passage. But as everything remained silent I turned my thoughts once more upon myself, and considered, too, that my finest speeches would find no public here. "It is, besides, in utter contradiction to the conception of death to deliver speeches," I said to myself, but at once I began another in order to establish an opposition against myself. "Conception? What is a conception? What do I care for conceptions here? I am dead. I have earned the sacred right to disregard such things. If those two-penny living creatures cannot imagine the grave otherwise than dark or the dead otherwise than dumb--why, I surely have no need to care for that." In the meantime my fingers had scratched about on the riband in the vain hope of inferring from the gilt and raised letters on the silk their form and perhaps the significance of the legend. My efforts were, however, without success. Hence I continued outraged: "In order to speak first of the conception of the grave as dark, I should like to ask any intelligent and expert corpse: 'Why is the grave necessarily dark?' Should not we who are dead rather demand of an age that has made such enormous progress in illumination, which has not only invented gas and electric lighting and complied with the regulations for the illumination of streets, but has at a slight cost succeeded in giving to every corner of the world the very light of day--may we not demand of such an age that it put an end to the old-fashioned darkness of the grave? It would seem as if the most elementary piety would constrain the living to this improvement. But when did the living ever feel any piety? We must enforce from them the necessaries of a worthy existence in death. Gentlemen, I close with the last, or, I had better say, the first words of our great Goethe whose genius with characteristic power of divination foresaw the unworthy condition of the inner grave and the necessities of a truly noble and liberal minded corpse. For what else could be the meaning of that saying which I herewith inscribe upon our banner: 'Light, more light!' That must henceforth be our device and our battlecry." This time, too, silence was my only answer. Whence I inferred that in the grave there is neither striving nor crying out. Nevertheless I continued to amuse myself and made many a speech against the management of the cemetery, against the insufficiency of the method of flat pressure upon the dead now in use, and similar outrages. In the meantime the storm above had raged and the rain lashed its fill and a peaceful silence descended upon all things. Only from time to time did I hear a short, dull uniform thunder, which I could not account for until it occurred to me that it was produced by the footsteps of passers-by, the noise of which was thus echoed and multiplied in the earth. And then suddenly I heard the sound of human voices. The sound came vertically down to my head. People seemed to be standing at my grave. "Much I care about you," I said, and was about to continue to reflect on my epoch-making invention which is to be called: _Helminothanatos_,' that is to say, 'Death by Worms' and which, so soon as it is completed is to be registered in the patent office as number 156,763. But my desire to know what was thought of me after my death left me no rest. Hence I did not hesitate long to press my ear to the inner roof of the coffin in order that the sound might better reach me thus. Now I recognised the voices at once. They belonged to two men to whom I had always been united by bonds of the tenderest sympathy and whom I was proud to call my friends. They had always assured me of the high value which they set upon me and that their blame--with which they had often driven me to secret despair--proceeded wholly from helpful and unselfish love. "Poor devil," one of them said, in a tone of such humiliating compassion that I was ashamed of myself in the very grave. "He had to bite the dust pretty early," the other sighed. "But it was better so both for him and for myself. I could not have held him above water much longer." ... From sheer astonishment I knocked my head so hard against the side of the coffin that a bump remained. "When did you ever hold me above water?" I wanted to cry out but I considered that they could not hear me. Then the first one spoke again. "I often found it hard enough to aid him with my counsel without wounding his vanity. For we know how vain he was and how taken with himself." "And yet he achieved little enough," the other answered. "He ran after women and sought the society of inferior persons for the sake of their flattery. It always astonished me anew when he managed to produce something of approximately solid worth. For neither his character nor his intelligence gave promise of it." "In your wonderful charity you are capable of finding something excellent even in his work," the other replied. "But let us be frank: The only thing he sometimes succeeded in doing was to flatter the crude instincts of the mob. True earnestness or conviction he never possessed." "I never claimed either for him," the first eagerly broke in. "Only I didn't want to deny the poor fellow that bit of piety which is demanded. _De mortuis_----" And both voices withdraw into the distance. "O you grave-robbers!" I cried and shook my fist after them. "Now I know what your friendship was worth. Now it is clear to me how you humiliated me upon all my ways, and how when I came to you in hours of depression you administered a kick in order that you might increase in stature at my expense! Oh, if I could only."... I ceased laughing. "What silly wishes, old boy!" I admonished myself. "Even if you could master your friends; your enemies would drive you into the grave a thousand times over." And I determined to devote my whole thought henceforth to the epoch-making invention of my impregnating fluid called "_Helminothanatos"_ or "Death by Worms." But new voices roused me from my meditation. I listened. "That's where what's his name is buried," said one. "Quite right," said the other. "I gave him many a good hit while he was among us--more than I care to think about to-day. But he was an able fellow. His worst enemy couldn't deny that." I started and shuddered. I knew well who he was: my bitterest opponent who tortured me so long with open lashes and hidden stabs that I almost ended by thinking I deserved nothing else. And he had a good word to say for me--_he?_ His voice went on. "To-day that he is out of our way we may as well confess that we always liked him a great deal. He took life and work seriously and never used an indecent weapon against us. And if the tactics of war had not forced us to represent his excellences as faults, we might have learned a good deal from him." "It's a great pity," said the other. "If, before everything was at sixes and sevens, he could have been persuaded to adopt our views, we could perhaps have had the pleasure of receiving him into our fighting lines." "With open arms," was the answer. And then in solemn tone: "Peace be to his ashes." The other echoed: "Peace ..." And then they went on.... I hid my face in my hands. My breast seemed to expand and gently, very gently something began to beat in it which had rested in silent numbness since I lay down here. "So that is the nature of the world's judgment," I said to myself. "I should have known that before. With head proudly erect I would have gone my way, uninfluenced by the glitter of false affection as by the blindness of wildly aiming hatred. I would have shaken praise and blame from me with the same joyous laugh and sought the norm of achievement in myself alone. Oh, if only I could live once more! If only there were a way out of these accursed six boards!" In impotent rage I pounded the coffin top with my fist and only succeeded in running a splinter into my finger. And then there came over me once more, even though it came hesitatingly and against my will, a delightful consciousness of that eternal peace into which I had entered. "Would it be worth the trouble after all," I said to myself, "to return to the fray once more, even if I were a thousand times certain of victory? What is this victory worth? Even if I succeed in being the first to mount some height untrod hitherto by any human foot, yet the next generation will climb on my shoulders and hurl me down into the abysm of oblivion. There I could lie, lonely and helpless, until the six boards are needed again to help me to my happiness. And so let me be content and wait until that thing in my breast which has began to beat so impudently, has become quiet once more." I stretched myself out, folded my hands, and determined to hold no more incendiary speeches and thus counteract the trade of the worms, but rather to doze quietly into the All. Thus I lay again for a space. Then arose somewhere a strange musical sound, which penetrated my dreamy state but partially at first before it awakened me wholly from my slumber. What was that? A signal of the last day? "It's all the same to me," I said and stretched myself. "Whether it's heaven or hell--it will be a new experience." But the sound that had awakened me had nothing in common with the metallic blare of trumpets which religious guides have taught us to expect. Gentle and insinuating, now like the tones of flutes played by children, now like the sobbing of a girl's voice, now like the caressing sweetness with which a mother speaks to her little child--so infinitely manifold but always full of sweet and yearning magic--alien and yet dear and familiar--such was the music that came to my ear. "Where have I heard that before?" I asked myself, listening. And as I thought and thought, an evening of spring arose before my soul--an evening out of a far and perished time.... I had wandered along the bank of a steaming river. The sunset which shone through the jagged young leaves spread a purple carpet over the quiet waters upon which only a swift insect would here and there create circular eddies. At every step I took the dew sprang up before me in gleaming pearls, and a fragrance of wild thyme and roses floated through the air.... There it must have been that I heard this music for the first time. And now it was all clear: The nightingale was singing ... the nightingale. And so spring has come to the upper world. Perhaps it is an evening of May even as that which my spirit recalls. Blue flowers stand upon the meadows.... Goldenrod and lilac mix their blossoms into gold and violet wreaths.... Like torn veils the delicate flakings of the buttercups fly through the twilight.... Surely from the village sounds the stork's rattle ... and surely the distant strains of an accordion are heard.... But the nightingale up there cares little what other music may be made. It sobs and jubilates louder and louder, as if it knew that in the poor dead man's bosom down here the heart beats once more stormily against his side. And at every throb of that heart a hot stream glides through my veins. It penetrates farther and farther until it will have filled my whole body. It seems to me as though I must cry out with yearning and remorse. But my dull stubbornness arises once more: "You have what you desired. So lie here and be still, even though you should be condemned to hear the nightingale's song until the end of the world." The song has grown much softer. Obviously the human steps that now encircle my grave with their sullen resonance have driven the bird to a more distant bush. "Who may it be," I ask myself, "that thinks of wandering to my place of rest on an evening of May when the nightingales are singing." And I listen anew. It sounds almost as though some one up there were weeping. Did I not go my earthly road lonely and unloved? Did I not die in the house of a stranger? Was I not huddled away in the earth by strangers? Who is it that comes to weep at my grave? And each one of the tears that is shed above there falls glowing upon my breast.... And my breast rises in a convulsive struggle but the coffin lid pushes it back. I strain my head against the wood to burst it, but it lies upon me like a mountain. My body seems to burn. To protect it I burrow in the saw-dust which fills mouth and eyes with its biting chaff. I try to cry out but my throat is paralysed. I want to pray but instead of thoughts the lightnings of madness shoot through my brain. I feel only one thing that threatens to dissolve all my body into a stream of flame and that penetrates my whole being with immeasurable might: "I must live ... live...!" There, in my sorest need, I think of the faery who upon my desire brought me by magic to my grave. "Thea, I beseech you. I have sinned against the world and myself. It was cowardly and slothful to doubt of life so long as a spark of life and power glowed in my veins. Let me arise, I beseech you, from the torments of hell--let me arise!" And behold: the boards of the coffin fall from me like a wornout garment. The earth rolls down on both sides of me and unites beneath me in order to raise my body. I open my eyes and perceive myself to be lying in dark grass. Through the bent limbs of trees the grave stars look down upon me. The black crosses stand in the evening glow, and past the railings of grave-plots my eyes blink out into the blossoming world. The crickets chirp about me in the grass, and the nightingale begins to sing anew. Half dazed I pull myself together. Waves of fragrance and melting shadows extend into the distance. Suddenly I see next to me on the grave mound a crouching gray figure. Between a veil tossed back I see a countenance, pallid and lovely, with smooth dark hair and a madonna-like face. About the softly smiling mouth is an expression of gentle loftiness such as is seen in those martyrs who joyfully bleed to death from the mightiness of their love. Her eyes look down upon me in smiling peace, clear and soulful, the measure of all goodness, the mirror of all beauty. I know the dark gleam of those eyes, I know that gray, soft veil, I know that poor sick hand, white as a blossom, that leans upon a crutch. It is she, my faery, whose tears have awakened me from the dead. All my defiance vanishes. I lie upon the earth before her and kiss the hem of her garment. And she inclines her head and stretches her hand out to me. With the help of that hand I arise. Holding this poor, sick hand, I stride joyfully back into life. Chapter VI. I sought my faery and I found her not. I sought her upon the flowery fields of the South and on the ragged moors of the Northland; in the eternal snow of Alpine ridges and in the black folds of the nether earth; in the iridescent glitter of the boulevard and in the sounding desolation of the sea.... And I found her not. I sought her amid the tobacco smoke and the cheap applause of popular assemblies and on the vanity fair of the professional social patron; in the brilliance of glittering feasts I sought her and in the twilit silence of domestic comfort.... And I found her not. My eye thirsted for the sight of her but in my memory there was no mark by which I could have recognised her. Each image of her was confused and obliterated by the screaming colours of a new epoch. Good and evil in a thousand shapes had come between me and my faery. And the evil had grown into good for me, the good into evil. But the sum of evil was greater than the sum of good. I bent low under the burden, and for a long space my eyes saw nothing but the ground to which I clung. And therefore did I need my faery. I needed her as a slave needs liberation, as the master needs a higher master, as the man of faith needs heaven. In her I sought my resurrection, my strength to live, my defiant illusion. And therefore was I famished for her. My ear listened to all the confusing noises that were about me, but the voice of my faery was not among them. My hand groped after alien hands, but the faery hand was not among them. Nor would I have recognised it. And then I went in quest of her to all the ends of the earth. First I went to a philosopher. "You know everything, wise man," I said, "can you tell me how I may find my faery again?" The philosopher put the tips of his five outstretched fingers against his vaulted forehead and, having meditated a while, said: "You must seek, through pure intuition, to grasp all the conceptual essence of the being of the object sought for. Therefore withdraw into yourself and listen to the voice of your mind." I did as I was told. But the rushing of the blood in the shells of my ears affrighted me. It drowned every other voice. Next I went to a very clever physician and asked him the same question. The physician who was about to invent an artificially digested porridge in order to save the modern stomach any exertion, let his spoon fall for a moment and said: "You must take only such foods as will tend to add phosphorous matter to the brain. The answer to your question will then come of itself." I followed his directions but instead of my faery a number of confusing images presented themselves. I saw in the hearts of those who were about me faery gardens and infernos, deserts and turnip fields; I saw a comically hopping rainworm who was nibbling at a graceful centipede; I saw a world in which darkness was lord. I saw much else and was frightened at the images. Then I went to a clergyman and put my question to him. The pious man comfortably lit his pipe and said: "You will find no faeries mentioned in the catechism, my friend. Hence there are none, and it is sin to seek them. But perhaps you can help me bring back the devil into the world, the old, authentic devil with tail and horns and sulphurous stench. He really exists and we need him." After I had made inquiry of a learned jurist who advised me to have my faery located by the police, I went to one of my colleagues, a poet of the classic school. I found him clad in a red silk dressing gown, a wet handkerchief tied around his forehead. Its purpose was to keep his all too stormy wealth of inspiration in check. Before him on the table stood a glassful of Malaga wine and a silver salver full of pomegranates and grapes. The grapes were made of glass and the pomegranates of soap. But the contemplation of them was meant to heighten his mood. Near him, nailed to the floor, stood a golden harp on which was hung a laurel wreath and a nightcap. Timidly I put my question and the honoured master spoke: "The muse, my worthy friend--ask the muse. Ask the muse who leads us poor children of the dust into the divine sanctuary; carried aloft by whose wings into the heights of ether we feel truly human--ask her!" As it would have been necessary for me, first of all, to look up this unknown lady, I went to another colleague--one of the modern seekers of truth. I found him at his desk peering through a microscope at a dying flee which he was studying carefully. He noted each of its movements upon the slips of paper from which he later constructed his works. Next to him stood some bread and cheese, a little bottle full of ether and a box of powders. When I had explained my business he grew very angry. "Man, don't bother me with such rot!" he cried. "Faeries and elves and ideas and the devil knows what--that's all played out. That's worse than iambics. Go hang, you idiot, and don't disturb me." Sad at seeing myself and my faery so contemned, I crept away and went to one of those modern artists in life, who had tasted with epicurean fineness all the esctasies and sorrows of earthly life in order to broaden his personality.... I hoped that he would understand me, too. I found him lying on a _chaise longue_, smoking a cigarette, and turning the leaves of a French novel. It was _Là-bas_ by Huysmans, and he didn't even cut the leaves, being too lazy. He heard my question with an obliging smile. "Dear friend, let's be honest. The thing is simple. A faery is a woman. That is certain. Well, take up with every woman that runs into your arms. Love them all--one after another. You'll be sure then to hit upon your faery some day." As I feared that to follow this advice I would have to waste the better part of my life and all my conscience, I chose a last and desperate method and went to a magician. If Manfred had forced Astarte back into being, though only for a fleeting moment, why could I not do the same with the dear ruler of my higher will? I found a dignified man with the eyes of an enthusiast and filthy locks. He was badly in need of a change of linen. And so I had every reason to consider him an idealist. He talked a good real of "Karma," of "materialisations" and of the "plurality of spheres." He used many other strange words by means of which he made it clear to me that my faery would reveal herself to me only by his help. With beating heart I entered a dark room at the appointed hour. The magician led me in. A soft, mysterious music floated toward me. I was left alone, pressed to the door, awaiting the things that were to come in breathless fear. Suddenly, as I was waiting in the darkness, a gleaming, bluish needle protruded from the floor. It grew to rings and became a snake which breathed forth flames and dissolved into flame ... And the tongues of these flames played on all sides and finally parted in curves like the leaves of an opening lotus flower, out of whose calix white veils arose slowly, very slowly, and became as they glided upward the garments of a woman who looked at me, who was lashed by fear, with sightless eyes. "Are you Thea?" I asked trembling. The veils inclined in affirmation. "Where do you dwell?" The veils waved, shaken by the trembling limbs. "Ask me after other things," a muffled voice said. "Why do you no longer appear to me?" "I may not." "Who hinders you?" "You." ... "By what? Am I unworthy of you?" "Yes." In deep contrition I was about to fall at her feet. But, coming nearer, I perceived that my faery's breath smelled of onions. This circumstance sobered me a bit, for I don't like onions. I knocked at the locked door, paid my magician what I owed him and went my way. From now on all hope of ever seeing her again vanished. But my soul cried out after her. And the world receded from me. Its figures dislimned into things that have been, its noise did not thunder at my threshold. A solitariness half voluntary and half enforced dragged its steps through my house. Only a few, the intimates of my heart and brothers of my blood, surrounded my life with peace and kept watch without my doors. * * * * * It was a late afternoon near Advent Sunday. But no message of Christmas came to my yearning soul. Somewhere, like a discarded toy, lay amid rubbish the motive power of my passions. My heart was dumb, my hand nerveless, and even need--that last incentive--had slackened to a wild memory. The world was white with frost.... The dust of ice and the rain of star-light filled the world... cloths of glittering white covered the plains.... The bare twigs of the trees stretched upwards like staves of coral.... The fir trees trembled like spun glass. A red sunset spread its reflection over all. But the sunset itself was poverty stricken. No purple lights, no gleam of seven colours warmed the whiteness of the world. Not like the gentle farewell of the sun but cruel as the threat of paralysing night did the bloody stripe stare through my window. It is the hour of afternoon tea. The regulations of the house demand that. Grayish blue steam whirls up to the shadowed ceiling and moistens with falling drops the rounded silver of the tea urn. The bell rings. From the housekeeper's rooms floats an odour of fresh baked breads. They are having a feast there. Perhaps they mean to prepare one for the master, too. A new book that has come a great distance to-day is in my hand. I read. Another one has made the great discovery that the world begins with him. Ah, did it not once begin with me, too? To be young, to be young! Ah, even if one suffers need--only to be young! But who, after all, would care to retrace the difficult road? Perhaps you, O woman at my side? I would wager that even you would not. And I raise a questioning glance though I know her to be far ... and who stands behind the kettle, framed by the rising of the bluish steam? Ah child, have I not seen you often--you with the brownish locks and the dark lashes over blue eyes ... you with the bird-like twitter in the throbbing whiteness of your throat, and the light-hearted step? And yet, did I ever see you? Did I ever see that look which surrounds me with its ripe wisdom and guesses the secrets of my heart? Did I ever see that mouth so rich and firm at once which smiles upon me full of reticent consolation and alluring comprehension? Who are you, child, that you dare to look me through and through, as though I had laid my confidence at your feet? Who are you that you dare to descend wingless into the abysms of my soul, that you can smile away my torture and my suffocation? Why did you not come earlier in your authentic form? Why did you not come as all that which you are to me and will be from this hour on? Why do you hide yourself in the mist which renders my recognition turbid and shadows your outlines? Come to me, for you are she whom I seek, for whom my heart's blood yearns in order to flow as sacrifice and triumph! You are the faery who clarifies my eye and steels my will, who brings to me upon her young hands my own youth! Come to me and do not leave me again as you have so often left me! I start up to stretch out my arms to her and see how her glance becomes estranged and her smile as of stone. As one who is asleep with open eyes, thus she stands there and stares past me. I try to find her, to clasp her, to force her spirit to see me. Without repulsing me she glides softly from me.... The walls open. ... The stones of the stairs break.... We flee out into the wintry silence.... She glides before me over the pallid velvet of the road ... over the tinkling glass of the frozen heath ... through the glittering boughs. She smiles--for whom? The hilly fields, hardened by the frost, the bushes scattering ice--everything obstructs my way. I break through and follow her. But she glides on before me, scarcely a foot above the ground, but farther, farther ... over the broken earth, down the precipice ... to the lake whose bluish surface of new ice melts in the distance into the afterglow. Now she hangs over the bank like a cloud of smoke, and the wind that blows upon my back, raises the edges of her dress like triangular pennants. "Stay, Thea.... I cannot follow you across the lake! ... The water will not upbear a mortal."... But the rising wind pushes her irresistibly on. Now I stand as the edge of the lake. The thin ice forces upward great hollow bubbles.... Will it suffer my groping feet? Will it break and whelm me in brackish water and morass? There is no room for hesitation. For already the wind is sweeping her afar. And I venture out upon the glassy floor which is no floor at all, but which a brief frost threw as a deceptive mirror across the deep. It bears me up for five paces, for six, for ten. Then suddenly the cry of harps is in my ear and something like an earthquake quivers through my limbs. And this sound grows into a mighty crunching and waxes into thunder which sounds afar and returns from the distance in echoing detonation. But at my left hand glitters a cleft which furrows the ice with manicoloured splinters and runs from me into the invisible. What is to be done? On... on...! And again the harps cry out and a great rattling flies forth and returns as thunder. And again a great cleft opens its brilliant hues at my side. On, on ... to seek her smiling, even though the smile is not for me. It will be for me if only I can grasp the hem of her garment. A third cleft opens; a fourth crosses it, uniting it to the first. I must cross. But I dare not jump, for the ice must not crumble lest an abysm open at my feet. It is no longer a sheet of ice upon which I travel--it is a net-work of clefts. Between them lies something blue and all but invisible that bears me by the merest chance. I can see the tangled water grasses wind about and the polished fishes dart whom my body will feed unless a miracle happens. Lit by the gathering afterglow a plain of fire stretches out before me, and far on the horizon the saving shore looms dark. Farther ... farther! Sinister and deceptive springs arise to my right and left and hurl their waters across my path.... A soft gurgling is heard and at last drowns the resonant sound of thunder. Farther, farther.... Mere life is at stake. There in the distance a cloud dislimns which but now lured me to death with its girlish smile. What do I care now? The struggle endures for eternities. The wind drives me on. I avoid the clefts, wade through the springs; I measure the distances, for now I have to jump.... The depths are yawning about me. The ice under my feet begins to rock. It rocks like a cradle, heaving and falling at every step ... It would be a charming game were it not a game with death. My breath comes flying ... my heart-beats throttle me ... sparks quiver before my eyes. Let me rock ... rock ... rock back to the dark sources of being. A springing fountain, higher than all the others, hisses up before me.... Edges and clods rise into points. One spring ... the last of all ... hopeless ... inspired by the desperate will to live. Ah, what is that? Is that not the goodly earth beneath my feet--the black, hard, stable earth? It is but a tiny islet formed of frozen mud and roots; it is scarcely two paces across, but large enough to give security to my sinking body. I am ashore, saved, for only a few arm lengths from me arises the reedy line of the shore. A drove of wild ducks rises in diagonal flight. ... Purple radiance pours through the twigs of trees.... From nocturnal heavens the first stars shine upon me. The ghostly game is over! The faery hunt is as an end. One truth I realise: He who has firm ground under his feet needs no faeries. And serenely I stride into the sunset world. 
5431	----	STORIES BY FOREIGN AUTHORS GERMAN THE FURY ...... BY PAUL HEYSE THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM ...... BY RUDOLPH LINDAU THE BOOKBINDER OF HORT........ BY LEOPOLD VON SACHER-MASOCH THE EGYPTIAN FIRE-EATER........BY RUDOLPH BAUMBACH THE CREMONA VIOLIN ........ BY E. T. HOFFMANN ADVENTURES Of A NEW-YEAR'S EVE...... BY HEINRICH ZSCHOKKE THE FURY BY PAUL HEYSE From "Tales from the German of Paul Heyse" THE FURY (L'ARRABIATA) The day had scarcely dawned. Over Vesuvius hung one broad gray stripe of mist, stretching across as far as Naples, and darkening all the small towns along the coast. The sea lay calm. Along the shore of the narrow creek that lies beneath the Sorrento cliffs, fishermen and their wives were at work already, some with giant cables drawing their boats to land, with the nets that had been cast the night before, while others were rigging their craft, trimming the sails, or fetching out oars and masts from the great grated vaults that have been built deep into the rocks for shelter to the tackle overnight. Nowhere an idle hand; even the very aged, who had long given up going to sea, fell into the long chain of those who were hauling in the nets. Here and there, on some flat housetop, an old woman stood and spun, or busied herself about her grandchildren, whom their mother had left to help her husband. "Do you see, Rachela? yonder is our padre curato," said one to a little thing of ten, who brandished a small spindle by her side; "Antonio is to row him over to Capri. Madre Santissima! but the reverend signore's eyes are dull with sleep!" and she waved her hand to a benevolent-looking little priest, who was settling himself in the boat, and spreading out upon the bench his carefully tucked-up skirts. The men upon the quay had dropped their work to see their pastor off, who bowed and nodded kindly, right and left. "What for must he go to Capri, granny?" asked the child. "Have the people there no priest of their own, that they must borrow ours?" "Silly thing!" returned the granny. "Priests they have in plenty--and the most beautiful of churches, and a hermit too, which is more than we have. But there lives a great signora, who once lived here; she was so very ill! Many's the time our padre had to go and take the Most Holy to her, when they thought she could not live the night. But with the Blessed Virgin's help she got strong and well, and was able to bathe every day in the sea. When she went away, she left a fine heap of ducats behind her for our church, and for the poor; and she would not go, they say, until our padre promised to go and see her over there, that she might confess to him as before. It is quite wonderful, the store she lays by him! Indeed, and we have cause to bless ourselves for having a curato who has gifts enough for an archbishop, and is in such request with all the great folks. The Madonna be with him!" she cried, and waved her hand again, as the boat was about to put from shore. "Are we to have fair weather, my son?" inquired the little priest, with an anxious look toward Naples. "The sun is not yet up," the young man answered; "when he comes, he will easily do for that small trifle of mist." "Off with you, then! that we may arrive before the heat." Antonio was just reaching for his long oar to shove away the boat, when suddenly he paused, and fixed his eyes upon the summit of the steep path that leads down from Sorrento to the water. A tall and slender girlish figure had become visible upon the heights, and was now hastily stepping down the stones, waving her handkerchief She had a small bundle under her arm, and her dress was mean and poor. Yet she had a distinguished if somewhat savage way of throwing back her head, and the dark tress wreathed around it was like a diadem. "What have we to wait for?" inquired the curato. "There is some one coming who wants to go to Capri--with your permission, padre. We shall not go a whit the slower. It is a slight young thing, but just eighteen." At that moment the young girl appeared from behind the wall that bounds the winding path. "Laurella!" cried the priest; "and what has she to do in Capri?" Antonio shrugged his shoulders. She came up with hasty steps, her eyes fixed straight before her. "Ha! l'Arrabiata! good-morning!" shouted one or two of the young boatmen. But for the curato's presence, they might have added more; the look of mute defiance with which the young girl received their welcome appeared to tempt the more mischievous among them. "Good-day, Laurella!" now said the priest; "how are you? Are you coming with us to Capri?" "If I may, padre." "Ask Antonio there; the boat is his. Every man is master of his own, I say, as God is master of us all." "There is half a carlino, if I may go for that?" said Laurella, without looking at the young boatman. "You need it more than I," he muttered, and pushed aside some orange-baskets to make room: he was to sell the oranges in Capri, which little isle of rocks has never been able to grow enough for all its visitors. "I do not choose to go for nothing," said the girl, with a slight frown of her dark eyebrows. "Come, child," said the priest; "he is a good lad, and had rather not enrich himself with that little morsel of your poverty. Come now, and step in," and he stretched out his hand to help her, "and sit you down by me. See, now, he has spread his jacket for you, that you may sit the softer. Young folks are all alike; for one little maiden of eighteen they will do more than for ten of us reverend fathers. Nay, no excuse, Tonino. It is the Lord's own doing, that like and like should hold together." Meantime Laurella had stepped in, and seated herself beside the padre, first putting away Antonio's jacket without a word. The young fellow let it lie, and, muttering between his teeth, he gave one vigorous push against the pier, and the little boat flew out into the open bay. "What are you carrying there in that little bundle?" inquired the padre, as they were floating on over a calm sea, now just beginning to be lighted up with the earliest rays of the rising sun. "Silk, thread, and a loaf, padre. The silk is to be sold at Anacapri, to a woman who makes ribbons, and the thread to another." "Spun by yourself?" "Yes, sir." "You once learned to weave ribbons yourself, if I remember right?" "I did, sir; but mother has been much worse, and I cannot stay so long from home; and a loom to ourselves we are not rich enough to buy." "Worse, is she? Ah! dear, dear! when I was with you last, at Easter, she was up." "The spring is always her worst time. Ever since those last great storms, and the earthquakes she has been forced to keep her bed from pain." "Pray, my child. Never slacken your prayers and petitions that the Blessed Virgin may intercede for you; and be industrious and good, that your prayers may find a hearing." After a pause: "When you were coming toward the shore, I heard them calling after you. 'Good-morning, l'Arrabiata!' they said. What made them call you so? It is not a nice name for a young Christian maiden, who should be meek and mild." The young girl's brown face glowed all over, while her eyes flashed fire. "They always mock me so, because I do not dance and sing, and stand about to chatter, as other girls do. I might be left in peace, I think; I do THEM no harm." "Nay, but you might be civil. Let others dance and sing, on whom this life sits lighter; but a kind word now and then is seemly even from the most afflicted." Her dark eyes fell, and she drew her eyebrows closer over them, as if she would have hidden them. They went on a while in silence. The sun now stood resplendent above the mountain chain; only the tip of Mount Vesuvius towered beyond the group of clouds that had gathered about its base; and on the Sorrento plains the houses were gleaming white from the dark green of their orange-gardens. "Have you heard no more of that painter, Laurella?" asked the curato--"that Neapolitan, who wished so much to marry you?" She shook her head. "He came to make a picture of you. Why would you not let him?" "What did he want it for? There are handsomer girls than I. Who knows what he would have done with it? He might have bewitched me with it, or hurt my soul, or even killed me, mother says." "Never believe such sinful things!" said the little curato very earnestly. "Are not you ever in God's keeping, without whose will not one hair of your head can fall? and is one poor mortal with an image in his hand to prevail against the Lord? Besides, you might have seen that he was fond of you; else why should he want to marry you?" She said nothing. "And wherefore did you refuse him? He was an honest man, they say, and comely; and he would have kept you and your mother far better than you ever can yourself, for all your spinning and silk-winding." "We are so poor!" she said passionately; "and mother has been ill so long, we should have become a burden to him. And then I never should have done for a signora. When his friends came to see him, he would only have been ashamed of me." "How can you say so? I tell you the man was good and kind; he would even have been willing to settle in Sorrento. It will not be so easy to find another, sent straight from heaven to be the saving of you, as this man, indeed, appeared to be." "I want no husband--I never shall," she said, very stubbornly, half to herself. "Is this a vow? or do you mean to be a nun?" She shook her head. "The people are not so wrong who call you wilful, although the name they give you is not kind. Have you ever considered that you stand alone in the world, and that your perverseness must make your sick mother's illness worse to bear, her life more bitter? And what sound reason can you have to give for rejecting an honest hand, stretched out to help you and your mother? Answer me, Laurella." "I have a reason," she said reluctantly, and speaking low; "but it is one I cannot give." "Not give! not give to me? not to your confessor, whom you surely know to be your friend--or is he not?" Laurella nodded. "Then, child, unburden your heart. If your reason be a good one, I shall be the very first to uphold you in it. Only you are young, and know so little of the world. A time may come when you will find cause to regret a chance of happiness thrown away for some foolish fancy now." Shyly she threw a furtive glance over to the other end of the boat, where the young boatman sat, rowing fast. His woollen cap was pulled deep down over his eyes; he was gazing far across the water, with averted head, sunk, as it appeared, in his own meditations. The priest observed her look, and bent his ear down closer. "You did not know my father?" she whispered, while a dark look gathered in her eyes. "Your father, child! Why, your father died when you were ten years old. What can your father (Heaven rest his soul in paradise!) have to do with this present perversity of yours?" "You did not know him, padre; you did not know that mother's illness was caused by him alone." "And how?" "By his ill-treatment of her; he beat her and trampled upon her. I well remember the nights when he came home in his fits of frenzy. She never said a word, and did everything he bade her. Yet he would beat her so, my heart felt ready to break. I used to cover up my head and pretend to be asleep, but I cried all night. And then, when he saw her lying on the floor, quite suddenly he would change, and lift her up and kiss her, till she screamed and said he smothered her. Mother forbade me ever to say a word of this; but it wore her out. And in all these long years since father died, she has never been able to get well again. And if she should soon die--which God forbid!--I know who it was that killed her." The little curato's head wagged slowly to and fro; he seemed uncertain how far to acquiesce in the young girl's reasons. At length he said: "Forgive him, as your mother has forgiven! And turn your thoughts from such distressing pictures, Laurella; there may be better days in store for you, which will make you forget the past." "Never shall I forget that!" she said, and shuddered. "And you must know, padre, it is the reason why I have resolved to remain unmarried. I never will be subject to a man, who may beat and then caress me. Were a man now to want to beat or kiss me, I could defend myself; but mother could not--neither from his blows nor kisses--because she loved him. Now, I will never so love a man as to be made ill and wretched by him." "You are but a child, and you talk like one who knows nothing at all of life. Are all men like that poor father of yours? Do all ill-treat their wives, and give vent to every whim and gust of passion? Have you never seen a good man yet? or known good wives, who live in peace and harmony with their husbands?" "But nobody ever knew how father was to mother; she would have died sooner than complain or tell of him, and all because she loved him. If this be love--if love can close our lips when they should cry out for help--if it is to make us suffer without resistance, worse than even our worst enemy could make us suffer--then, I say, I never will be fond of mortal man." "I tell you you are childish; you know not what you are saying. When your time comes, you are not likely to be consulted whether you choose to fall in love or not." After a pause, he added, "And that painter: did you think he could have been cruel?" "He made those eyes I have seen my father make, when he begged my mother's pardon and took her in his arms to make it up. I know those eyes. A man may make such eyes, and yet find it in his heart to beat a wife who never did a thing to vex him! It made my flesh creep to see those eyes again." After this she would not say another word. The curato also remained silent. He bethought himself of more than one wise saying, wherewith the maiden might have been admonished; but he refrained, in consideration of the young boatman, who had been growing rather restless toward the close of this confession. When, after two hours' rowing, they reached the little bay of Capri, Antonio took the padre in his arms, and carried him through the last few ripples of shallow water, to set him reverently down upon his legs on dry land. But Laurella did not wait for him to wade back and fetch her. Gathering up her little petticoat, holding in one hand her wooden shoes and in the other her little bundle, with one splashing step or two she had reached the shore. "I have some time to stay at Capri," said the priest. "You need not wait--I may not perhaps return before to-morrow. When you get home, Laurella, remember me to your mother; I will come and see her within the week. You mean to go back before it gets dark?" "If I find an opportunity," answered the girl, turning all her attention to her skirts. "I must return, you know," said Antonio, in a tone which he believed to be one of great indifference. "I shall wait here till the Ave Maria. If you should not come, it is the same to me." "You must come," interposed the little priest; "you never can leave your mother all alone at night. Is it far you have to go?" "To a vineyard by Anacapri." "And I to Capri. So now God bless you, child--and you, my son." Laurella kissed his hand, and let one farewell drop, for the padre and Antonio to divide between them. Antonio, however, appropriated no part of it to himself; he pulled off his cap exclusively to the padre, without even looking at Laurella. But after they had turned their backs, he let his eyes travel but a short way with the padre, as he went toiling over the deep bed of small, loose stones; he soon sent them after the maiden, who, turning to the right, had begun to climb the heights, holding one hand above her eyes to protect them from the scorching sun. Just before the path disappeared behind high walls, she stopped, as if to gather breath, and looked behind her. At her feet lay the marina; the rugged rocks rose high around her; the sea was shining in the rarest of its deep-blue splendor. The scene was surely worth a moment's pause. But, as chance would have it, her eyes, in glancing past Antonio's boat, met Antonio's own, which had been following her as she climbed. Each made a slight movement, as persons do who would excuse themselves for some mistake; and then, with her darkest look, the maiden went her way. Hardly one hour had passed since noon, and yet for the last two Antonio had been sitting waiting on the bench before the fishers' tavern. He must have been very much preoccupied with something, for he jumped up every moment to step out into the sunshine, and look carefully up and down the roads, which, parting right and left, lead to the only two little towns upon the island. He did not altogether trust the weather, he then said to the hostess of the osteria; to be sure, it was clear enough, but he did not quite like that tint of sea and sky. Just so it had looked, he said, before the last awful storm, when the English family had been so nearly lost; surely she must remember it? No, indeed, she said, she didn't. Well, if the weather should happen to change before night, she was to think of him, he said. "Have you many fine folk over there?" she asked him, after a while. "They are only just beginning; as yet, the season has been bad enough; those who came to bathe, came late." "The spring came late. Have you not been earning more than we at Capri?" "Not enough to give me macaroni twice a week, if I had had nothing but the boat--only a letter now and then to take to Naples, or a gentleman to row out into the open sea, that he might fish. But you know I have an uncle who is rich; he owns more than one fine orange-garden; and, 'Tonino,' says he to me, 'while I live you shall not suffer want; and when I am gone you will find that I have taken care of you.' And so, with God's help, I got through the winter." "Has he children, this uncle who is rich?" "No, he never married; he was long in foreign parts, and many a good piastre he has laid together. He is going to set up a great fishing business, and set me over it, to see the rights of it." "Why, then you are a made man, Tonino!" The young boatman shrugged his shoulders. "Every man has his own burden," said he, starting up again to have another look at the weather, turning his eyes right and left, although he must have known that there can be no weather side but one. "Let me fetch you another bottle," said the hostess; "your uncle can well afford to pay for it." "Not more than one glass; it is a fiery wine you have in Capri, and my head is hot already." "It does not heat the blood; you may drink as much of it as you like. And here is my husband coming; so you must sit a while, and talk to him." And in fact, with his nets over his shoulder, and his red cap upon his curly head, down came the comely padrone of the osteria. He had been taking a dish of fish to that great lady, to set before the little curato. As soon as he caught sight of the young boatman, he began waving him a most cordial welcome; and he came to sit beside him on the bench, chattering and asking questions. Just as his wife was bringing her second bottle of pure unadulterated Capri, they heard the crisp sand crunch, and Laurella was seen approaching from the left-hand road to Anacapri. She nodded slightly in salutation; then stopped, and hesitated. Antonio sprang from his seat. "I must go," he said. "It is a young Sorrento girl, who came over with the signor curato in the morning. She has to get back to her sick mother before night." "Well, well, time enough yet before night," observed the fisherman; "time enough to take a glass of wine. Wife, I say, another glass!" "I thank you; I had rather not;" and Laurella kept her distance. "Fill the glasses, wife; fill them both, I say; she only wants a little pressing." "Don't," interposed the lad. "It is a wilful head of her own she has; a saint could not persuade her to do what she does not choose." And, taking a hasty leave, he ran down to the boat, loosened the rope, and stood waiting for Laurella. Again she bent her head to the hostess, and slowly approached the water, with lingering steps. She looked around on every side, as if in hopes of seeing some other passenger. But the marina was deserted. The fishermen were asleep, or rowing about the coast with rods or nets; a few women and children sat before their doors, spinning or sleeping: such strangers as had come over in the morning were waiting for the cool of the evening to return. She had not time to look about her long; before she could prevent him, Antonio had seized her in his arms and carried her to the boat, as if she had been an infant. He leaped in after her, and with a stroke or two of his oar they were in deep water. She had seated herself at the end of the boat, half turning her back to him, so that he could only see her profile. She wore a sterner look than ever; the low, straight brow was shaded by her hair; the rounded lips were firmly closed; only the delicate nostril occasionally gave a wilful quiver. After they had gone on a while in silence, she began to feel the scorching of the sun; and, unloosening her bundle, she threw the handkerchief over her head, and began to make her dinner of the bread; for in Capri she had eaten nothing. Antonio did not stand this long; he fetched out a couple of the oranges with which the baskets had been filled in the morning. "Here is something to eat to your bread, Laurella," he said. "Don't think I kept them for you; they had rolled out of the basket, and I only found them when I brought the baskets back to the boat." "Eat them yourself; bread is enough for me." "They are refreshing in this heat, and you have had to walk so far." "They gave me a drink of water, and that refreshed me." "As you please," he said, and let them drop into the basket. Silence again. The sea was smooth as glass. Not a ripple was heard against the prow. Even the white sea-birds that roost among the caves of Capri pursued their prey with soundless flight. "You might take the oranges to your mother," again commenced Tonino. "We have oranges at home; and when they are gone, I can go and buy some more." "Nay, take these to her, and give them to her with my compliments." "She does not know you." "You could tell her who I am." "I do not know you either." It was not the first time that she had denied him thus. One Sunday of last year, when that painter had first come to Sorrento, Antonio had chanced to be playing boccia with some other young fellows in the little piazza by the chief street. There, for the first time, had the painter caught sight of Laurella, who, with her pitcher on her head, had passed by without taking any notice of him. The Neapolitan, struck by her appearance, stood still and gazed after her, not heeding that he was standing in the very midst of the game, which, with two steps, he might have cleared. A very ungentle ball came knocking against his shins, as a reminder that this was not the spot to choose for meditation. He looked round, as if in expectation of some excuse. But the young boatman who had thrown the ball stood silent among his friends, in such an attitude of defiance that the stranger had found it more advisable to go his ways and avoid discussion. Still, this little encounter had been spoken of, particularly at the time when the painter had been pressing his suit to Laurella. "I do not even know him," she said indignantly, when the painter asked her whether it was for the sake of that uncourteous lad she now refused him. But she had heard that piece of gossip, and known Antonio well enough when she had met him since. And now they sat together in this boat, like two most deadly enemies, while their hearts were beating fit to kill them. Antonio's usually so good-humored face was heated to scarlet; he struck the oars so sharply that the foam flew over to where Laurella sat, while his lips moved as if muttering angry words. She pretended not to notice, wearing her most unconscious look, bending over the edge of the boat, and letting the cool water pass between her fingers. Then she threw off her handkerchief again, and began to smooth her hair, as though she had been alone. Only her eyebrows twitched, and she held up her wet hands in vain attempts to cool her burning cheeks. Now they were well out in the open sea. The island was far behind, and the coast before them lay yet distant in the hot haze. Not a sail was within sight, far or near--not even a passing gull to break the stillness. Antonio looked all round, evidently ripening some hasty resolution. The color faded suddenly from his cheek, and he dropped his oars. Laurella looked round involuntarily--fearless, yet attentive. "I must make an end of this," the young fellow burst forth. "It has lasted too long already! I only wonder that it has not killed me! You say you do not know me? And all this time you must have seen me pass you like a madman, my whole heart full of what I had to tell you; and then you only made your crossest mouth, and turned your back upon me." "What had I to say to you?" she curtly replied. "I may have seen that you were inclined to meddle with me, but I do not choose to be on people's wicked tongues for nothing. I do not mean to have you for a husband--neither you nor any other." "Nor any other? So you will not always say! You say so now, because you would not have that painter. Bah! you were but a child! You will feel lonely enough yet, some day; and then, wild as you are, you will take the next best who comes to hand." "Who knows? which of us can see the future? It may be that I will change my mind. What is that to you?" "What is it to me?" he flew out, starting to his feet, while the small boat leaped and danced; "what is it to me, you say? You know well enough! I tell you, that man shall perish miserably to whom you shall prove kinder than you have been to me!" "And to you, what did I ever promise? Am I to blame if you be mad? What right have you to me?" "Ah! I know," he cried, "my right is written nowhere. It has not been put in Latin by any lawyer, nor stamped with any seal. But this I feel: I have just the right to you that I have to heaven, if I die an honest Christian. Do you think I could look on and see you go to church with another man, and see the girls go by and shrug their shoulders at me?" "You can do as you please. I am not going to let myself be frightened by all those threats. I also mean to do as I please." "You shall not say so long!" and his whole frame shook with passion. "I am not the man to let my whole life be spoiled by a stubborn wench like you! You are in my power here, remember, and may be made to do my bidding." She could not repress a start, but her eyes flashed bravely on him. "You may kill me if you dare," she said slowly. "I do nothing by halves," he said, and his voice sounded choked and hoarse. "There is room for us both in the sea. I cannot help thee, child"--he spoke the last words dreamily, almost pitifully--"but we must both go down together--both at once--and now!" he shouted, and snatched her in his arms. But at the same moment he drew back his right hand; the blood gushed out; she had bitten him fiercely. "Ha! can I be made to do your bidding?" she cried, and thrust him from her, with one sudden movement; "am I here in your power?" and she leaped into the sea, and sank. She rose again directly; her scanty skirts clung close; her long hair, loosened by the waves, hung heavy about her neck. She struck out valiantly, and, without uttering a sound, she began to swim steadily from the boat toward the shore. With senses benumbed by sudden terror, he stood, with outstretched neck, looking after her, his eyes fixed as though they had just been witness to a miracle. Then, giving himself a shake, he seized his oars, and began rowing after her with all the strength he had, while all the time the bottom of the boat was reddening fast with the blood that kept streaming from his hand. Rapidly as she swam, he was at her side in a moment. "For the love of our most Holy Virgin" he cried, "get into the boat! I have been a madman! God alone can tell what so suddenly darkened my brain. It came upon me like a flash of lightning, and set me all on fire. I knew not what I did or said. I do not even ask you to forgive me, Laurella, only to come into the boat again, and not to risk your life!" She swam on as though she had not heard him. "You can never swim to land. I tell you, it is two miles off. Think of your mother! If you should come to grief, I should die of horror." She measured the distance with her eye, and then, without answering him one word, she swam up to the boat, and laid her hands upon the edge; he rose to help her in. As the boat tilted over to one side with the girl's weight, his jacket that was lying on the bench slipped into the water. Agile as she was, she swung herself on board without assistance, and gained her former seat. As soon as he saw that she was safe, he took to his oars again, while she began quietly wringing out her dripping clothes, and shaking the water from her hair. As her eyes fell upon the bottom of the boat, and saw the blood, she gave a quick look at the hand, which held the oar as if it had been unhurt. "Take this," she said, and held out her handkerchief. He shook his head, and went on rowing. After a time she rose, and, stepping up to him, bound the handkerchief firmly round the wound, which was very deep. Then, heedless of his endeavors to prevent her, she took an oar, and, seating herself opposite him, began to row with steady strokes, keeping her eyes from looking toward him--fixed upon the oar that was scarlet with his blood. Both were pale and silent. As they drew near land, such fishermen as they met began shouting after Antonio and gibing at Laurella; but neither of them moved an eyelid, or spoke one word. The sun stood yet high over Procida when they landed at the marina. Laurella shook out her petticoat, now nearly dry, and jumped on shore. The old spinning woman, who in the morning had seen them start, was still upon her terrace. She called down, "What is that upon your hand, Tonino? Jesus Christ! the boat is full of blood!" "It is nothing, comare," the young fellow replied. "I tore my hand against a nail that was sticking out too far; it will be well to-morrow. It is only this confounded ready blood of mine, that always makes a thing look worse than it is." "Let me come and bind it up, comparello. Stop one moment; I will go and fetch the herbs, and come to you directly." "Never trouble yourself, comare. It has been dressed already; to-morrow morning it will be all over and forgotten. I have a healthy skin, that heals directly." "Addio!" said Laurella, turning to the path that goes winding up the cliffs. "Good-night!" he answered, without looking at her; and then taking his oars and baskets from the boat, and climbing up the small stone stairs, he went into his own hut. He was alone in his two little rooms, and began to pace them up and down. Cooler than upon the dead calm sea, the breeze blew fresh through the small unglazed windows, which could only be closed with wooden shutters. The solitude was soothing to him. He stooped before the little image of the Virgin, devoutly gazing upon the glory round the head (made of stars cut out in silver paper). But he did not want to pray. What reason had he to pray, now that he had lost all he had ever hoped for? And this day appeared to last for ever. He did so long for night! for he was weary, and more exhausted by the loss of blood than he would have cared to own. His hand was very sore. Seating himself upon a little stool, he untied the handkerchief that bound it; the blood, so long repressed, gushed out again; all round the wound the hand was swollen high. He washed it carefully, cooling it in the water; then he clearly saw the marks of Laurella's teeth. "She was right," he said; "I was a brute, and deserved no better. I will send her back the handkerchief by Giuseppe to-morrow. Never shall she set eyes on me again." And he washed the handkerchief with the greatest care, and spread it out in the sun to dry. And having bound up his hand again, as well as he could manage with his teeth and his left hand, he threw himself upon his bed, and closed his eyes. He was soon waked up from a sort of slumber by the rays of the bright moonlight, and also by the pain of his hand; he had just risen for more cold water to soothe its throbbings, when he heard the sound of some one at the door. Laurella stood before him. She came in without a question, took off the handkerchief she had tied over her head, and placed her little basket upon the table; then she drew a deep breath. "You are come to fetch your handkerchief," he said. "You need not have taken that trouble. In the morning I would have asked Giuseppe to take it to you." "It is not the handkerchief," she said quickly. "I have been up among the hills to gather herbs to stop the blood; see here." And she lifted the lid of her little basket. "Too much trouble," he said, not in bitterness--"far too much trouble. I am better, much better; but if I were worse, it would be no more than I deserve. Why did you come at such a time? If any one should see you? You know how they talk, even when they don't know what they are saying." "I care for no one's talk," she said, passionately. "I came to see your hand, and put the herbs upon it; you cannot do it with your left." "It is not worth while, I tell you." "Let me see it then, if I am to believe you." She took his hand, that was not able to prevent her, and unbound the linen. When she saw the swelling, she shuddered, and gave a cry: "Jesus Maria!" "It is a little swollen," he said; "it will be over in four-and-twenty hours." She shook her head. "It will certainly be a week before you can go to sea." "More likely a day or two; and if not, what matters?" She had fetched a basin, and began carefully washing out the wound, which he suffered passively, like a child. She then laid on the healing leaves, which at once relieved the burning pain, and finally bound it up with the linen she had brought with her. When it was done: "I thank you," he said. "And now, if you would do me one more kindness, forgive the madness that came over me; forget all I said and did. I cannot tell how it came to pass; certainly it was not your fault--not yours. And never shall you hear from me again one word to vex you." She interrupted him. "It is I who have to beg your pardon. I should have spoken differently. I might have explained it better, and not enraged you with my sullen ways. And now that bite--" "It was in self-defence; it was high time to bring me to my senses. As I said before, it is nothing at all to signify. Do not talk of being forgiven; you only did me good, and I thank you for it. And now, here is your handkerchief; take it with you." He held it to her, but yet she lingered, hesitated, and appeared to have some inward struggle. At length she said: "You have lost your jacket, and by my fault; and I know that all the money for the oranges was in it. I did not think of this till afterward. I cannot replace it now; we have not so much at home--or if we had, it would be mother's. But this I have--this silver cross. That painter left it on the table the day he came for the last time. I have never looked at it all this while, and do not care to keep it in my box; if you were to sell it? It must be worth a few piastres, mother says. It might make up the money you have lost; and if not quite, I could earn the rest by spinning at night when mother is asleep." "Nothing will make me take it," he said shortly, pushing away the bright new cross, which she had taken from her pocket. "You must," she said; "how can you tell how long your hand may keep you from your work? There it lies; and nothing can make me so much as look at it again." "Drop it in the sea, then." "It is no present I want to make you; it is no more than is your due; it is only fair." "Nothing from you can be due to me; and hereafter when we chance to meet, if you would do me a kindness, I beg you not to look my way. It would make me feel you were thinking of what I have done. And now good-night; and let this be the last word said." She laid the handkerchief in the basket, and also the cross, and closed the lid. But when he looked into her face, he started. Great heavy drops were rolling down her cheeks; she let them flow unheeded. "Maria Santissima!" he cried. "Are you ill? You are trembling from head to foot!" "It is nothing," she said; "I must go home;" and with unsteady steps she was moving to the door, when suddenly she leaned her brow against the wall, and gave way to a fit of bitter sobbing. Before he could go to her she turned upon him suddenly, and fell upon his neck. "I cannot bear it!" she cried, clinging to him as a dying thing to life--"I cannot bear it! I cannot let you speak so kindly, and bid me go, with all this on my conscience. Beat me! trample on me! curse me! Or if it can be that you love me still, after all I have done to you, take me and keep me, and do with me as you please; only do not send me away so!" She could say no more for sobbing. Speechless, he held her a while in his arms. "If I can love you still!" he cried at last. "Holy Mother of God! Do you think that all my best heart's blood has gone from me through that little wound? Don't you hear it hammering now, as though it would burst my breast and go to you? But if you say this to try me, or because you pity me, I can forget it. You are not to think you owe me this, because you know what I have suffered for you." "No!" she said very resolutely, looking up from his shoulder into his face, with her tearful eyes; "it is because I love you; and let me tell you, it was because I always feared to love you that I was so cross. I will be so different now. I never could bear again to pass you in the street without one look! And lest you should ever feel a doubt, I will kiss you, that you may say, 'She kissed me;' and Laurella kisses no man but her husband." She kissed him thrice, and, escaping from his arms: "And now good-night, amor mio, cara vita mia!" she said. "Lie down to sleep, and let your hand get well. Do not come with me; I am afraid of no man, save of you alone." And so she slipped out, and soon disappeared in the shadow of the wall. He remained standing by the window, gazing far out over the calm sea, while all the stars in heaven appeared to flit before his eyes. The next time the little curato sat in his confessional, he sat smiling to himself. Laurella had just risen from her knees after a very long confession. "Who would have thought it?" he said musingly--"that the Lord would so soon have taken pity upon that wayward little heart? And I had been reproaching myself for not having adjured more sternly that ill demon of perversity. Our eyes are but short-sighted to see the ways of Heaven! Well, may God bless her, I say, and let me live to go to sea with Laurella's eldest born, rowing me in his father's place! Ah! well, indeed! l'Arrabiata!" THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM BY RUDOLPH LINDAU THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM A TALE FROM GERMANY BY RUDOLPH LINDAU I. During many long years Hermann Fabricius had lost sight of his friend Henry Warren, and had forgotten him. Yet when students together they had loved each other dearly, and more than once they had sworn eternal friendship. This was at a period which, though not very remote, we seem to have left far behind us--a time when young men still believed in eternal friendship, and could feel enthusiasm for great deeds or great ideas. Youth in the present day is, or thinks itself, more rational. Hermann and Warren in those days were simple-minded and ingenuous; and not only in the moment of elation, when they had sworn to be friends for ever, but even the next day, and the day after that, in sober earnestness, they had vowed that nothing should separate them, and that they would remain united through life. The delusion had not lasted long. The pitiless machinery of life had caught up the young men as soon as they left the university, and had thrown one to the right, the other to the left. For a few months they had exchanged long and frequent letters; then they had met once, and finally they had parted, each going his way. Their letters had become more scarce, more brief, and at last had ceased altogether. It would really seem that the fact of having interests in common is the one thing sufficiently powerful to prolong and keep up the life of epistolary relations. A man may feel great affection for an absent friend, and yet not find time to write him ten lines, while he will willingly expend daily many hours on a stranger from whom he expects something. None the less he may be a true and honest friend. Man is naturally selfish; the instinct of self-preservation requires it of him. Provided he be not wicked, and that he show himself ready to serve his neighbor--after himself--no one has a right to complain, or to accuse him of hard-heartedness. At the time this story begins, Hermann had even forgotten whether he had written to Warren last, or whether he had left his friend's last letter unanswered. In a word, the correspondence which began so enthusiastically had entirely ceased. Hermann inhabited a large town, and had acquired some reputation as a writer. From time to time, in the course of his walks, he would meet a young student with brown hair, and mild, honest-looking blue eyes, whose countenance, with its frank and youthful smile, inspired confidence and invited the sympathy of the passer-by. Whenever Hermann met this young man he would say to himself, "How like Henry at twenty!" and for a few minutes memory would travel back to the already distant days of youth, and he would long to see his dear old Warren again. More than once, on the spur of the moment, he had resolved to try and find out what had become of his old university comrade. But these good intentions were never followed up. On reaching home he would find his table covered with books and pamphlets to be reviewed, and letters from publishers or newspaper editors asking for "copy"--to say nothing of invitations to dinner, which must be accepted or refused; in a word, he found so much URGENT business to despatch that the evening would go by, and weariness would overtake him, before he could make time for inquiring about his old friend. In the course of years, the life of most men becomes so regulated that no time is left for anything beyond "necessary work." But, indeed, the man who lives only for his own pleasure--doing, so to speak, nothing--is rarely better in this respect than the writer, the banker, and the savant, who are overburdened with work. One afternoon, as Hermann, according to his custom, was returning home about five o'clock, his porter handed him a letter bearing the American post-mark. He examined it closely before opening it. The large and rather stiff handwriting on the address seemed familiar, and yet he could not say to whom it belonged. Suddenly his countenance brightened, and he exclaimed, "A letter from Henry!" He tore open the envelope, and read as follows: "MY DEAR HERMANN,--It is fortunate that one of us at least should have attained celebrity. I saw your name on the outside of a book of which you are the author. I wrote at once to the publisher; that obliging man answered me by return of post, and, thanks to these circumstances, I am enabled to tell you that I will land at Hamburg towards the end of September. Write to me there, Poste Restante, and let me know if you are willing to receive me for a few days. I can take Leipzig on my way home, and would do so most willingly if you say that you would see me again with pleasure. "Your old friend, "HENRY WARREN." Below the signature there was a postscript of a single line: "This is my present face." And from an inner envelope Hermann drew a small photograph, which he carried to the window to examine leisurely. As he looked, a painful impression of sadness came over him. The portrait was that of an old man. Long gray hair fell in disorder over a careworn brow; the eyes, deep sunk in their sockets, had a strange and disquieting look of fixity; and the mouth, surrounded by deep furrows, seemed to tell its own long tale of sorrow. "Poor Henry!" said Hermann; "this, then, is your present face! And yet he is not old; he is younger than I am; he can scarcely be thirty-eight. Can I, too, be already an old man?" He walked up to the glass, and looked attentively at the reflection of his own face. No! those were not the features of a man whose life was near its close; the eye was bright, and the complexion indicated vigor and health. Still, it was not a young face. Thought and care had traced their furrows round the mouth and about the temples, and the general expression was one of melancholy, not to say despondency. "Well, well, we have grown old," said Hermann, with a sigh. "I had not thought about it this long while; and now this photograph has reminded me of it painfully." Then he took up his pen and wrote to say how happy he would be to see his old friend again as soon as possible. The next day chance brought him face to face in the street with the young student who was so like Warren. "Who knows?" thought Hermann; "fifteen or twenty years hence this young man may look no brighter than Warren does today. Ah, life is not easy! It has a way of saddening joyous looks, and imparting severity to smiling lips. As for me, I have no real right to complain of my life. I have lived pretty much like everybody; a little satisfaction, and then a little disappointment, turn by turn; and often small worries; and so my youth has gone by, I scarcely know how." On the 2d of October Hermann received a telegram from Hamburg announcing the arrival of Warren for the same evening. At the appointed hour he went to the railway station to meet his friend. He saw him get down from the carriage slowly, and rather heavily, and he watched him for a few seconds before accosting him. Warren appeared to him old and broken-down, and even more feeble than he had expected to see him from his portrait. He wore a travelling suit of gray cloth, so loose and wide that it hung in folds on the gaunt and stooping figure; a large wide-awake hat was drawn down to his very eyes. The new-comer looked right and left, seeking no doubt to discover his friend; not seeing him, he turned his weary and languid steps towards the way out. Hermann then came forward. Warren recognized him at once; a sunny, youthful smile lighted up his countenance, and, evidently much moved, he stretched out his hand. An hour later, the two friends were seated opposite to each other before a well-spread table in Hermann's comfortable apartments. Warren ate very little; but, on the other hand, Hermann noticed with surprise and some anxiety that his friend, who had been formerly a model of sobriety, drank a good deal. Wine, however, seemed to have no effect on him. The pale face did not flush; there was the same cold, fixed look in the eye; and his speech, though slow and dull in tone, betrayed no embarrassment. When the servant who had waited at dinner had taken away the dessert and brought in coffee, Hermann wheeled two big arm-chairs close to the fire, and said to his friend: "Now, we will not be interrupted. Light a cigar, make yourself at home, and tell me all you have been doing since we parted." Warren pushed away the cigars. "If you do not mind," said he, "I will smoke my pipe. I am used to it, and I prefer it to the best of cigars." So saying, he drew from its well-worn case an old pipe, whose color showed it had been long used, and filled it methodically with moist, blackish tobacco. Then he lighted it, and after sending forth one or two loud puffs of smoke, he said, with an air of sovereign satisfaction: "A quiet, comfortable room--a friend--a good pipe after dinner--and no care for the morrow. That's what I like." Hermann cast a sidelong glance at his companion, and was painfully struck at his appearance. The tall gaunt frame in its stooping attitude; the grayish hair and sad, fixed look; the thin legs crossed one over the other; the elbow resting on the knee and supporting the chin,--in a word, the whole strange figure, as it sat there, bore no resemblance to Henry Warren, the friend of his youth. This man was a stranger, a mysterious being even. Nevertheless, the affection he felt for his friend was not impaired; on the contrary, pity entered into his heart. "How ill the world must have used him," thought Hermann, "to have thus disfigured him!" Then he said aloud: "Now, then, let me have your story, unless you prefer to hear mine first." He strove to speak lightly, but he felt that the effort was not successful. As to Warren, he went on smoking quietly, without saying a word. The long silence at last became painful. Hermann began to feel an uncomfortable sensation of distress in presence of the strange guest he had brought to his home. After a few minutes he ventured to ask for the third time, "Will you make up your mind to speak, or must I begin?" Warren gave vent to a little noiseless laugh. "I am thinking how I can answer your question. The difficulty is that, to speak truly, I have absolutely nothing to tell. I wonder now--and it was that made me pause--how it has happened that, throughout my life, I have been bored by--nothing. As if it would not have been quite as natural, quite as easy, and far pleasanter, to have been amused by that same nothing--which has been my life. The fact is, my dear fellow, that I have had no deep sorrow to bear, neither have I been happy. I have not been extraordinarily successful, and have drawn none of the prizes of life. But I am well aware that, in this respect, my lot resembles that of thousands of other men. I have always been obliged to work. I have earned my bread by the sweat of my brow. I have had money difficulties; I have even had a hopeless passion--but what then? every one has had that. Besides, that was in bygone days; I have learned to bear it, and to forget. What pains and angers me is, to have to confess that my life has been spent without satisfaction and without happiness." He paused an instant, and then resumed, more calmly: "A few years ago I was foolish enough to believe that things might in the end turn out better. I was a professor with a very moderate salary at the school at Elmira. I taught all I knew, and much that I had to learn in order to be able to teach it--Greek and Latin, German and French, mathematics and physical sciences. During the so-called play-hours, I even gave music lessons. In the course of the whole day there were few moments of liberty for me. I was perpetually surrounded by a crowd of rough, ill-bred boys, whose only object during lessons was to catch me making a fault in English. When evening came, I was quite worn out; still, I could always find time to dream for half an hour or so with my eyes open before going to bed. Then all my desires were accomplished, and I was supremely happy. At last I had drawn a prize! I was successful in everything; I was rich, honored, powerful--what more can I say? I astonished the world--or rather, I astonished Ellen Gilmore, who for me was the whole world. Hermann, have you ever been as mad? Have you, too, in a waking dream, been in turn a statesman, a millionaire, the author of a sublime work, a victorious general, the head of a great political party? Have you dreamt nonsense such as that? I, who am here, have been all I say--in dreamland. Never mind; that was a good time. Ellen Gilmore, whom I have just mentioned, was the eldest sister of one of my pupils, Francis Gilmore, the most undisciplined boy of the school. His parents, nevertheless, insisted on his learning something; and as I had the reputation of possessing unwearying patience, I was selected to give him private lessons. That was how I obtained a footing in the Gilmore family. Later on, when they had found out that I was somewhat of a musician--you may remember, perhaps, that for an amateur I was a tolerable performer on the piano--I went every day to the house to teach Latin and Greek to Francis, and music to Ellen. "Now, picture to yourself the situation, and then laugh at your friend as he has laughed at himself many a time. On the one side--the Gilmore side--a large fortune and no lack of pride; an intelligent, shrewd, and practical father; an ambitious and vain mother; an affectionate but spoilt boy; and a girl of nineteen, surpassingly lovely, with a cultivated mind and great good sense. On the other hand, you have Henry Warren, aged twenty-nine; in his dreams the author of a famous work, or the commander-in-chief of the Northern armies, or, it may be, President of the Republic--in reality, Professor at Elmira College, with a modest stipend of seventy dollars a month. Was it not evident that the absurdity of my position as a suitor for Ellen would strike me at once? Of course it did. In my lucid moments, when I was not dreaming, I was a very rational man, who had read a good deal, and learned not a little; and it would have been sheer madness in me to have indulged for an instant the hope of a marriage between Ellen and myself. I knew it was an utter impossibility--as impossible as to be elected President of the United States; and yet, in spite of myself, I dreamed of it. However, I must do myself the justice to add that my passion inconvenienced nobody. I would no more have spoken of it than of my imaginary command of the army of the Potomac. The pleasures which my love afforded me could give umbrage to no one. Yet I am convinced that Ellen read my secret. Not that she ever said a word to me on the subject; no look or syllable of hers could have made me suspect that she had guessed the state of my mind. "One single incident I remember which was not in accordance with her habitual reserve in this respect. I noticed one day that her eyes were red. Of course I dared not ask her why she had cried. During the lesson she seemed absent; and when leaving she said, without looking at me, 'I may perhaps be obliged to interrupt our lessons for some little time; I am very sorry. I wish you every happiness.' Then, without raising her eyes, she quickly left the room. I was bewildered. What could her words mean? And why had they been said in such an affectionate tone? "The next day Francis Gilmore called to inform me, with his father's compliments, that he was to have four days' holidays, because his sister had just been betrothed to Mr. Howard, a wealthy New York merchant, and that, for the occasion, there would be great festivities at home. "Thenceforward there was an end of the dreams which up to that moment had made life pleasant. In sober reason I had no more cause to deplore Ellen's marriage than to feel aggrieved because Grant had succeeded Johnson as President. Nevertheless, you can scarcely conceive how much this affair--I mean the marriage--grieved me. My absolute nothingness suddenly stared me in the face. I saw myself as I was--a mere schoolmaster, with no motive for pride in the past, or pleasure in the present, or hope in the future." Warren's pipe had gone out while he was telling his story. He cleaned it out methodically, drew from his pocket a cake of Cavendish tobacco, and, after cutting off with a penknife the necessary quantity, refilled his pipe and lit it. The way in which he performed all these little operations betrayed long habit. He had ceased to speak while he was relighting his pipe, and kept on whistling between his teeth. Hermann looked on--silently. After a few minutes, and when the pipe was in good order, Warren resumed his story. "For a few weeks I was terribly miserable; not so much because I had lost Ellen--a man cannot lose what he has never hoped to possess--as from the ruin of all my illusions. During those days I plucked and ate by the dozen of the fruits of the tree of self-knowledge, and I found them very bitter. I ended by leaving Elmira, to seek my fortunes elsewhere. I knew my trade well. Long practice had taught me how to make the best of my learning, and I never had any difficulty in finding employment. I taught successively in upwards of a dozen States of the Union. I can scarcely recollect the names of all the places where I have lived--Sacramento, Chicago, St. Louis, Cincinnati, Boston, New York; I have been everywhere--everywhere. And everywhere I have met with the same rude schoolboys, just as I have found the same regular and irregular verbs in Latin and Greek. If you would see a man thoroughly satiated and saturated with schoolboys and classical grammars, look at me. "In the leisure time which, whatever might be my work, I still contrived to make for myself, I indulged in philosophical reflections. Then it was I took to the habit of smoking so much." Warren stopped suddenly, and, looking straight before him, appeared plunged in thought. Then, passing his hand over his forehead, he repeated, in an absent manner, "Yes, of smoking so much. I also took to another habit," he added, somewhat hastily; "but that has nothing to do with my story. The theory which especially occupied my thoughts was that of the oscillations of an ideal instrument of my own imagining, to which, in my own mind, I gave the name of the Philosopher's Pendulum. To this invention I owe the quietude of mind which has supported me for many years, and which, as you see, I now enjoy. I said to myself that my great sorrow--if I may so call it without presumption--had arisen merely from my wish to be extraordinarily happy. When, in his dreams, a man has carried presumption so far as to attain to the heights of celebrity, or to being the husband of Ellen Gilmore, there was nothing wonderful if, on awaking, he sustained a heavy fall before reaching the depths of reality. Had I been less ambitious in my desires, their realization would have been easier, or, at any rate, the disappointment would have been less bitter. Starting from this principle, I arrived at the logical conclusion that the best means to avoid being unhappy is to wish for as little happiness as possible. This truth was discovered by my philosophical forefathers many centuries before the birth of Christ, and I lay no claim to being the finder of it; but the outward symbol which I ended by giving to this idea is--at least I fancy it is--of my invention. "Give me a sheet of paper and a pencil," he added, turning to his friend, "and with a few lines I can demonstrate clearly the whole thing." Hermann handed him what he wanted without a word. Warren then began gravely to draw a large semicircle, open at the top, and above the semicircular line a pendulum, which fell perpendicularly and touched the circumference at the exact point where on the dial of a clock would be inscribed the figure VI. This done, he wrote on the right-hand side of the pendulum, beginning from the bottom and at the places of the hours V, IV, III, the words Moderate Desires--Great Hopes, Ambition--Unbridled Passion, Mania of Greatness. Then, turning the paper upside-down, he wrote on the opposite side, where on a dial would be marked VII, VIII, IX, the words Slight Troubles--Deep Sorrow, Disappointment--Despair. Lastly, in the place of No. VI, just where the pendulum fell, he sketched a large black spot, which he shaded off with great care, and above which he wrote, like a scroll, Dead Stop, Absolute Repose. Having finished this little drawing, Warren laid down his pipe, inclined his head on one side, and raising his eyebrows, examined his work with a critical frown. "This compass is not yet quite complete," he said; "there is something missing. Between Dead Stop and Moderate Desires on the right, and Slight Troubles on the left, there is the beautiful line of Calm and Rational Indifference. However, such as the drawing is, it is sufficient to demonstrate my theory. Do you follow me?" Hermann nodded affirmatively. He was greatly pained. In lieu of the friend of his youth, for whom he had hoped a brilliant future, here was a poor monomaniac! "You see," said Warren, speaking collectedly, like a professor, "if I raise my pendulum till it reaches the point of Moderate Desires and then let it go, it will naturally swing to the point of Slight Troubles, and go no further. Then it will oscillate for some time in a more and more limited space on the line of Indifference, and finally it will stand still without any jerk on Dead Stop, Absolute Repose. That is a great consolation!" He paused, as if waiting for some remark from Hermann; but as the latter remained silent, Warren resumed his demonstration. "You understand now, I suppose, what I am coming to. If I raise the pendulum to the point of Ambition or Mania of Greatness, and then let it go, that same law which I have already applied will drive it to Deep Sorrow or Despair. That is quite clear, is it not?" "Quite clear," repeated Hermann sadly. "Very well," continued Warren, with perfect gravity; "for my misfortune, I discovered this fine theory rather late. I had not set bounds to my dreams and limited them to trifles. I had wished to be President of the Republic, an illustrious savant, the husband of Ellen. No great things, eh? What say you to my modesty? I had raised the pendulum to such a giddy height that when it slipped from my impotent hands it naturally performed a long oscillation, and touched the point Despair. That was a miserable time. I hope you have never suffered what I suffered then. I lived in a perpetual nightmare--like the stupor at intoxication." He paused, as he had done before, and then, with a painfully nervous laugh, he added, "Yes, like intoxication. I drank." Suddenly a spasm seemed to pass over his face, he looked serious and sad as before, and he said, with a shudder, "It's a terrible thing to see one's self inwardly, and to know that one is fallen." After this he remained long silent. At last, raising his head, he turned to his friend and said, "Have you had enough of my story, or would you like to hear it to the end?" "I am grieved at all you have told me," said Hermann; "but pray go on; it is better I should know all." "Yes; and I feel, too, that it relieves me to pour out my heart. Well, I used to drink. One takes to the horrid habit in America far easier than anywhere else. I was obliged to give up more than one good situation because I had ceased to be RESPECTABLE. Anyhow, I always managed to find employment without any great difficulty. I never suffered from want, though I have never known plenty. If I spent too much in drink, I took it out of my dress and my boots. "Eighteen months after I had left Elmira, I met Ellen one day in Central Park, in New York. I was aware that she had been married a twelve-month. She knew me again at once, and spoke to me. I would have wished to sink into the earth. I knew that my clothes were shabby, that I looked poor, and I fancied that she must discern on my face the traces of the bad habits I had contracted. But she did not, or would not, see anything. She held out her hand, and said in her gentle voice: "'I am very glad to see you again, Mr. Warren. I have inquired about you, but neither my father nor Francis could tell me what had become of you. I want to ask you to resume the lessons you used to give me. Perhaps you do not know where I live? This is my address,' and she gave me her card. "I stammered out a few unmeaning words in reply to her invitation. She looked at me, smiling kindly the while; but suddenly the smile vanished, and she added, 'Have you been ill, Mr. Warren? You seem worn.' "'Yes,' I answered, too glad to find an excuse for my appearance--'yes, I have been ill, and I am still suffering.' "'I am very sorry,' she said, in a low voice. "Laugh at me, Hermann--call me an incorrigible madman; but believe me when I say that her looks conveyed to me the impression of more than common interest or civility. A thrilling sense of pain shot through my frame. What had I done that I should be so cruelly tried? A mist passed before my eyes; anxiety, intemperance, sleeplessness, had made me weak. I tottered backwards a few steps. She turned horribly pale. All around us was the crowd--the careless, indifferent crowd. "'Come and see me soon,' she added hastily, and left me. I saw her get into a carriage, which she had doubtless quitted to take a walk; and when she drove past, she put her head out and looked at me with her eyes wide open--there was an almost wildly anxious expression in them. "I went home. My way led me past her house--it was a palace. I shut myself up in my wretched hotel-room, and once more I fell to dreaming. Ellen loved me; she admired me; she was not for ever lost to me! The pendulum was swinging, you see, up as high as Madness. Explain to me, if you can, how it happens that a being perfectly rational in ordinary life should at certain seasons, and, so to speak, voluntarily, be bereft of reason. To excuse and explain my temporary insanity, I am ready to admit that the excitement to which I gave way may have been a symptom of the nervous malady which laid hold of me a few days later, and stretched me for weeks upon a bed of pain. "As I became convalescent, reason and composure returned. But it was too late. In the space of two months, twenty years had passed over my head. When I rose from my sick-bed I was as feeble and as broken-down as you see me now. My past had been cheerless and dim, without one ray of happiness; yet that past was all my life! Henceforward there was nothing left for me to undertake, to regret, or to desire. The pendulum swung idly backwards and forwards on the line of Indifference. I wonder what are the feelings of successful men--of men who HAVE been victorious generals, prime ministers, celebrated authors, and that sort of tiling! Upheld by a legitimate pride, do they retire satisfied from the lists when evening conies, or do they lay down their arms as I did, disappointed and dejected, and worn out with the fierce struggle? Can no man with impunity look into his own heart and ask himself how his life has been spent?" Here Warren made a still longer pause than before, and appeared absorbed in gloomy thought. At last he resumed in a lower tone: "I had not followed up Ellen's invitation. But in some way she had discovered my address, and knew of my illness. Do not be alarmed, my dear Hermann; my story will not become romantic. No heavenly vision appeared to me during my fever; I felt no gentle white hands laid on my burning brow. I was nursed at the hospital, and very well nursed too; I figured there as 'Number 380,' and the whole affair was, as you see, as prosaic as possible. But on quitting the hospital, and as I was taking leave of the manager, he handed me a letter, in which was enclosed a note for five hundred dollars. In the envelope there was also the following anonymous note: "'An old friend begs your acceptance, as a loan, of the inclosed sum. It will be time enough to think of paying off this debt when you are strong enough to resume work, and you can then do it by instalments, of which you can yourself fix the amount, and remit them to the hospital of New York.' "It was well meant, no doubt, but it caused me a painful impression. My determination was taken at once. I refused without hesitation. I asked the manager, who had been watching me with a friendly smile while I read the letter, whether he could give the name of the person who had sent it. In spite of his repeated assurances that he did not know it, I never doubted for a single instant that he was concealing the truth. After a few seconds' reflection I asked if he would undertake to forward an answer to my unknown correspondent; and, on his consenting to do so, I promised that he should have my answer the next day. "I thought long over my letter. One thing was plain to me--it was Ellen who had come to my help. How could I reject her generous aid without wounding her or appearing ungrateful? After great hesitation I wrote a few lines, which, as far as I can recollect, ran thus: "'I thank you for the interest you have shown me, but it is impossible for me to accept the sum you place at my disposal. Do not be angry with me because I return it. Do not withdraw your sympathy; I will strive to remain worthy of it, and will never forget your goodness.' "A few days later, after having confided this letter to the manager, I left New York for San Francisco. For several years I heard nothing of Ellen; her image grew gradually fainter, and at last almost disappeared from my memory. "The dark river that bore the frail bark which carried me and my fortunes was carrying me smoothly and unconsciously along towards the mysterious abyss where all that exists is engulfed. Its course lay through a vast desert; and the banks which passed before my eyes were of fearful sameness. Indescribable lassitude took possession of my whole being. I had never, knowingly, practised evil; I had loved and sought after good. Why, then, was I so wretched? I would have blessed the rock which wrecked my bark so that I might have been swallowed up and have gone down to my eternal rest. Up to the day when I heard of Ellen's betrothal, I had hoped that the morrow would bring happiness. The long-wished-for morrow had come at last, gloomy and colorless, without realizing any of my vague hopes. Henceforth my life was at an end." Warren said these last words so indistinctly that Hermann could scarcely hear them; he seemed to be speaking to himself rather than to his friend. Then he raised the forefinger of his right hand, and after moving it slowly from right to left, in imitation of the swing of a pendulum, he placed it on the large black dot he had drawn on the sheet of paper exactly below his pendulum, and said, "Dead Stop, Absolute Repose. Would that the end were come!" Another and still longer interval of silence succeeded, and at last Hermann felt constrained to speak. "How came you to make up your mind," he said, "to return to Europe?" "Ah, yes, to be sure," answered Warren, hurriedly; "the story--the foolish story--is not ended. In truth it has no end, as it had no beginning; it is a thing without form or purpose, and less the history of a life than of a mere journeying towards death. Still I will finish--following chronological order. It does not weary you?" "No, no; go on, my dear friend." "Very well. I spent several years in the United States. The pendulum worked well. It came and went, to and fro, slowly along the line of Indifference, without ever transgressing as its extreme limits on either hand, Moderate Desires and Slight Troubles. I led obscurely a contemplative life, and I was generally considered a queer character. I fulfilled my duties, and took little heed of any one. Whenever I had an hour at my disposal, I sought solitude in the neighboring woods, far from the town and from mankind. I used to lie down under the big trees. Every season in turn, spring and summer, autumn and winter, had its peculiar charm for me. My heart, so full of bitterness, felt lightened as soon as I listened to the rustling of the foliage overhead. The forest! There is nothing finer in all creation. A deep calm seemed to settle down upon me. I was growing old. I was forgetting. It was about this time that, in consequence of my complete indifference to all surroundings, I acquired the habit of answering 'Very well' to everything that was said. The words came so naturally that I was not aware of my continual use of them, until one day one of my fellow-teachers happened to tell me that masters and pupils alike had given me the nickname of 'Very well.' Is it not odd that one who has never succeeded in anything should be known as 'Very well'? "I have only one other little adventure to relate, and I will have told all. Then I can listen to your story. "Last year, my journeyings brought me to the neighborhood of Elmira. It was holiday-time. I had nothing to do, and I had in my purse a hundred hardly earned dollars, or thereabout. The wish seized me to revisit the scene of my joys and my sorrows. I had not set foot in the place for more than seven years. I was so changed that nobody could know me again; nor would I have cared much if they had. After visiting the town and looking at my old school, and the house where Ellen had lived, I bent my steps towards the park, which is situated in the environs--a place where I used often to walk in company of my youthful dreams. It was September, and evening was closing in. The oblique rays of the setting sun sent a reddish gleam the leafy branches of the old oaks. I seated on a bench beneath a tree on one side of the path. As I drew near I recognized Ellen. I remained rooted to the spot where I stood, not daring to move a step. She was stooping forward with her head bent down, while with the end of her parasol she traced lines upon the gravel. She had not seen me. I turned back instantly, and retired without making any noise. When I had gone a little distance, I left the path and struck into the wood. Once there, I looked back cautiously. Ellen was still at the same place and in the same attitude. Heaven knows what thoughts passed through my brain! I longed to see her closer. What danger was there? I was sure she would not know me again. I walked towards her with the careless step of a casual passer-by, and in a few minutes passed before her. When my shadow fell on the path, she looked up, and our eyes met. My heart was beating fast. Her look was cold and indifferent; but suddenly a strange light shot into her eyes, and she made a quick movement, as if to rise. I saw no more, and went on without turning round. Before I could get out of the park her carriage drove past me, and I saw her once more as I had seen her five years before in Central Park, pale, with distended eyes, and her anxious looks fixed upon me. Why did I not bow to her? I cannot say; my courage failed me. I saw the light die out of her eyes. I almost fancied that I saw her heave a sigh of relief as she threw herself back carelessly in the carriage; and she disappeared. I was then thirty-six, and I am almost ashamed to relate the schoolboy's trick of which I was guilty. I sent her the following lines: 'A devoted friend, whom you obliged in former days, and who met you yesterday in the park without your recognizing him, sends you his remembrances.' I posted this letter a few minutes before getting into the train which was to take me to New York; and, as I did so, my heart beat as violently as though I had performed a heroic deed. Great adventures, forsooth! And to think that my life presents none more striking, and that trifles such as these are the only food for my memory! "A twelvemonth later I met Francis Gilmore in Broadway. The world is small--so small that it is really difficult to keep out of the way of people one has once known. The likeness of my former pupil to his sister struck me, and I spoke to him. He looked at me at first with a puzzled expression, but after a few moments of hesitation he recognized me, a bright smile lighted up his pleasant face, and he shook hands warmly. "'Mr. Warren,' he exclaimed, 'how glad I am to see you! Ellen and I have often talked of you, and wondered what could have become of you. Why did we never hear from you?' "'I did not suppose it would interest you.' I spoke timidly; and yet I owed nothing to the young fellow, and wanted nothing of him. "'You wrong us by saying that,' replied Francis; 'do you think me ungrateful? Do you fancy I have forgotten our pleasant walks in former days, and the long conversations we used to have? You alone ever taught me anything, and it is to you I owe the principles that have guided me through life. Many a day I have thought of you, and regretted you sincerely. As regards Ellen, no one has ever filled your place with her; she plays to this day the same pieces of music you taught her, and follows all your directions with a fidelity that would touch you.' "'How are your father and mother, and how is your sister?' I inquired, feeling more deeply moved than I can express. "'My poor mother died three years ago. It is Ellen who keeps house now.' "'Your brother-in-law lives with you, then?' "'My brother-in-law!' replied Francis, with surprise; 'did you not know that he was on board the Atlantic, which was lost last year in the passage from Liverpool to New York?' "I could find no words to reply. "'As to that,' added Francis, with great composure--'between you and me, he was no great loss. My dear brother-in-law was not by any means what my father fancied he was when he gave him my sister as a wife. The whole family has often regretted the marriage. Ellen lived apart from her husband for many years before his death.' "I nodded so as to express my interest in his communications, but I could not for worlds have uttered a syllable. "'You will come and see us soon, I hope,' added Francis, without noticing my emotion. 'We are still at the same place; but to make sure, here is my card. Come, Mr. Warren--name your own day to come and dine with us. I promise you a hearty welcome.' "I got off by promising to write the next day, and we parted. "Fortunately my mind had lost its former liveliness. The pendulum, far from being urged to unruly motion, continued to swing slowly in the narrow space where it had oscillated for so many years. I said to myself that to renew my intimacy with the Gilmores would be to run the almost certain risk of reviving the sorrows and the disappointments of the past. I was then calm and rational. It would be madness in me, I felt, to aspire to the hand of a young, wealthy, and much admired widow. To venture to see Ellen again was to incur the risk of seeing my reason once more wrecked, and the fatal chimera which had been the source of all my misery start into life again. If we are to believe what poets say, love ennobles man and exalts him into a demigod. It may be so, but it turns him likewise into a fool and a madman. That was my case. At any cost I was to guard against that fatal passion. I argued seriously with myself, and I determined to let the past be, and to reject every opportunity of bringing it to life again. "A few days before my meeting with Francis, I had received tidings of the death of an old relative, whom I scarcely knew. In my childhood I had, on one or two occasions, spent my holidays at his house. He was gloomy and taciturn, but nevertheless he had always welcomed me kindly. I have a vague remembrance of having been told that he had been in love with my mother once upon a time, and that on hearing of her marriage he had retired into the solitude which he never left till the day of his death. Be that as it may, I had not lost my place in his affections, it seems: he had continued to feel an interest in me; and on his deathbed he had remembered me, and left me the greater part of his not very considerable fortune. I inherited little money; but there was a small, comfortably-furnished country-house, and an adjoining farm let on a long lease for two hundred and forty pounds per annum. This was wealth for me, and more than enough to satisfy all my wants. Since I had heard of this legacy I had been doubtful as to my movements. My chance meeting with Francis settled the matter. I resolved at once to leave America, and to return to live in my native country. I knew your address, and wrote to you at once. I trusted that the sight of my old and only friend would console me for the disappointments that life has inflicted on me--and I have not been deceived. At last I have been able to open my heart to a fellow-creature, and relieve myself of the heavy burden which I have borne alone ever since our separation. Now I feel lighter. You are not a severe judge. Doubtless you deplore my weakness, but you do not condemn me. If, as I have already said, I have done no good, neither have I committed any wicked action. I have been a nonentity--an utterly useless being; 'one too many,' like the sad hero of Tourgueneff's sad story. Before leaving, I wrote to Francis informing him that the death of a relative obliged me to return to Europe, and giving him your address, so as not to seem to be running away from him. Then I went on board, and at last reached your home. Dixi!" Warren, who during this long story had taken care to keep his pipe alight, and had, moreover, nearly drained the bottle of port placed before him, now declared himself ready to listen to his friend's confession. But Hermann had been saddened by all he had heard, and was in no humor for talking. He remarked that it was getting late, and proposed to postpone any further conversation till the morrow. Warren merely answered, "Very well," knocked the ashes out of his pipe, shared out the remainder of the wine between his host and himself, and, raising his glass, said, in a somewhat solemn tone, "To our youth, Hermann!" After emptying his glass at one draught, he replaced it on the table, and said complacently, "It is long since I have drunk with so much pleasure; for this time I have not drunk to forgetfulness, but to memory." II. Warren spent another week in Leipzig with his friend. No man was easier to live with: to every suggestion of Hermann's he invariably answered, "Very well;" and if Hermann proposed nothing, he was quite content to remain seated in a comfortable arm-chair by the fireside, holding a book which he scarcely looked at, and watching the long rolls of smoke from his pipe. He disliked new acquaintances; nevertheless, the friends to whom Hermann introduced him found in him a quiet, unobtrusive, and well-informed companion. He pleased everybody. There was something strange and yet attractive in his person; there was a "charm" about him, people said. Hermann felt the attraction without being able to define in what it consisted. Their former friendship had been renewed unreservedly. The kind of fascination that Warren exercised over all those who approached him often led Hermann to think that it was not unlikely that in his youth he had inspired a real love in Ellen Gilmore. One evening Hermann took his friend to the theatre, where a comic piece was being performed. In his young days Warren had been very partial to plays of that kind, and his joyous peals of laughter on such occasions still rang in the ears of his friend. But the attempt was a complete failure. Warren watched the performance without showing the slightest interest, and never even smiled. During the opening scenes he listened with attention, as though he were assisting at some performance of the legitimate drama; then, as if he could not understand what was going on before his eyes, he turned away with a wearied air and began looking at the audience. When, at the close of the second act, Hermann proposed that they should leave the house, he answered readily: "Yes, let us go; all this seems very stupid--we will be much better at home. There is a time for all things, and buffoonery suits me no longer." There was nothing left in Warren of the friend that Hermann had known fifteen years before. He loved him none the less; on the contrary, to his affection for him had been superadded a feeling of deep compassion. He would have made great sacrifices to secure his friend's happiness, and to see a smile light up the immovable features and the sorrowful dulness of the eye. His friendly anxiety had not been lost upon Warren; and when the latter took his leave, he said with emotion: "You wish me well, my old friend, I see it and feel it; and, believe me, I am grateful. We must not lose sight of each other again--I will write regularly." A few days later, Hermann received a letter for his friend. It was an American letter, and the envelope was stamped with the initials "E. H." They were those of Ellen Howard, the heroine of Warren's sad history. He forwarded the letter immediately, and wrote at the same time to his friend: "I hope the inclosed brings you good news from America." But in his reply Warren took no notice of this passage, and made no allusion to Ellen. He only spoke of the new house in which he had just settled himself--"to end," as he said, "his days;" and he pressed Hermann to come and join him. The two friends at last agreed to pass Christmas and New Year's Day together; but when December came, Warren urged his friend to hasten his arrival. "I do not feel well," he wrote, "and am often so weary that I stay at home all day. I have made no new acquaintances, and, most likely, will make none. I am alone. Your society would give me great pleasure. Come; your room is ready, and will be, I trust, to your liking. There is a large writing table and tolerably well-filled book-shelves; you can write there quite at your ease, without fear of disturbance. Come as soon as possible, my dear friend. I am expecting you impatiently." Hermann happened to be at leisure, and was able to comply with his friend's wish, and to go to him in the first week of December. He found Warren looking worn and depressed. It was in vain he sought to induce him to consult a physician. Warren would reply: "Doctors can do nothing for my complaint. I know where the shoe pinches. A physician would order me probably to seek relaxation and amusement, just as he would advise a poor devil whose blood is impoverished by bad food to strengthen himself with a generous diet and good wine. The poor man could not afford to get the good living, and I do not know what could enliven or divert me. Travel? I like nothing so well as sitting quietly in my arm-chair. New faces? They would not interest me--yours is the only company I prefer to solitude. Books? I am too old to take pleasure in learning new things, and what I have learned has ceased to interest me. It is not always easy to get what might do one good, and we must take things as they are." Hermann noticed, as before, that his friend ate little, but that, on the other hand, he drank a great deal. The sincere friendship he felt for him emboldened him to make a remark on the subject. "It is true," said Warren, "I drink too much; but what can I do? Food is distasteful to me, and I must keep up my strength somehow. I am in a wretched state; my health is ruined." One evening, as the two friends were seated together in Warren's room, while the wind and sleet were beating against the window-panes, the invalid began of his own accord to speak about Ellen. "We now correspond regularly," he said. "She tells me in her last letter that she hopes soon to see me. Do you know, Hermann, that she is becoming an enigma for me? It is very evident that she does not treat me like other people, and I often wonder and ask myself what I am in her eyes? What does she feel towards me? Love? That is inadmissible. Pity, perhaps? This then, is the end of my grand dreams--to be an object of pity? I have just answered her letter to say that I am settled here with the fixed intention of ending my useless existence in quiet and idleness. Do you remember a scene in Henry Heine's 'Reisebilder,' when a young student kisses a pretty girl, who lets him have his own way and makes no great resistance, because he has told her, 'I will be gone to-morrow at dawn, and I will never see you again'? The certainty of never seeing a person again gives a man the courage to say things that otherwise he would have kept hidden in the most secret depths of his being. I feel that my life is drawing to a close. Do not say no, my dear friend; my presentiments are certain. I have written it to Ellen. I have told her other things besides. What folly! All I have ever done has been folly or chimera. I end my life logically, in strict accordance with my whole Past, by making my first avowal of love on my deathbed. Is not that as useless a thing as can be?" Hermann would have wished to know some particulars about this letter; but Warren replied, somewhat vaguely, "If I had a copy of my letter, I would show it to you willingly. You know my whole story, and I would not be ashamed to lay before you my last act of folly. I wrote about a fortnight ago, when I felt sure that death was drawing near. I was in a fever, not from fear--Death gains but little by taking my life--but from a singular species of excitement. I do not remember what were the words I used. Who knows? Perhaps this last product of my brain may have been quite a poetical performance. Never mind! I do not repent of what I have done; I am glad that Ellen should know at last that I have loved her silently and hopelessly. If that is not disinterested, what is?" he added with a bitter smile. Christmas went by sadly. Warren was now so weak that he could scarcely leave his bed for two or three hours each day. Hermann had taken upon himself to send for a doctor, but this latter had scarcely known what to prescribe. Warren was suffering from no special malady; he was dying of exhaustion. Now and then, during a few moments, which became daily more rare and more brief, his vivacity would return; but the shadow of Death was already darkening his mind. On New Year's Eve he got up very late. "We will welcome in the New Year," he said to Hermann. "I hope it may bring you happiness; I know it will bring me rest." A few minutes before midnight he opened the piano, and played with solemnity, and as if it had been a chorale, a song of Schumann's, entitled "To the Drinking-cup of a Departed Friend." Then, on the first stroke of midnight, he filled two glasses with some old Rhenish wine, and raised his own glass slowly. He was very pale, and his eyes were shining with feverish light. He was in a state of strange and fearful excitement. He looked at the glass which he held, and repeated deliberately a verse of the song which he had just been playing. "The vulgar cannot understand what I see at the bottom of this cup." Then, at one draught, he drained the full glass. While he was thus speaking and drinking, he had taken no notice of Hermann, who was watching him with consternation. Recovering himself at length, he exclaimed, "Another glass, Hermann! To friendship!" He drained this second glass, like the first, to the very last drop; and then, exhausted by the effort he had made, he sank heavily on a chair. Soon after, Hermann led him, like a sleepy child, to his bed. During the days that followed, he was unable to leave his room; and the doctor thought it right to warn Hermann that all the symptoms seemed to point to a fatal issue. On the 8th of January a servant from the hotel in the little neighboring town brought a letter, which, he said, required an immediate answer. The sick man was then lying almost unconscious. Hermann broke the seal without hesitation, and read as follows: "MY DEAR FRIEND,--A visit to Europe which my father had long planned has at last been undertaken. I did not mention it to you, in order to have the pleasure of surprising you. On reaching this place, I learn that the illness of which you spoke in your last letter has not yet left you. Under these circumstances, I will not venture to present myself without warning you of my arrival, and making sure that you are able to receive me. I am here with my brother, who, like myself, would not come so near to you without seeing you. My father has gone on to Paris, where Francis and I will join him in a few days. ELLEN." Hermann, after one instant's thought, took up his hat and dismissed the messenger, saying he would give the answer himself. At the hotel he sent in his card, with the words, "From Mr. Warren," and was immediately ushered into Ellen's presence. She was alone. Hermann examined her rapidly. He saw an extremely beautiful woman, whose frank and fearless eyes were fixed on him with a questioning look. Hermann had not frequented the society of women much, and was usually rather embarrassed in their presence. But on this occasion he thought only of his friend, and found no difficulty in explaining the motive of his visit. He told her his friend was ill--very ill--dying--and that he had opened the letter addressed to Warren. Ellen did not answer for some time; she seemed not to have understood what she had heard. After a while her eyes filled with tears, and she asked whether she could see Mr. Warren. On Hermann answering in the affirmative, she further inquired whether her brother might accompany her. "Two visitors might fatigue the invalid too much," said Hermann; "your brother may come later." "Are you not afraid that my visit may tire him?" "I do not think so; it will make him very happy." Ellen only took a few minutes to put on her hat and cloak, and they started. The short journey was accomplished in silence. When they reached the house, Hermann went in first to see how the dying man was. He was lying in his bed, in the delirium of fever, muttering incoherent sentences. Nevertheless he recognized Hermann, and asked for something to drink. After having allayed his thirst, he closed his eyes, as if to sleep. "I have brought you a friend," said Hermann; "will you see him?" "Hermann? He is always welcome." "No; it is a friend from America." "From America?...I lived there many years...How desolate and monotonous were the shores I visited!..." "Will you see your friend?" "I am carried away by the current of the river. In the distance I see dark and shadowy forms; there are hills full of shade and coolness...but I will never rest there." Hermann retired noiselessly, and returned almost immediately with Ellen. Warren, who had taken no notice of him, continued to follow the course of his wandering thoughts. "The river is drawing near to the sea. Already I can hear the roar of the waves...The banks are beginning to be clothed with verdure...The hills are drawing nearer....It is dark now. Here are the big trees beneath which I have dreamed so often. A radiant apparition shines through their foliage....It comes towards me... Ellen!" She was standing beside the bed. The dying man saw her, and without showing the least surprise, said with a smile, "Thank God! you have come in time. I knew you were coming." He murmured a few unintelligible words, and then remained silent for a long while. His eyes were wide open. Suddenly he cried, "Hermann!" Hermann came and stood beside Ellen. "The pendulum...You know what I mean?" A frank childish smile--the smile of his student days--lighted up his pallid face. He raised his right hand, and tracing in the air with his forefinger a wide semicircle, to imitate the oscillation of a pendulum, he said, "Then." He then figured in the same manner a more limited and slower movement, and after repeating it several times, said, "Now." Lastly, he pointed straight before him with a motionless and almost menacing finger, and said with a weak voice, "Soon." He spoke no more, and closed his eyes. The breathing was becoming very difficult. Ellen bent, over him, and called him softly, "Henry, Henry!" He opened his eyes. She brought her mouth close to his ear, and said, with a sob, "I have always loved you." "I knew it from the first," he said, quietly and with confidence. A gentle expression stole over his countenance, and life seemed to return. Once more he had the confident look of youth. A sad and beautiful smile played on his lips; he took the hand of Ellen in his, and kissed it gently. "How do you feel now?" inquired Hermann. The old answer, "Very well." His hands were plucking at the bedclothes, as if he strove to cover his face with them. Then his arms stiffened and the fingers remained motionless. "Very well," he repeated. He appeared to fall into deep thought. There was a long pause. At last he turned a dying look, fraught with tender pity and sadness, towards Ellen, and in a low voice, which was scarcely audible, he said these two words, with a slight emphasis on the first--"PERFECTLY well." THE BOOKBINDER OF HORT BY LEOPOLD VON SACHER-MASOCH From "Jewish Tales," published by A.C. McClurg & Co. Copyright, 1894, by A.C. McClurg & Co. Looking abroad from the table-land of Esced, over the Hungarian plain that stretches from the foot of Mount Matra to Szolnok, and finally merges into the horizon where the silver thread of the Theiss winds its way, the eye is attracted by a smiling section of country whose vineyards and cornfields gleam brightly in the sun. This fair spot is neither a park nor grove nor pleasant woodland, but the imposing village of Hort, its pretty white houses half concealed by a wealth of trees and shrubbery. In this village lived a Jewish bookbinder, Simcha Kalimann, a wit and bel esprit, the oracle of the entire province, the living chronicle of his times and people. Reviewing in reverie the procession of events in his own life, Kalimann could see, as in a mirror, the phases through which his co-religionists in Hungary had passed in their efforts toward liberty. He had lived during that dark period when the Jew dared claim no rights among his fellow-countrymen. He had suffered evil, he had endured disgrace, and the storehouse of his memory held many a tragi-comic picture of the days that were no more. But he had also lived in times when the spirit of tolerance took possession of men's minds, and he had been swept along on that tidal movement inaugurated by Count Szechenyi, the greatest of Hungarians, through his celebrated book, "Light." The revolution of 1848 brought about the new Hungarian Constitution, and put an end to feudal government. Light penetrated into the darksome streets of the Ghetto, and through the windows opened to receive the Messiah, a saviour entered proclaiming liberty and equality to the downtrodden and oppressed. Crushed and forsaken, as all Israel was, it gratefully responded to this message of universal brotherhood. The Hungarian Jew had found a country, and from that moment he had thrown aside his native timidity, and found the strength to display his patriotism with an ardor and enthusiasm worthy of the cause. Thousands quitted the Ghettos, and gathered around the tricolored flag. Among the warm-hearted soldiers was Simcha Kalimann. He followed Kossuth as a simple honved (volunteer), and fought at Kapolna, Vaitzen, and Temesvar. High hopes and golden dreams were succeeded by despondency and disillusion; then supervened years of impatient waiting,--a standing with folded arms when so much remained to be done, a time of despair, of restless suffering. But the Jew had acquired his franchise, and gratefully he remembered those to whom he owed this priceless blessing. When the Austro-Hungarian Convention gave Hungary her king and constitution, the hearts of the people of the Ghetto beat high. This time, however, liberty did not make her entry with clang of arms and beat of drum,--peace and reconciliation were her handmaidens, and progress followed in her footsteps. It was at this epoch in Hungary's history that Israelites began to speak the language of the country, and to accept Hungarian names. To her credit be it said that no such shameful sale was made as disgraced the time of Joseph II., when surnames were sold, according to their attractiveness or desirability, to the highest bidder. Consequently, as a high-sounding name cost no more than a simple one, Kalimann chose the most imposing he could find, and, his country's hero in mind, called himself Sandor Hunyadi. This historic title revived, as it were, his latent patriotism, and, digging his gun and cartridge-box from their hiding-place in the garden where he had carefully buried them after the capitulation of Vilagos, he proudly hung these trophies of his prowess over his bed, and rejoiced in the memories of his martial exploits. Liberty and religious peace held equal sway. Reciprocal kindliness and toleration spread light where darkness had been, and scattered the shadows of prejudice. Hunyadi, or Kalimann, was regarded in Hort as a freethinker. This was scarcely just; he was pious, and strictly discharged his religious observances, emancipating himself at the same time from those distinctions in dress and customs which he deemed neither in accordance with Mosaic law nor with his ideas of progress. He followed the observance of wearing his hat while at synagogue, but during no other religious ceremony; troubled himself but little regarding the dietary laws; dressed as his Christian neighbor did; and strictly prohibited any superstitious practices in his house. He even permitted his wife to let her hair grow,--a bold innovation. His appearance was by no means suggestive of the hero. Short, thin, and insignificant-looking, with hair that frizzled beyond all thought of disentanglement, a tanned and freckled skin, flaxen moustache, and gray eyes that blinked continuously, Kalimann had truly no cause for vanity. Besides, he was excessively near-sighted, and as his large spectacles were taken from their red case only when he read or worked, it not unfrequently happened that when he took his walk abroad he would mistake a tall post for the chief magistrate of the county, and salute it with his most respectful bow; or, with a composure born of self-complacency, it would be his misfortune to pass by Madame Barkany, his best customer, with a vacant stare, under the impression that the fair apparition was linen hung to bleach in the sun. Kalimann worked alone with a little apprentice named Hersch, whom he had indentured far more from charity than necessity, since the worthy bookbinder felt within him that love for his art which would have enabled him to bind the entire literature of Europe with no greater aid than his good right arm. He was a conscientious, faithful workman, and, as a rule, his entire days were spent in his shop; when necessity demanded he would toil on late into the night by the light of a tallow candle, or an ill-smelling lamp. His work was his pride; reading his delight. If a single dark spot clouded the surface of this simple honest life, that shadow fell from the portly form of Mrs. Rachel Kalimann, or Rose Hunyadi, as it was that lady's pleasure now to be called. It would be unjust, however, to the handsome woman, whose buxom proportions served, as it were, to give weight to the establishment, to say that her faults were of a serious nature; she was, at the most, insensible to her husband's intellectual aspirations, which she termed, with more vigor than the occasion demanded, "stuff and nonsense." Quotations from the Talmud and the Scriptures were equally impotent to quell the torrent of the worthy woman's eloquence when she felt that the occasion demanded her timely interference; in vain Kalimann supported his side of the question by citing from the book of Job: "The gold and the crystal cannot equal it, and the exchange of it shall not be for jewels of fine gold. No mention shall be made of coral or of pearls; for the price of wisdom is above rubies." [Footnote: See Job xxviii. 17, 18.] Rose would retort curtly: "What can I buy with your wisdom? Will it give me wherewith to eat and to drink, and to clothe myself? No! Very well then, what is the good of it?" The learned bookbinder would, as a rule, sigh and silently abandon the argument when it had reached this stage, but at times his composure would break down under the strain imposed on it. Disputes and quarrels would ensue, but in the end Kalimann would capitulate, his conjugal love overcoming his anger and resentment. Occasionally, however, he would endeavor to escape his wife's vigilance, and take refuge in a remote corner with one of his treasured volumes. On one of these "secret" evenings she surprised him in the poultry house, at his side a small lantern shedding a doubtful light upon a fine edition of "Hamlet" on his lap. Rose read him a long lecture, and commanded him to retire at once. The good man obeyed, but carried "Hamlet" to bed with him, turning once more to his Shakespeare for refreshment and sweet content. He had scarcely read half a page, when his spouse rose in all her majesty and blew out the candle. Kalimann was desperate, and yet resistance would have been unwise. Sadly resigned, he turned his head upon the pillow, and soon snored in unison with Hersch. A half-hour of profound silence, then the culprit rose, and making sure that his wife was sleeping the sleep of the just, he cautiously took his book and spectacles, glided out of doors, and sitting upon the old moss-grown bench in front of the house, continued the tragedy of the Danish prince by the light of the moon. Yes, he loved his books with passion and tenderness; but not having means wherewith to buy them, he read every book that was entrusted to him to bind. Not being the collector of the volumes in his workshop, chance alone being responsible for the heterogeneous display,--to-day a sentimental love-tale, to-morrow a medical treatise, the next day a theological work,--it followed that the poor little bookbinder's head was filled with as confused a mass of lore, religious and profane, as ever cast in its lot in the sum of human knowledge. The more a book pleased him, the longer did the owner have to wait for it; and it was only after repeated insistence that the coveted volume was placed in the rightful possessor's hands. Naturally, Kalimann's prices varied according to the work required, or the cost of material; but when it came to the question of ornamental finishing or decorative impressions, his customer's orders were totally ignored, and he it was who decided upon the finishing according to the subject or the value of the work. When he carried the books back to his customers, he would always tie them up carefully in a large colored handkerchief, and, while unwrapping them, would embrace the opportunity of expressing his views upon their contents; at times, however, he regarded the open assertion of his opinion as dangerous, and could not be induced to pass judgment. On these occasions he never failed to say with a sorrowful shake of the head, "While we are living we may not speak, when we are dead it is too late!" There lived in Hort at this time a wealthy and pretty widow, Mrs. Zoe Barkany by name, originally Sarah Samuel. From her, Kalimann would get his novels and classical literature; these he bound in pale blues and greens and brilliant scarlets, ornamenting them with a golden lyre, surmounted with an arrow-pierced heart. He worked upon these bindings con amore, and, transported by his love of the aesthetic, would occasionally give vent to his enthusiasm, and venture observations bordering upon the chivalrous. In each and every heroine of the plays and romances he devoured, he could see the captivating face and figure of Mrs. Barkany. Entering the fair widow's garden one morning, and discovering her seated on a rustic bench, dressed in white, a guitar in her hand, he exclaimed, with a reverential bow: "Ah, mon Dieu, there sits Princess Eboli!" (the heroine in "Don Carlos"). Another time seeing her in a. morning gown of Turkish stuff, he declared she must be sitting for the picture of Rebecca in "Ivanhoe." In short, Mrs. Barkany very soon learned to anticipate her bookbinder's speeches, and would say, with a pretty smile: "Well, am I Esmeralda to-day?" or, "I wager that I am reminding you of the Duchess; tell me, am I right or not?" Binding works on jurisprudence for the notary, he developed his philosophy of law; returning some volumes to the village doctor, he surprised that worthy by launching forth with enthusiasm into a disquisition on medicine; and dropping in one fine day at Professor Gambert's,--the pensioned schoolmaster,--he proved himself no mean adversary in a discussion upon natural history. He invariably approached a subject with a refreshing originality, and on one occasion maintained with an obstinacy born of conviction that the reason Moses had prohibited the Jews from eating pork was because he had discovered the trichina. Simcha Kalimann had taken upon himself the office of censor in his village, as may be seen by the following incident. The widow had given him a richly illustrated German edition of "Nana" to bind. At dusk one evening he discovered his apprentice crouched in a corner by the window, evidently intensely amused over the illustrations. He quietly seized the culprit by the hair, shook him as he would a puppy, and then, putting on his spectacles, began inspecting the volume himself. At first he shook his head, then took off his glasses and rubbed them as though they were playing him some prank, and finally closed the book with an expression of profound disgust. Mrs. Barkany awaited the return of her "Nana" with unruffled patience; finally she despatched her cook Gutel with an order for the book. Kalimann was ready with his excuses, and after a fortnight's delay the widow found her way into the workshop, and began suing for the book in person. "I want my copy of 'Nana,'" she began. "Nana?" Kalimann went on with his work. "You have not bound it yet?" "No, madame." "But when am I to have it?" "You are not to have that book at all." "What! You talk absurdly." "We merit trust, the Count will own; For nothing's left of flesh or bone," quoted Kalimann from Schiller's ballad "The Forge." "As for 'Nana,' I've simply pushed it in the stove." "Kalimann, this is going too far." "It is not a book for a Jewish woman to own." The widow flushed indignantly, but would not yield the victory to her adversary. "If you have burned my book you must give me an equivalent." "With pleasure," replied the bookbinder, and taking down a picture from the wall, he begged her acceptance of it. It represented a scene from Schiller's "Song of the Bell," a fair young woman, surrounded by her children, seated on the balcony of her house. As title to the picture were printed these lines: "The house spreadeth out, And in it presides The chaste gentle housewife, The mother of children; And ruleth metely The household discreetly." Our bookbinder had a reverential admiration for all scholars, poets, or artists, irrespective of race or creed. Awaiting the widow in her library one day, his attention was attracted by an engraving representing Schiller at Carlsbad seated upon an ass. His eyes filled with tears at the sight. "A man like that," he exclaimed, "riding upon an ass! While ordinary people like Baron Fay or Mr. de Mariassy ride about proudly on horses." Later on it occurred to him that Balaam too was mounted on an ass, and he derived a measure of consolation from the thought that Schiller was a prophet as well. Would it be venturesome to say that in Kalimann there was the stuff for poet or prophet? In addition to his trade, our bookbinder carried on another pursuit which was quite lucrative in its way, and one universally well established among all Jewish communities of Eastern Europe. Kalimann was Cupid's secretary: in other words, he wrote love-letters for those who could neither read nor write. The opportunity thus vouchsafed his native tendency toward sentiment helped not only to swell the hearts of his clients with gratitude, but also to swell his own slender income. Thus it was that the fire of his poetic genius was enkindled, and thus it was he became the Petrarch of Hort. One day Gutel Wolfner, Mrs. Barkany's cook, came to him with the request that he would write a letter for her to a friend at Gyongos. "Well, well, little one," said the scribe, "so Love's arrow has reached you at last!" "Heaven preserve me!" cried the girl, "he is not named Love, but Mendel Sucher, and he has never drawn a bow in his life." Gutel now gave the bookbinder a general idea of the letter she wished written, and inquired the price. "That will not depend upon the length of the epistle," he replied, "but upon its quality." Thereupon he read aloud to her his tariff. 1st. A friendly letter ................... 10 kreutzers 2d. A kind and well-intentioned letter ... 15 " 3d. A tender letter ...................... 20 " 4th. A touching letter ................... 30 " 5th. A letter that goes straight to the heart ................................ 1/2 florin "Very good; a friendly letter will do well enough this time," said the girl, as she deposited her ten kreutzers on the table. "I will write a kind and well-intentioned letter for you for the same price as a friendly one," said Kalimann, gallantly. Mendel Sucher received the missive the following day, and as his scholarship was as limited as Gutel's, he forthwith sought out Saul Wahl, a lawyer's clerk at Gyongos, likewise a member of the same erotic profession as the bookbinder of Hort. Wahl read Kalimann's letter to the smiling recipient with such pathos that Mendel was completely overcome. Placing twenty kreutzers on the table, the happy swain begged the clerk to write as finely turned a letter to Gutel as the one she had sent him. Saul, who had at a glance recognized Kalimann's calligraphy, said to himself: "It will go hard with me but I will show the bookbinder that they know how to write letters at Gyongos, and can also quote from the classic authors." He at once wrote Gutel a missive so thickly interlarded with quotations from the Song of Solomon, from Goethe, Petofi, Heine, and Chateaubriand, that when Kalimann read the billet-doux to the blushing girl her head was quite turned. The bookbinder himself scratched his head and muttered: "This Saul is a man of letters; his style is vigorous! Who would have thought it?" The correspondence between Gutel and Mendel, or rather between Kalimann and Saul, flourished for some time. If Kalimann addressed Mendel as "my cherished friend," "my turtle dove," Saul on his side would intersperse throughout his letters such expressions as "your gazelle-like eyes," "your fairy form," "your crimson lips," "your voice rivalling the music of the celestial spheres." Kalimann's "friendly" letter was followed by those of the tender and touching variety, and finally Gutel decided upon sacrificing her half florin and sending one that "would go straight to the heart." To make assurance doubly sure she supplemented her silver piece by a bottle of wine. Her amanuensis poured out a glass, emptied it at a draught, smacked his lips, and began to write. Suddenly, however, he stopped, and turning to the girl, said: "Do you know, Gutel, that wine of yours was a happy inspiration, but the great poet Hafiz was not alone inspired by the spirit of wine, he placed a great virtue upon the crimson lips of pretty girls." Gutel was not slow to understand. "As I have given you a half florin and a bottle of wine," she said, in a shamefaced way, wiping her mouth with the corner of her apron the while, "I see no reason why I should not add a touch of my lips as well." So saying she gave the happy bookbinder a hearty kiss. The consequence of all this was that the pen flew over the paper, and when Kalimann read the letter for Gutel's approval the tender-hearted girl burst into tears of emotion. As for Mendel, when Saul read him this letter going "straight to the heart," he could contain himself no longer; rushing from the house he flew to the factory where he worked, and asked his employer, Mr. Schonberg, to permit him to quit his service. "What is the matter with you?" cried Schonberg. "Why do you wish to leave? Do you want more wages?" "No, no, Mr. Schonberg, that is not the reason. But--but I can stay no longer here at Gyongos, I must go to Hort." "To Hort? What is the reason of that?" For reply the dazed fellow held out the letter for him to read. Schonberg glanced over it, and smiled. "This Kalimann," he murmured, "is a deuce of a fellow. The world has lost a novelist in him. But let me see how I can arrange matters. Mendel," he continued, turning to the open-mouthed lover, "you shall stay here, and you shall marry your Gutel. I will give you two or three rooms in the factory for your housekeeping, and Mrs. Barkany will give the girl her trousseau. How does that strike you?" Mendel beamed. He would have thrown himself on his employer's neck, but resisted the impulse, and, instead, brushed the back of his hand across his eyes. Schonberg gave him a day's holiday, and the happy fellow lost no time in making his way to Hort, and subsequently into the arms of his inamorata. Mrs. Barkany gave Gutel the trousseau, and the marriage took place at harvest-time. At one end of the table, in the seat of honor next to the rabbi, sat the bookbinder of Hort. All had been his work, and, truth to tell, this was not the first happy couple he had been the means of bringing together. When it was his turn to deliver a toast in honor of the bride and groom, he rose, filled his glass, and holding it in his hand, declaimed from his favorite poet Schiller, and with an enthusiasm worthy the occasion: "Honor to women! round Life they are wreathing Roses, the fragrance of Heaven sweet-breathing!" THE EGYPTIAN FIRE-EATER BY RUDOLPH BAUMBACH From "Summer Legends," translated by Helen B. Dole. Published by T. Y. Crowell & Co. Copyright, 1888, by T.Y. Crowell & Co Next Easter he must go to N--to school.--Fact.--It is high time; he is eleven years old, and here he is running wild with the street-boys.--That's what I say." He, that is, I, hung my head, and I felt more like crying than laughing. I had passed eleven sunny boyhood years in the little country town, I stood in high esteem among my playmates, and would rather be the first in the ranks of my birthplace than second in the metropolis. Through the gray mist, which surrounded my near future like a thick fog, gleamed only one light, but a bright, attractive light; that was the theatre, the splendor of which I had already learned to know. The white priests in the "Magic Flute," Sarastro's lions, the fire-spitting serpents, and the gay, merry Papageno,--such things could not be seen at home; and when my parents promised me occasional visits to the theatre, as a reward for diligence in study and exemplary conduct, I left the Eden of my childhood, half consoled. Young trees, transplanted at the proper time, soon take root. After a tearful farewell to my friends and a slight attack of home-sickness, I was quite content. I was received into the second class at the gymnasium, and drank eagerly of the fountain of knowledge; a certain Frau Eberlein, with whom I found board and lodging, cared for my bodily welfare. She was a widow, and kept a little store, in which, with the assistance of a shop-girl, she served customers, who called from morning to night. She dealt principally in groceries and vegetables, but besides these, every conceivable thing was found piled up in her shop: knitting-yarn, sheets of pictures, slate-pencils, cheese, pen-knives, balls of twine, herring, soap, buttons, writing-paper, glue, hairpins, cigar-holders, oranges, fly-poison, brushes, varnish, gingerbread, tin soldiers, corks, tallow candles, tobacco-pouches, thimbles, gum-balls, and torpedoes. Besides, she prepared, by means of essences, peach brandy, maraschino, ros solis, and other liqueurs, as well as an excellent ink, in the manufacture of which I used to help her. She rejoiced in considerable prosperity, lived well, and did not let me want for anything. My passion for the theatre was a source of great anxiety to good Frau Eberlein. She did not have a very good opinion of the art in general, but the comedy she despised from the bottom of her heart. Therefore she made my visiting the theatre as difficult as possible, and it was only after long discussions, and after the shop-girl had added her voice, that she would hand over the necessary amount for purchasing a ticket. The shop-girl was an oldish person, as thin as a giraffe which had fasted for a long time, and was very well read. She subscribed regularly to a popular periodical with the motto, "Culture is freedom," and Frau Eberlein was influenced somewhat by her judgment. This kind-hearted woman was friendly towards me, and as often as her employer asked, "Is the play a proper one for young people?" she would answer, "Yes," and Frau Eberlein would have to let me go. Those were glorious evenings. Long before it was time for the play to begin, I was in my seat in the gallery, looking down from my dizzy height, into the house, still unlighted. Now a servant comes and lights the lamps in the orchestra. The parquet and the upper seats fill, but the reserved seats and the boxes are still empty. Now it suddenly grows light; the chandelier comes down from an opening in the ceiling. The musicians appear and tune their instruments. It makes a horrible discord, but still it is beautiful. The doors slam; handsomely dressed ladies, in white cloaks, gay officers, and civilians in stiff black and white evening dress take their seats in the boxes. The conductor mounts his elevated seat and now it begins. The overture is terribly long, but it comes to an end. Ting-aling-aling,--the curtain rises. Ah!-- I soon decided in my own mind that it should be my destiny, some time, to delight the audience from the stage, but I was still undecided whether I would devote myself to the drama or the opera, for it seemed to me an equally desirable lot to shoot charmed bullets in "Der Freischutz," or, hidden behind elderberry bushes, to shoot at tyrannical Geslers in "William Tell." In the meantime I learned Tell's monologue, "Along this narrow path the man must come," by heart, and practised the aria, "Through the forest, through the meadows." Providence seemed to favor my plan, for it led me into an acquaintance with a certain Lipp, who, on account of his connections, was in a position to pave my way to the stage. Lipp was a tall, slender youth, about sixteen years old, with terribly large feet and hands. He usually wore a very faded, light-blue coat, the sleeves of which hardly came below his elbows, and a red vest. He had a rather stooping gait, and a beaming smile continually played about his mouth. Besides, the poor fellow was always hungry, and it was this peculiarity which brought about our acquaintance. On afternoons when there was no school, and I went out on the green to play ball with my companions or fly my kite, Frau Eberlein used to put something to eat in my pocket. Lipp soon spied it out, and he knew how to get a part, or even the whole of my luncheon for himself. He would pick up a pebble off the ground, slip it from one hand to the other several times, then place one fist above the other, saying: "This hand, or that? Burned is the tail of the cat. Which do you choose? Upper or under will lose!" If I said "upper," the stone was always in the lower hand, and vice versa. And Lipp would take my apple from me with a smile, and devour it as if he were half-famished. Why did I allow it? In the first place because Lipp was beyond me in years and in strength, and in the second place, because he was the son of a very important personage. His father was nothing less than the doorkeeper of the theatre; a splendid man with a shining red nose and coal-black beard reaching to his waist. The wise reader now knows how young Lipp came by a light-blue coat and red vest. My new friend from his earliest years had been constantly on the stage. He played the gamin in folk-scenes and the monster in burlesques. Besides, he was an adept at thunder and lightning; by means of cracking a whip and the close imitation of the neighing of horses, he announced the approaching stage-coach; he lighted the moon in "Der Freischutz;" and with a kettle and pair of tongs gave forewarning of the witches' hour. When I opened my heart to Lipp and confided to him that I wanted to go on the stage, he reached out his broad hand to me with emotion and said, "And so do I." Hereupon we swore eternal friendship, and Lipp promised as soon as possible to procure me an opportunity for putting my dramatic qualifications to the test. From that hour his manner changed towards me. Before, he had treated me with some condescension, but now his behavior towards me was more like that of a colleague. Moreover, the game of chance for my lunch came to an end, for from that time forth I shared it with him like a brother. The fine fellow kept his promise to make a way for me to go on the stage. A few evenings later ("Der Freischutz" was being played), I stood with a beating heart behind the scenes, and friend Lipp stood by my side. In my hand I held a string, with which I set the wings of the owl in the wolf's glen in rhythmic motion. My companion performed the wild chase. By turns he whistled through his fingers, cracked a whip, and imitated the yelping of the hounds. It was awfully fine. "You did your part splendidly," said Lipp to me at the end of the scene; "next time you must go out on the stage." I swam in a sea of delight. A short time after, "Preciosa" was given, and Lipp told me that I could play the gypsy boy. They put a white frock on me and wound red bands crosswise about my legs. Then a chorister took me by the hand and led me up and down the back of the stage two or three times. That was my first appearance. It was also my last. The affair became known. In school I received a severe reprimand, and in addition, as a consequence of the airy gypsy costume, a cold with a cough, which kept me in bed for a day or two. "It serves you right," said Frau Eberlein. "He who will not hear must feel. This comes from playing in the theatre. If your blessed grandmother knew that you had been with play-actors she would turn in her grave." Crushed and humiliated, I swallowed the various teas which my nurse steeped for me one after another. But with each cup I had to listen to an instructive story about the depravity of actors. In order to lead me back from the way of the transgressors to the path of virtue, Frau Eberlein painted with glowing colors; one story in particular, in which occurred three bottles of punch-essence never paid for, made a deep impression on me. But Frau Eberlein's anecdotes failed to make me change my resolves. Soon after, something very serious happened. Lipp's father, the doorkeeper of the theatre, after drinking heavily, fell down lifeless by the card-table in the White Horse; and my friend, in consequence of this misfortune, came under the control of a cold-hearted guardian, who had as little comprehension of the dramatic art as Frau Eberlein. Lipp was given over to a house-painter, who, invested with extended authority, took the unfortunate fellow as an apprentice. Lipp was inconsolable at the change in his lot. The smile disappeared from his face, and I too felt melancholy when I saw him going along the street in his paint-bespattered clothes, the picture of despair. One day I met the poor fellow outside the city gate, where the last houses stand, painting a garden fence with an arsenic-green color. "My good friend," he said, with a melancholy smile, "I cannot give you my hand, for there is paint on it; but we are just the same as ever." Then he spoke of his disappointed hopes. "But," he continued, "because they are deferred, they are not put off for ever, and these clouds" (by this he referred to his present apprenticeship as painter) "will pass away. The time will come--I say no more about it; but the time will come." Here Lipp stopped speaking and dipped his brush in the paint-pot, for his master was coming around the corner of the house. One day Lipp disappeared. The authorities did everything in their power to find him, but in vain; and since, at that time, the river, on which the city stood, had overflowed its banks, it was decided that Lipp had perished. The only person who did not share in this opinion was myself. I had a firm conviction that he had gone out into the wide world to seek his fortune, and that some day he would turn up again as a celebrated artist and a successful man. But year after year passed by and nothing was heard of Lipp. I had entered upon my fifteenth year, was reading Virgil and Xenophon, and could enumerate the causes which brought the Roman empire to ruin. But in the midst of my classical studies I did not lose sight of the real aim of my life, the dramatic art; and as the stage had been closed to me since my first appearance, I studied in my own room the roles in which I hoped to shine later. Then I had already tried my skill as a dramatic author, and in my writing-desk lay concealed a finished tragedy. It was entitled "Pharaoh." In it occurred the seven plagues of Egypt and the miracles of Moses; but Pharaoh's destruction in the Red Sea formed the finale from which I promised myself the most brilliant success. Therefore I went about dressed as a regular artist. My schoolmates imitated the University students,--wore gay-colored caps, dark golden-red bands, and carried canes adorned with tassels; but I wore over my wild hair a pointed Calabrian hat, around my neck a loose silk handkerchief fastened together in an artistic knot, and in unpleasant weather a cloak, the red-lined corner of which I threw picturesquely over my left shoulder. In this attire I went about in my native town, where I was accustomed to spend my summer vacations. The boys on the street made sport of me by their words and actions, but I thought, "What does the moon care when the dog bays at her!" and holding my head high, I walked past the scoffers. Every year, in the month of August, a fair was held in the little town. On the common, tents and arbors were put up, where beer and sausages were furnished. Further entertainment was provided in the way of rope-dancers, jugglers, a Punch-and-Judy show, fortune-tellers, monstrosities, wax figures, and tragedies. As a spoiled city youth, I considered it decidedly beneath my dignity to take part in the people's merry-making; but I couldn't get out of it, and so I went with my parents and brothers and sisters to the opening of the festival out in the park, and walked more proudly than ever under my Calabrian hat. The sights were inspected one after another, and in the evening we all sat together in the front row of a booth, the proprietor of which promised to exhibit the most extraordinary thing that had ever been seen. The spectacle was divided into three parts. In the first a little horse with a large head was brought out, which answered any questions asked him by nodding, shaking, and beating his hoofs. In the second part two trained hares performed their tricks. With their forelegs they beat the drum, fired off pistols, and in the "Battle with the Hounds" they put to flight a whining terrier. The proprietor had kept the best of all--that is, the Egyptian fire-eater, called "Phosphorus"--for the last part. The curtain went up for the third time, and on the stage, in fantastic scarlet dress, with a burning torch in his left hand, there stood a tall--ah! a form only too well known to me. It was Lipp, who had been looked upon as dead. I saw how the unfortunate fellow with a smile put a lump of burning pitch in his mouth, and then everything began to swim around me. I pulled my hat down over my eyes, made my way through the crowd howling their applause, and staggered home exhausted. During the rest of the festival I kept myself in strict seclusion. I announced that I was not well, and this was really no untruth, for I was very miserable. "That is because he is growing," said my anxious mother; and I assented, and swallowed submissively the family remedies which she brought to me. At last the fair was over, and the Egyptian fire-eater had left the town. But the poor fellow did not go far. In the city where he exhibited his skill he was recognized and arrested, because he had avoided service in the army. To be sure, he was set free again after a few weeks as unqualified; but in the meantime his employer with the performing hares had gone nobody knew where, and Lipp was left solely dependent on his art, which he practised for some time in the neighboring towns and villages. The end of his artistic career is sad and melancholy. He fell a victim to his calling. As an ambitious man he enlarged his artistic capabilities; he ate not only pitch but also pieces of broken glass, and an indigestible lamp-chimney was the cause of his destruction. When I returned to the city I burned my tragedy of "Pharaoh," and sold my cloak and Calabrian hat to an old-clothes dealer. I was thoroughly disgusted with the career of an artist, and whenever afterwards I was inclined to relapse, Frau Eberlein would call out to me, "Do you, too, want to die from a lamp-chimney?" Then I would bend my head and bury my nose in my Greek grammar. THE CREMONA VIOLIN BY E.T.A. HOFFMANN From "Weird Tales," translated by J.T. Beally. Published by Charles Scribner's Sons. Councillor Krespel was one of the strangest, oddest men I ever met with in my life. When I went to live in H---for a time the whole town was full of talk about him, as he happened to be just then in the midst of one of the very craziest of his schemes. Krespel had the reputation of being both a clever, learned lawyer and a skilful diplomatist. One of the reigning princes of Germany--not, however, one of the most powerful--had appealed to him for assistance in drawing up a memorial, which he was desirous of presenting at the Imperial Court with the view of furthering his legitimate claims upon a certain strip of territory. The project was crowned with the happiest success; and as Krespel had once complained that he could never find a dwelling sufficiently comfortable to suit him, the prince, to reward him for the memorial, undertook to defray the cost of building a house which Krespel might erect just as he pleased. Moreover, the prince was willing to purchase any site that he should fancy. This offer, however, the Councillor would not accept; he insisted that the house should be built in his garden, situated in a very beautiful neighborhood outside the town-walls. So he bought all kinds of materials and had them carted out. Then he might have been seen day after day, attired in his curious garments (which he had made himself according to certain fixed rules of his own), slacking the lime, riddling the sand, packing up the bricks and stones in regular heaps, and so on. All this he did without once consulting an architect or thinking about a plan. One fine day, however, he went to an experienced builder of the town and requested him to be in his garden at daybreak the next morning, with all his journeymen and apprentices, and a large body of laborers, etc., to build him his house. Naturally the builder asked for the architect's plan, and was not a little astonished when Krespel replied that none was needed, and that things would turn out all right in the end, just as he wanted them. Next morning, when the builder and his men came to the place, they found a trench drawn out in the shape of an exact square; and Krespel said, "Here's where you must lay the foundations; then carry up the walls until I say they are high enough." "Without windows and doors, and without partition walls?" broke in the builder, as if alarmed at Krespel's mad folly. "Do what I tell you, my dear sir," replied the Councillor quite calmly; "leave the rest to me; it will be all right." It was only the promise of high pay that could induce the builder to proceed with the ridiculous building; but none has ever been erected under merrier circumstances. As there was an abundant supply of food and drink, the workmen never left their work; and amidst their continuous laughter the four walls were run up with incredible quickness, until one day Krespel cried, "Stop!" Then the workmen, laying down trowel and hammer, came down from the scaffoldings and gathered round Krespel in a circle, whilst every laughing face was asking, "Well, and what now?" "Make way!" cried Krespel; and then running to one end of the garden, he strode slowly towards the square of brickwork. When he came close to the wall he shook his head in a dissatisfied manner, ran to the other end of the garden, again strode slowly towards the brickwork square, and proceeded to act as before. These tactics he pursued several times, until at length, running his sharp nose hard against the wall, he cried, "Come here, come here, men! break me a door in here! Here's where I want a door made!" He gave the exact dimensions in feet and inches, and they did as he bid them. Then he stepped inside the structure, and smiled with satisfaction as the builder remarked that the walls were just the height of a good two-storeyed house. Krespel walked thoughtfully backwards and forwards across the space within, the bricklayers behind him with hammers and picks, and wherever he cried, "Make a window here, six feet high by four feet broad!" "There a little window, three feet by two!" a hole was made in a trice. It was at this stage of the proceedings that I came to H---; and it was highly amusing to see how hundreds of people stood round about the garden and raised a loud shout whenever the stones flew out and a new window appeared where nobody had for a moment expected it. And in the same manner Krespel proceeded with the buildings and fittings of the rest of the house, and with all the work necessary to that end; everything had to be done on the spot in accordance with the instructions which the Councillor gave from time to time. However, the absurdity of the whole business, the growing conviction that things would in the end turn out better than might have been expected, but above all, Krespel's generosity--which indeed cost him nothing--kept them all in good-humor. Thus were the difficulties overcome which necessarily arose out of this eccentric way of building, and in a short time there was a completely finished house, its outside, indeed, presenting a most extraordinary appearance, no two windows, etc., being alike, but on the other hand the interior arrangements suggested a peculiar feeling of comfort. All who entered the house bore witness to the truth of this; and I too experienced it myself when I was taken in by Krespel after I had become more intimate with him. For hitherto I had not exchanged a word with this eccentric man; his building had occupied him so much that he had not even once been to Professor M----'s to dinner, as he was in the habit of doing on Tuesdays. Indeed, in reply to a special invitation, he sent word that he should not set foot over the threshold before the house-warming of his new building took place. All his friends and acquaintances, therefore, confidently looked forward to a great banquet; but Krespel invited nobody except the masters, journeymen, apprentices, and laborers who had built the house. He entertained them with the choicest viands; bricklayers' apprentices devoured partridge pies regardless of consequences; young joiners polished off roast pheasants with the greatest success; whilst hungry laborers helped themselves for once to the choicest morsels of truffes fricassees. In the evening their wives and daughters came, and there was a great ball. After waltzing a short while with the wives of the masters, Krespel sat down amongst the town musicians, took a violin in his hand, and directed the orchestra until daylight. On the Tuesday after this festival, which exhibited Councillor Krespel in the character of a friend of the people, I at length saw him appear, to my no little joy, at Professor M---'s. Anything more strange and fantastic than Krespel's behavior it would be impossible to find. He was so stiff and awkward in his movements, that he looked every moment as if he would run up against something or do some damage. But he did not; and the lady of the house seemed to be well aware that he would not, for she did not grow a shade paler when he rushed with heavy steps round a table crowded with beautiful cups, or when he manoeuvred near a large mirror that reached down to the floor, or even when he seized a flower-pot of beautifully painted porcelain and swung it round in the air as if desirous of making its colors play. Moreover, before dinner he subjected everything in the Professor's room to a most minute examination; he also took down a picture from the wall and hung it up again, standing on one of the cushioned chairs to do so. At the same time he talked a good deal and vehemently; at one time his thoughts kept leaping, as it were, from one subject to another (this was most conspicuous during dinner); at another, he was unable to have done with an idea; seizing upon it again and again, he gave it all sorts of wonderful twists and turns, and couldn't get back into the ordinary track until something else took hold of his fancy. Sometimes his voice was rough and harsh and screeching, and sometimes it was low and drawling and singing; but at no time did it harmonize with what he was about. Music was the subject of conversation; the praises of a new composer were being sung, when Krespel, smiling, said in his low, singing tones, "I wish the devil with his pitchfork would hurl that atrocious garbler of music millions of fathoms down to the bottomless pit of hell!" Then he burst out passionately and wildly, "She is an angel of heaven, nothing but pure God-given music!--the paragon and queen of song!"--and tears stood in his eyes. To understand this, we had to go back to a celebrated artiste, who had been the subject of conversation an hour before. Just at this time a roast hare was on the table; I noticed that Krespel carefully removed every particle of meat from the bones on his plate, and was most particular in his inquiries after the hare's feet; these the Professor's little five-year-old daughter now brought to him with a very pretty smile. Besides, the children had cast many friendly glances towards Krespel during dinner; now they rose and drew nearer to him, but not without signs of timorous awe. What's the meaning of that? thought I to myself. Dessert was brought in; then the Councillor took a little box from his pocket, in which he had a miniature lathe of steel. This he immediately screwed fast to the table, and turning the bones with incredible skill and rapidity, he made all sorts of little fancy boxes and balls, which the children received with cries of delight. Just as we were rising from table, the Professor's niece asked, "And what is our Antonia doing?" Krespel's face was like that of one who has bitten of a sour orange and wants to look as if it were a sweet one; but this expression soon changed into the likeness of a hideous mask, whilst he laughed behind it with downright, bitter, fierce, and, as it seemed to me, satanic scorn. "Our Antonia? our dear Antonia?" he asked in his drawling, disagreeable singing way. The Professor hastened to intervene; in the reproving glance which he gave his niece I read that she had touched a point likely to stir up unpleasant memories in Krespel's heart. "How are you getting on with your violins?" interposed the Professor in a jovial manner, taking the Councillor by both hands. Then Krespel's countenance cleared up, and with a firm voice he replied, "Capitally, Professor; you recollect my telling you of the lucky chance which threw that splendid Amati [Footnote: The Amati were a celebrated family of violin-makers of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, belonging to Cremona in Italy. They form the connecting-link between the Brescian school of makers and the greatest of all makers, Straduarius and Guarnerius.] into my hands. Well, I've only cut it open to-day--not before to-day. I hope Antonia has carefully taken the rest of it to pieces." "Antonia is a good child," remarked the Professor. "Yes, indeed, that she is," cried the Councillor, whisking himself round; then, seizing his hat and stick, he hastily rushed out of the room. I saw in the mirror how that tears were standing in his eyes. As soon as the Councillor was gone, I at once urged the Professor to explain to me what Krespel had to do with violins, and particularly with Antonia. "Well," replied the Professor, "not only is the Councillor a remarkably eccentric fellow altogether, but he practises violin-making in his own crack-brained way." "Violin-making!" I exclaimed, perfectly astonished. "Yes," continued the Professor, "according to the judgment of men who understand the thing, Krespel makes the very best violins that can be found nowadays; formerly he would frequently let other people play on those in which he had been especially successful, but that's been all over and done with now for a long time. As soon as he has finished a violin he plays on it himself for one or two hours, with very remarkable power and with the most exquisite expression, then he hangs it up beside the rest, and never touches it again or suffers anybody else to touch it. If a violin by any of the eminent old masters is hunted up anywhere, the Councillor buys it immediately, no matter what the price put upon it. But he plays it as he does his own violins, only once; then he takes it to pieces in order to examine closely its inner structure, and should he fancy he hasn't found exactly what he sought for, he in a pet throws the pieces into a big chest, which is already full of the remains of broken violins." "But who and what is Antonia?" I inquired, hastily and impetuously. "Well, now, that," continued the Professor,--"that is a thing which might very well make me conceive an unconquerable aversion to the Councillor, were I not convinced that there is some peculiar secret behind it, for he is such a good-natured fellow at bottom as to be sometimes guilty of weakness. When we came to H---, several years ago, he led the life of an anchorite, along with an old housekeeper, in ---- Street. Soon, by his oddities, he excited the curiosity of his neighbors; and immediately he became aware of this, he sought and made acquaintances. Not only in my house but everywhere we became so accustomed to him that he grew to be indispensable. In spite of his rude exterior, even the children liked him, without ever proving a nuisance to him; for, notwithstanding all their friendly passages together, they always retained a certain timorous awe of him, which secured him against all over-familiarity. You have to-day had an example of the way in which he wins their hearts by his ready skill in various things. We all took him at first for a crusty old bachelor, and he never contradicted us. After he had been living here some time, he went away, nobody knew where, and returned at the end of some months. The evening following his return his windows were lit up to an unusual extent! This alone was sufficient to arouse his neighbors' attention, and they soon heard the surpassingly beautiful voice of a female singing to the accompaniment of a piano. Then the music of a violin was heard chiming in and entering upon a keen ardent contest with the voice. They knew at once that the player was the Councillor. I myself mixed in the large crowd which had gathered in front of his house to listen to this extraordinary concert; and I must confess that, besides this voice and the peculiar, deep, soul-stirring impression which the execution made upon me, the singing of the most celebrated artistes whom I had ever heard seemed to me feeble and void of expression. Until then I had had no conception of such long-sustained notes, of such nightingale trills, of such undulations of musical sound, of such swelling up to the strength of organ-notes, of such dying away to the faintest whisper. There was not one whom the sweet witchery did not enthral; and when the singer ceased, nothing but soft sighs broke the impressive silence. Somewhere about midnight the Councillor was heard talking violently, and another male voice seemed, to judge from the tones, to be reproaching him, whilst at intervals the broken words of a sobbing girl could be detected. The Councillor continued to shout with increasing violence, until he fell into that drawling, singing way that you know. He was interrupted by a loud scream from the girl, and then all was as still as death. Suddenly a loud racket was heard on the stairs; a young man rushed out sobbing, threw himself into a post-chaise which stood below, and drove rapidly away. The next day the Councillor was very cheerful, and nobody had the courage to question him about the events of the previous night. But on inquiring of the housekeeper, we gathered that the Councillor had brought home with him an extraordinarily pretty young lady whom he called Antonia, and she it was who had sung so beautifully. A young man also had come along with them; he had treated Antonia very tenderly, and must evidently have been her betrothed. But he, since the Councillor peremptorily insisted on it, had had to go away again in a hurry. What the relations between Antonia and the Councillor are has remained until now a secret, but this much is certain, that he tyrannizes over the poor girl in the most hateful fashion. He watches her as Doctor Bartholo watches his ward in the Barber of Seville; she hardly dare show herself at the window; and if, yielding now and again to her earnest entreaties, he takes her into society, he follows her with Argus' eyes, and will on no account suffer a musical note to be sounded, far less let Antonia sing--indeed, she is not permitted to sing in his own house. Antonia's singing on that memorable night has, therefore, come to be regarded by the townspeople in the light of a tradition of some marvellous wonder that suffices to stir the heart and the fancy; and even those who did not hear it often exclaim, ever any other singer attempts to display her powers in the place, 'What sort of a wretched squeaking do you call that? Nobody but Antonia knows how to sing.'" Having a singular weakness for such like fantastic histories, I found it necessary, as may easily be imagined, to make Antonia's acquaintance. I had myself often enough heard the popular sayings about her singing, but had never imagined that that exquisite artiste was living in the place, held a captive in the bonds of this eccentric Krespel like the victim of a tyrannous sorcerer. Naturally enough I heard in my dreams on the following night Antonia's marvellous voice, and as she besought me in the most touching manner in a glorious adagio movement (very ridiculously it seemed to me, as if I had composed it myself) to save her--I soon resolved, like a second Astolpho,[Footnote: A reference to Ariosto's Orlando Furioso. Astolpho, an English cousin of Orlando, was a great boaster, but generous, courteous, gay, and remarkably handsome; he was carried to Alcina's island on the back of a whale.] to penetrate into Krespel's house, as if into another Alcina's magic ca stle, and deliver the queen of song from her ignominious fetters. It all came about in a different way from what I had expected; I had seen the Councillor scarcely more than two or three times, and eagerly discussed with him the best method of constructing violins, when he invited me to call and see him. I did so; and he showed me his treasures of violins. There were fully thirty of them hanging up in a closet; one amongst them bore conspicuously all the marks of great antiquity (a carved lion's head, etc.), and, hung up higher than the rest, and surmounted by a crown of flowers, it seemed to exercise a queenly supremacy over them. "This violin," said Krespel, on my making some inquiry relative to it, "this violin is a very remarkable and curious specimen of the work of some unknown master, probably of Tartini's [Footnote: Giuseppe Tartini, born in 1692, died in 1770, was one of the most celebrated violinists of the eighteenth century, and the discoverer (in 1714) of "resultant tones," or "Tartini's tones," as they are frequently called. Most of his life was spent at Padua. He did much to advance the art of the violinist, both by his compositions for that instrument, as well as by his treatise on its capabilities.] age. I am perfectly convinced that there is something especially exceptional in its inner construction, and that, if I took it to pieces, a secret would be revealed to me which I have long been seeking to discover, but--laugh at me if you like--this senseless thing which only gives signs of life and sound as I make it, often speaks to me in a strange way of itself. The first time I played upon it I somehow fancied that I was only the magnetizer who has the power of moving his subject to reveal of his own accord in words the visions of his inner nature. Don't go away with the belief that I am such a fool as to attach even the slightest importance to such fantastic notions, and yet it's certainly strange that I could never prevail upon myself to cut open that dumb lifeless thing there. I am very pleased now that I have not cut it open, for since Antonia has been with me I sometimes play to her upon this violin. For Antonia is fond of it--very fond of it." As the Councillor uttered these words with visible signs of emotion, I felt encouraged to hazard the question, "Will you not play it to me, Councillor?" Krespel made a wry face, and falling into his drawling, singing way, said, "No, my good sir!" and that was an end of the matter. Then I had to look at all sorts of rare curiosities, the greater part of them childish trifles; at last thrusting his arm into a chest, he brought out a folded piece of paper, which he pressed into my hand, adding solemnly, "You are a lover of art; take this present as a priceless memento, which you must value at all times above everything else." Therewith he took me by the shoulders and gently pushed me towards the door, embracing me on the threshold. That is to say, I was in a symbolical manner virtually kicked out of doors. Unfolding the paper, I found a piece of a first string of a violin about an eighth of an inch in length, with the words, "A piece of the treble string with which the deceased Stamitz [Footnote: This was the name of a well-known musical family from Bohemia. Karl Stamitz is the one here possibly meant, since he died about eighteen or twenty years previous to the publication of this tale.] strung his violin for the last concert at which he ever played." This summary dismissal at mention of Antonia's name led me to infer that I should never see her; but I was mistaken, for on my second visit to the Councillor's I found her in his room, assisting him to put a violin together. At first sight Antonia did not make a strong impression; but soon I found it impossible to tear myself away from her blue eyes, her sweet rosy lips, her uncommonly graceful, lovely form. She was very pale; but a shrewd remark or a merry sally would call up a winning smile on her face and suffuse her cheeks with a deep burning flush, which, however, soon faded away to a faint rosy glow. My conversation with her was quite unconstrained, and yet I saw nothing whatever of the Argus-like watchings on Krespel's part which the Professor had imputed to him; on the contrary, his behavior moved along the customary lines, nay, he even seemed to approve of my conversation with Antonia. So I often stepped in to see the Councillor; and as we became accustomed to each other's society, a singular feeling of homeliness, taking possession of our little circle of three, filled our hearts with inward happiness. I still continued to derive exquisite enjoyment from the Councillor's strange crotchets and oddities; but it was of course Antonia's irresistible charms alone which attracted me, and led me to put up with a good deal which I should otherwise, in the frame of mind in which I then was, have impatiently shunned. For it only too often happened that in the Councillor's characteristic extravagance there was mingled much that was dull and tiresome; and it was in a special degree irritating to me that, as often as I turned the conversation upon music, and particularly upon singing, he was sure to interrupt me, with that sardonic smile upon his face and those repulsive singing tones of his, by some remark of a quite opposite tendency, very often of a commonplace character. From the great distress which at such times Antonia's glances betrayed, I perceived that he only did it to deprive me of a pretext for calling upon her for a song. But I didn't relinquish my design. The hindrances which the Councillor threw in my way only strengthened my resolution to overcome them; I MUST hear Antonia sing if I was not to pine away in reveries and dim aspirations for want of hearing her. One evening Krespel was in an uncommonly good humor; he had been taking an old Cremona violin to pieces, and had discovered that the sound-post was fixed half a line more obliquely than usual--an important discovery!--one of incalculable advantage in the practical work of making violins! I succeeded in setting him off at full speed on his hobby of the true art of violin-playing. Mention of the way in which the old masters picked up their dexterity in execution from really great singers (which was what Krespel happened just then to be expatiating upon) naturally paved the way for the remark that now the practice was the exact opposite of this, the vocal score erroneously following the affected and abrupt transitions and rapid scaling of the instrumentalists. "What is more nonsensical," I cried, leaping from my chair, running to the piano, and opening it quickly--"what is more nonsensical than such an execrable style as this, which, far from being music, is much more like the noise of peas rolling across the floor?" At the same time I sang several of the modern fermatas, which rush up and down and hum like a well-spun peg-top, striking a few villainous chords by way of accompaniment. Krespel laughed outrageously and screamed: "Ha! ha! methinks I hear our German-Italians or our Italian-Germans struggling with an aria from Pucitta, [Footnote: Vincenzo Pucitta (1778-1861) was an Italian opera composer, whose music "shows great facility, but no invention." He also wrote several songs.] or Portogallo, [Footnote: Il Portogallo was the Italian sobriquet of a Portuguese musician named Mark Anthony Simao (1763-1829). He lived alternately in Italy and Portugal, and wrote several operas.] or some other Maestro di capella, or rather schiavo d'un primo uomo." [Footnote: Literally, "The slave of a primo uomo," primo uomo being the masculine form corresponding to prima donna, that is, a singer of hero's parts in operatic music. At one time also female parts were sung and acted by men or boys.] Now, thought I, now's the time; so turning to Antonia, I remarked, "Antonia knows nothing of such singing as that, I believe?" At the same time I struck up one of old Leonardo Leo's [Footnote: Leonardo Leo, the chief Neapolitan representative of Italian music in the first part of the eighteenth century, and author of more than forty operas and nearly one hundred compositions for the Church.] beautiful soul-stirring songs. Then Antonia's cheeks glowed; heavenly radiance sparkled in her eyes, which grew full of reawakened inspiration; she hastened to the piano; she opened her lips; but at that very moment Krespel pushed her away, grasped me by the shoulders, and with a shriek that rose up to a tenor pitch, cried, "My son--my son--my son!' And then he immediately went on, singing very softly, and grasping my hand with a bow that was the pink of politeness, "In very truth, my esteemed and honorable student-friend, in very truth, it would be a violation of the codes of social intercourse, as well as of all good manners, were I to express aloud and in a stirring way my wish that here, on this very spot, the devil from hell would softly break your neck with his burning claws, and so in a sense make short work of you; but, setting that aside, you must acknowledge, my dearest friend, that it is rapidly growing dark, and there are no lamps burning to-night, so that, even though I did not kick you downstairs at once, your darling limbs might still run a risk of suffering damage. Go home by all means; and cherish a kind remembrance of your faithful friend, if it should happen that you never,--pray, understand me,--If you should never see him in his own house again." Therewith he embraced me, and, still keeping fast hold of me, turned with me slowly towards the door, so that I could not get another single look at Antonia. Of course it is plain enough that in my position I couldn't thrash the Councillor, though that is what he really deserved. The Professor enjoyed a good laugh at my expense, and assured me that I had ruined for ever all hopes of retaining the Councillor's friendship. Antonia was too dear to me, I might say too holy, for me to go and play the part of the languishing lover and stand gazing up at her window, or to fill the role of the lovesick adventurer. Completely upset, I went away from H---; but, as is usual in such cases, the brilliant colors of the picture of my fancy faded, and the recollection of Antonia, as well as of Antonia's singing (which I had never heard), often fell upon my heart like a soft faint trembling light, comforting me. Two years afterwards I received an appointment in B---, and set out on a journey to the south of Germany. The towers of H---- rose before me in the red vaporous glow of the evening; the nearer I came the more was I oppressed by an indescribable feeling of the most agonizing distress; it lay upon me like a heavy burden; I could not breathe; I was obliged to get out of my carriage into the open air. But my anguish continued to increase until it became actual physical pain. Soon I seemed to hear the strains of a solemn chorale floating in the air; the sounds continued to grow more distinct; I realized the fact that they were men's voices chanting a church chorale. "What's that? what's that?" I cried, a burning stab darting as it were through my breast. "Don't you see?" replied the coachman, who was driving along beside me, "why don't you see? they're burying somebody up yonder in yon churchyard." And indeed we were near the churchyard; I saw a circle of men clothed in black standing round a grave, which was on the point of being closed. Tears started to my eyes; I somehow fancied they were burying there all the joy and all the happiness of life. Moving on rapidly down the hill, I was no longer able to see into the churchyard; the chorale came to an end, and I perceived not far distant from the gate some of the mourners returning from the funeral. The Professor, with his niece on his arm, both in deep mourning, went close past me without noticing me. The young lady had her handkerchief pressed close to her eyes, and was weeping bitterly. In the frame of mind in which I then was I could not possibly go into the town, so I sent on my servant with the carriage to the hotel where I usually put up, whilst I took a turn in the familiar neighborhood to get rid of a mood that was possibly only due to physical causes, such as heating on the journey, etc. On arriving at a well-known avenue, which leads to a pleasure resort, I came upon a most extraordinary spectacle. Councillor Krespel was being conducted by two mourners, from whom he appeared to be endeavoring to make his escape by all sorts of strange twists and turns. As usual, he was dressed in his own curious home-made gray coat; but from his little cocked-hat, which he wore perched over one ear in military fashion, a long narrow ribbon of black crape fluttered backwards and forwards in the wind. Around his waist he had buckled a black sword-belt; but instead of a sword he had stuck a long fiddle-bow into it. A creepy shudder ran through my limbs: "He's insane," thought I, as I slowly followed them. The Councillor's companions led him as far as his house, where he embraced them, laughing loudly. They left him; and then his glance fell upon me, for I now stood near him. He stared at me fixedly for some time; then he cried in a hollow voice, "Welcome, my student friend! you also understand it!" Therewith he took me by the arm and pulled me into the house, up the steps, into the room where the violins hung. They were all draped in black crape; the violin of the old master was missing; in its place was a cypress wreath. I knew what had happened. "Antonia! Antonia!" I cried, in inconsolabie grief. The Councillor, with his arms crossed on his breast, stood beside me, as if turned into stone. I pointed to the cypress wreath. "When she died," said he, in a very hoarse solemn voice, "when she died, the sound-post of that violin broke into pieces with a ringing crack, and the sound-board was split from end to end. The faithful instrument could only live with her and in her; it lies beside her in the coffin, it has been buried with her." Deeply agitated, I sank down upon a chair, whilst the Councillor began to sing a gay song in a husky voice; it was truly horrible to see him hopping about on one foot, and the crape strings (he still had his hat on) flying about the room and up to the violins hanging on the walls. Indeed, I could not repress a loud cry that rose to my lips when, on the Councillor making an abrupt turn, the crape came all over me; I fancied he wanted to envelop me in it and drag me down into the horrible dark depths of insanity. Suddenly he stood still and addressed me in his singing way, "My son! my son! why do you call out? Have you espied the angel of death? That always precedes the ceremony." Stepping into the middle of the room, he took the violin-bow out of his sword-belt, and, holding it over his head with both hands, broke it into a thousand pieces. Then, with a loud laugh, he cried, "Now you imagine my sentence is pronounced, don't you, my son? but it's nothing of the kind--not at all! not at all! Now I'm free--free--free--hurrah! I'm free! Now I shall make no more violins--no more violins--hurrah! no more violins!" This he sang to a horrible mirthful tune, again spinning round on one foot. Perfectly aghast, I was making the best of my way to the door, when he held me fast, saying quite calmly, "Stay, my student friend, pray don't think from this outbreak of grief, which is torturing me as if with the agonies of death, that I am insane; I only do it because a short time ago I made myself a dressing-gown in which I wanted to look like Fate or like God!" The Councillor then went on with a medley of silly and awful rubbish, until he fell down utterly exhausted; I called up the old housekeeper, and was very pleased to find myself in the open air again. I never doubted for a moment that Krespel had become insane; the Professor, however, asserted the contrary. "There are men," he remarked, "from whom nature or a special destiny has taken away the cover behind which the mad folly of the rest of us runs its course unobserved. They are like thin-skinned insects, which, as we watch the restless play of their muscles, seem to be misshapen, while nevertheless everything soon comes back into its proper form again. All that with us remains thought passes over with Krespel into action. That bitter scorn which the spirit that is wrapped up in the doings and dealings of the earth often has at hand, Krespel gives vent to in outrageous gestures and agile caprioles. But these are his lightning conductor. What comes up out of the earth he gives again to the earth, but what is divine, that he keeps; and so I believe that his inner consciousness, in spite of the apparent madness which springs from it to the surface, is as right as a trivet. To be sure, Antonia's sudden death grieves him sore, but I warrant that to-morrow will see him going along in his old jog-trot way as usual." And the Professor's prediction was almost literally filled. Next day the Councillor appeared to be just as he formerly was, only he averred that he would never make another violin, nor yet ever play on another. And, as I learned later, he kept his word. Hints which the Professor let fall confirmed my own private conviction that the so carefully guarded secret of the Councillor's relations to Antonia, nay, that even her death, was a crime which must weigh heavily upon him, a crime that could not be atoned for. I determined that I would not leave H---- without taxing him with the offence which I conceived him to be guilty of; I determined to shake his heart down to its very roots, and so compel him to make open confession of the terrible deed. The more I reflected upon the matter, the clearer it grew in my own mind that Krespel must be a villain, and in the same proportion did my intended reproach, which assumed of itself the form of a real rhetorical masterpiece, wax more fiery and more impressive. Thus equipped and mightily incensed, I hurried to his house. I found him with a calm smiling countenance making playthings. "How can peace," I burst out--"how can peace find lodgment even for a single moment in your breast, so long as the memory of your horrible deed preys like a serpent upon you?" He gazed at me in amazement, and laid his chisel aside. "What do you mean, my dear sir?" he asked; "pray take a seat." But my indignation chafing me more and more, I went on to accuse him directly of having murdered Antonia, and to threaten him with the vengeance of the Eternal. Further, as a newly full-fledged lawyer, full of my profession, I went so far as to give him to understand that I would leave no stone unturned to get a clue to the business, and so deliver him here in this world into the hands of an earthly judge. I must confess that I was considerably disconcerted when, at the conclusion of my violent and pompous harangue, the Councillor, without answering so much as a single word, calmly fixed his eyes upon me as though expecting me to go on again. And this I did indeed attempt to do, but it sounded so ill-founded and so stupid as well that I soon grew silent again. Krespel gloated over my embarrassment, whilst a malicious ironical smile flitted across his face. Then he grew very grave, and addressed me in solemn tones. "Young man, no doubt you think I am foolish, insane; that I can pardon you, since we are both confined in the same mad-house; and you only blame me for deluding myself with the idea that I am God the Father because you imagine yourself to be God the Son. But how do you dare desire to insinuate yourself into the secrets and lay bare the hidden motives of a life that is strange to you and that must continue so? She has gone and the mystery is solved." He ceased speaking, rose, and traversed the room backwards and forwards several times. I ventured to ask for an explanation; he fixed his eyes upon me, grasped me by the hand, and led me to the window, which he threw wide open. Propping himself upon his arms, he leaned out, and, looking down into the garden, told me the history of his life. When he finished I left him, touched and ashamed. In a few words, his relations with Antonia rose in the following way. Twenty years before, the Councillor had been led into Italy by his favorite engrossing passion of hunting up and buying the best violins of the old masters. At that time he had not yet begun to make them himself, and so of course he had not begun to take to pieces those which he bought. In Venice he heard the celebrated singer Angela----i, who at that time was playing with splendid success as prima donna at St. Benedict's Theatre. His enthusiasm was awakened, not only in her art--which Signora Angela had indeed brought to a high pitch of perfection--but in her angelic beauty as well. He sought her acquaintance; and in spite of all his rugged manners he succeeded in winning her heart, principally through his bold and yet at the same time masterly violin-playing. Close intimacy led in a few weeks to marriage, which, however, was kept a secret, because Angela was unwilling to sever her connection with the theatre, neither did she wish to part with her professional name, that by which she was celebrated, nor to add to it the cacophonous "Krespel." With the most extravagant irony he described to me what a strange life of worry and torture Angela led him as soon as she became his wife. Krespel was of opinion that more capriciousness and waywardness were concentrated in Angela's little person than in all the rest of the prima donnas in the world put together. If he now and again presumed to stand up in his own defence, she let loose a whole army of abbots, musical composers, and students upon him, who, ignorant of his true connection with Angela, soundly rated him as a most intolerable, ungallant lover for not submitting to all the Signora's caprices. It was just after one of these stormy scenes that Krespel fled to Angela's country seat to try and forget in playing fantasias on his Cremona violin the annoyances of the day. But he had not been there long before the Signora, who had followed hard after him, stepped into the room. She was in an affectionate humor; she embraced her husband, overwhelmed him with sweet and languishing glances, and rested her pretty head on his shoulder. But Krespel, carried away into the world of music; continued to play on until the walls echoed again; thus he chanced to touch the Signora somewhat ungently with his arm and the fiddle-bow. She leapt back full of fury, shrieking that he was a "German brute," snatched the violin from his hands, and dashed it on the marble table into a thousand pieces. Krespel stood like a statue of stone before her; but then, as if awakening out of a dream, he seized her with the strength of a giant and threw her out of the window of her own house, and, without troubling himself about anything more, fled back to Venice--to Germany. It was not, however, until some time had elapsed that he had a clear recollection of what he had done; although he knew that the window was scarcely five feet from the ground, and although he was fully cognizant of the necessity, under the above-mentioned circumstances, of throwing the Signora out of the window, he yet felt troubled by a sense of painful uneasiness, and the more so since she had imparted to him in no ambiguous terms an interesting secret as to her condition. He hardly dared to make inquiries; and he was not a little surprised about eight months afterwards at receiving a tender letter from his beloved wife, in which she made not the slightest allusion to what had taken place in her country house, only adding to the intelligence that she had been safely delivered of a sweet little daughter the heartfelt prayer that her dear husband and now a happy father would come at once to Venice. That, however, Krespel did not do; rather he appealed to a confidential friend for a more circumstantial account of the details, and learned that the Signora had alighted upon the soft grass as lightly as a bird, and that the sole consequences of the fall or shock had been psychic. That is to say, after Krespel's heroic deed she had become completely altered; she never showed a trace of caprice, of her former freaks, or of her teasing habits; and the composer who wrote for the next carnival was the happiest fellow under the sun, since the Signora was willing to sing his music without the scores and hundreds of changes which she at other times had insisted upon. "To be sure," added his friend, "there was every reason for preserving the secret of Angela's cure, else every day would see lady singers flying through windows." The Councillor was not a little excited at this news; he engaged horses; he took his seat in the carriage. "Stop!" he cried suddenly. "Why, there's not a shadow of doubt," he murmured to himself, "that as soon as Angela sets eyes upon me again, the evil spirit will recover his power and once more take possession of her. And since I have already thrown her out of the window, what could I do if a similar case were to occur again? What would there be left for me to do?" He got out of the carriage, and wrote an affectionate letter to his wife, making graceful allusion to her tenderness in especially dwelling upon the fact that his tiny daughter had, like him, a little mole behind the ear, and--remained in Germany. Now ensued an active correspondence between them. Assurances of unchanged affection--invitations--laments over the absence of the beloved one--thwarted wishes--hopes, etc.--flew backwards and forwards from Venice to H----, from H---- to Venice. At length Angela came to Germany, and, as is well known, sang with brilliant success as prima donna at the great theatre in F----. Despite the fact that she was no longer young, she won all hearts by the irresistible charm of her wonderfully splendid singing. At that time she had not lost her voice in the least degree. Meanwhile, Antonia had been growing up; and her mother never tired of writing to tell her father how that a singer of the first rank was developing in her. Krespel's friends in F---- also confirmed this intelligence, and urged him to come for once to F---- to see and admire this uncommon sight of two such glorious singers. They had not the slightest suspicion of the close relations in which Krespel stood to the pair. Willingly would he have seen with his own eyes the daughter who occupied so large a place in his heart, and who moreover often appeared to him in his dreams; but as often as he thought upon his wife he felt very uncomfortable, and so he remained at home amongst his broken violins. There was a certain promising young composer, B---- of F----, who was found to have suddenly disappeared, nobody knew where. This young man fell so deeply in love with Antonia that, as she returned his love, he earnestly besought her mother to consent to an immediate union, sanctified as it would further be by art. Angela had nothing to urge against his suit; and the Councillor the more readily gave his consent that the young composer's productions had found favor before his rigorous critical judgment. Krespel was expecting to hear of the consummation of the marriage, when he received instead a black-sealed envelope addressed in a strange hand. Doctor R---- conveyed to the Councillor the sad intelligence that Angela had fallen seriously ill in consequence of a cold caught at the theatre, and that during the night immediately preceding what was to have been Antonia's wedding-day, she had died. To him, the Doctor, Angela had disclosed the fact that she was Krespel's wife, and that Antonia was his daughter; he, Krespel, had better hasten therefore to take charge of the orphan. Notwithstanding that the Councillor was a good deal upset by this news of Angela's death, he soon began to feel that an antipathetic, disturbing influence had departed out of his life, and that now for the first time he could begin to breathe freely. The very same day he set out for F----. You could not credit how heartrending was the Councillor's description of the moment when he first saw Antonia. Even in the fantastic oddities of his expression there was such a marvellous power of description that I am unable to give even so much as a faint indication of it. Antonia inherited all her mother's amiability and all her mother's charms, but not the repellent reverse of the medal. There was no chronic moral ulcer, which might break out from time to time. Antonia's betrothed put in an appearance, whilst Antonia herself, fathoming with happy instinct the deeper-lying character of her wonderful father, sang one of old Padre Martini's [Footnote: Giambattista Martini, more commonly called Padre Martini, of Bologna, formed an influential school of music there in the latter half of the eighteenth century. He wrote vocal and instrumental pieces both for the church and for the theatre. He was also a learned historian of music. He has the merit of having discerned and encouraged the genius of Mozart when, a boy of fourteen, he visited Bologna in 1770.] motets, which, she knew, Krespel in the heyday of his courtship had never grown tired of hearing her mother sing. The tears ran in streams down Krespel's cheeks; even Angela he had never heard sing like that. Antonia's voice was of a very remarkable and altogether peculiar timbre: at one time it was like the sighing of an Aeolian harp, at another like the warbled gush of the nightingale. It seemed as if there was not room for such notes in the human breast. Antonia, blushing with joy and happiness, sang on and on--all her most beautiful songs, B---- playing between whiles as only enthusiasm that is intoxicated with delight can play. Krespel was at first transported with rapture, then he grew thoughtful--still--absorbed in reflection. At length he leapt to his feet, pressed Antonia to his heart, and begged her in a low husky voice, "Sing no more if you love me--my heart is bursting--I fear--I fear--don't sing again." "No!" remarked the Councillor next day to Doctor R----, "when, as she sang, her blushes gathered into two dark red spots on her pale cheeks, I knew it had nothing to do with your nonsensical family likenesses, I knew it was what I dreaded." The Doctor, whose countenance had shown signs of deep distress from the very beginning of the conversation, replied, "Whether it arises from a too early taxing of her powers of song, or whether the fault is Nature's--enough, Antonia labors under an organic failure in the chest, while it is from it too that her voice derives its wonderful power and its singular timbre, which I might almost say transcend the limits of human capabilities of song. But it bears the announcement of her early death; for, if she continues to sing, I wouldn't give her at the most more than six months longer to live." Krespel's heart was lacerated as if by the stabs of hundreds of stinging knives. It was as though his life had been for the first time overshadowed by a beautiful tree full of the most magnificent blossoms, and now it was to be sawn to pieces at the roots, so that it could not grow green and blossom any more. His resolution was taken. He told Antonia all; he put the alternatives before her--whether she would follow her betrothed and yield to his and the world's seductions, but with the certainty of dying early, or whether she would spread round her father in his old days that joy and peace which had hitherto been unknown to him, and so secure a long life. She threw herself sobbing into his arms, and he, knowing the heartrending trial that was before her, did not press for a more explicit declaration, He talked the matter over with her betrothed; but, notwithstanding that the latter averred that no note should ever cross Antonia's lips, the Councillor was only too well aware that even B---- could not resist the temptation of hearing her sing, at any rate arias of his own composition. And the world, the musical public, even though acquainted with the nature of the singer's affliction, would certainly not relinquish its claims to hear her, for in cases where pleasure is concerned people of this class are very selfish and cruel. The Councillor disappeared from F---- along with Antonia, and came to H----. B---- was in despair when he learned that they had gone. He set out on their track, overtook them, and arrived at H---- at the same time that they did. "Let me see him only once, and then die!" entreated Antonia. "Die! die!" cried Krespel, wild with anger, an icy shudder running through him. His daughter, the only creature in the wide world who had awakened in him the springs of unknown joy, who alone had reconciled him to life, tore herself away from his heart, and he--he suffered the terrible trial to take place. B---- sat down to the piano; Antonia sang; Krespel fiddled away merrily, until the two red spots showed themselves on Antonia's cheeks. Then he bade her stop; and as B---- was taking leave of his betrothed, she suddenly fell to the floor with a loud scream. "I thought," continued Krespel in his narration, "I thought that she was, as I had anticipated, really dead; but as I had prepared myself for the worst, my calmness did not leave me, nor my self-command desert me. I grasped B----, who stood like a silly sheep in his dismay, by the shoulders, and said (here the Councillor fell into his singing tone), 'Now that you, my estimable pianoforte-player, have, as you wished and desired, really murdered your betrothed, you may quietly take your departure; at least have the goodness to make yourself scarce before I run my bright hanger through your heart. My daughter, who, as you see, is rather pale, could very well do with some color from your precious blood. Make haste and run, for I might also hurl a nimble knife or two after you.' I must, I suppose, have looked rather formidable as I uttered these words, for, with a cry of the greatest terror, B---- tore himself loose from my grasp, rushed out of the room, and down the steps." Directly after B---- was gone, when the Councillor tried to lift up his daughter, who lay unconscious on the floor, she opened her eyes with a deep sigh, but soon closed them again as if about to die. Then Krespel's grief found vent aloud, and would not be comforted. The doctor, whom the old housekeeper had called in, pronounced Antonia's case a somewhat serious but by no means dangerous attack; and she did indeed recover more quickly than her father had dared to hope. She now clung to him with the most confiding childlike affection; she entered into his favorite hobbies--into his mad schemes and whims. She helped him take old violins to pieces and glue new ones together. "I won't sing again any more, but live for you," she often said, sweetly smiling upon him, after she had been asked to sing and had refused. Such appeals, however, the Councillor was anxious to spare her as much as possible; therefore it was that he was unwilling to take her into society, and solicitously shunned all music. He well understood how painful it must be for her to forego altogether the exercise of that art which she had brought to such a pitch of perfection. When the Councillor bought the wonderful violin that he had buried with Antonia, and was about to take it to pieces, she met him with such sadness in her face and softly breathed the petition, "What! this as well?" By some power, which he could not explain, he felt impelled to leave this particular instrument unbroken, and to play upon it. Scarcely had he drawn the first few notes from it than Antonia cried aloud with joy, "Why, that's me!--now I shall sing again." And, in truth, there was something remarkably striking about the clear, silvery, bell-like tones of the violin; they seemed to have been engendered in the human soul. Krespel's heart was deeply moved; he played, too, better than ever. As he ran up and down the scale, playing bold passages with consummate power and expression, she clapped her hands together and cried with delight, "I did that well! I did that well." From this time onwards her life was filled with peace and cheerfulness. She often said to the Councillor, "I should like to sing something, father." Then Krespel would take his violin down from the wall and play her most beautiful songs, and her heart was right glad and happy. Shortly before my arrival in H----, the Councillor fancied one night that he heard somebody playing the piano in the adjoining room, and he soon made out distinctly that B---- was flourishing on the instrument in his usual style. He wished to get up, but felt himself held down as if by a dead weight, and lying as if fettered in iron bonds; he was utterly unable to move an inch. Then Antonia's voice was heard singing low and soft; soon, however, it began to rise and rise in volume until it became an ear-splitting fortissimo; and at length she passed over into a powerfully impressive song which B---had once composed for her in the devotional style of the old masters. Krespel described his condition as being incomprehensible, for terrible anguish was mingled with a delight he had never experienced before. All at once he was surrounded by a dazzling brightness, in which he beheld B---and Antonia locked in a close embrace, and gazing at each other in a rapture of ecstasy. The music of the song and of the pianoforte accompanying it went on without any visible signs that Antonia sang or that B---- touched the instrument. Then the Councillor fell into a sort of dead faint, whilst the images vanished away. On awakening he still felt the terrible anguish of his dream. He rushed into Antonia's room. She lay on the sofa, her eyes closed, a sweet angelic smile on her face, her hands devoutly folded, and looking as if asleep and dreaming of the joys and raptures of heaven. But she was--dead. ADVENTURES OF A NEW-YEAR'S EVE BY HEINRICH ZSCHOKKE From "Tales by Heinrich Zschokke." Translated by Parke Godwin. Published by G. P. Putnam's Sons. Mother Kate, the watchman's wife, at nine o'clock on New Year's Eve, opened her little window, and put out her head into the night air. The snow was reddened by the light from the window as it fell in silent, heavy flakes upon the street. She observed the crowds of happy people, hurrying to and fro from the brilliantly lighted shops with presents, or pouring out of the various inns and coffee-houses, and going to the dances and other entertainments with which the New Year is married to the Old in joy and pleasure. But when a few cold flakes had lighted on her nose, she drew back her head, closed the window, and said to her husband: "Gottlieb, stay at home, and let Philip watch for thee to-night; for the snow comes as fast as it can from Heaven, and thou knowest the cold does thy old bones no good. The streets will be gay to-night. There seems dancing and feasting in every house, masqueraders are going about, and Philip will enjoy the sport." Old Gottlieb nodded his assent. "I am willing, Kate," he said. "My barometer, the old wound above my knee, has given me warning the last two days of a change of weather. It is only right that my son should aid me in a service to which he will be my successor." We must give the reader to understand that old Gottlieb had been a sergeant of cavalry in one of the king's regiments, until he was made a cripple for life by a musket-ball, as he was the first mounting the walls of a hostile fort in a battle for his fatherland. The officer who commanded the attack received the cross of honor on the battlefield for his heroism, and was advanced in the service; while Gottlieb was fain to creep homewards on a pair of crutches. From pity they made him a schoolmaster, for he was intelligent, liked to read, and wrote a good hand. But when the school increased they took it away from him to provide for a young man who could do none of these as well as he, merely because he was a godson of one of the trustees. However, they promoted Gottlieb to the post of watchman, with the reversion of it to his son Philip, who had in the meantime bound himself to a gardener. It was only the good housewifery of Mistress Katharine, and the extreme moderation of old Gottlieb, that enabled them to live happily on the little they possessed. Philip gave his services to the gardener for his board and lodging, but he occasionally received very fine presents when he carried home flowers to the rich people of the town. He was a fresh, handsome young fellow, of six-and-twenty. Noble ladies often gave him sundry extra dollars for his fine looks, a thing they would never have thought of doing for an ugly face. Mrs. Kate had already put on her cloak to go to the gardener's house to fetch her son, when he entered the apartment. "Father," said Philip, giving a hand to both father and mother, "it's snowing, and the snow won't do you much good. I'll take the watch to-night, and you can get to bed." "You're a good boy," said old Gottlieb. "And then I've been thinking," continued Philip, "that as to-morrow is New Year's Day, I may come and dine with you and make myself happy. Mother perhaps has no joint in the kitchen, and--" "No," interrupted the mother, "we've no joint, but then we have a pound and a and a half of venison; with potatoes for a relish, and a little rice with laurel leaves for a soup, and two flasks of beer to drink. Only come, Philip, for we shall live finely to-morrow! Next week we may do better, for the New Year's gifts will be coming in, and Gottlieb's share will be something! Oh! we shall live grandly." "Well, so much the better, dear mother," said Philip; "but have you paid the rent of the cottage yet?" Old Gottlieb shrugged his shoulders. Philip laid a purse upon the table. "There are two-and-twenty dollars that I have saved. I can do very well without them; take them for a New Year's gift, and then we can all three enter on the new year without a debt or a care. God grant that we may end it in health and happiness! Heaven in its goodness will provide for both you and me!" Tears came into Mother Katharine's eyes as she kissed her son; old Gottlieb said: "Philip, you are the prop and stay of our old age. Continue to be honest and good, and to love your parents, so will a blessing rest on you. I can give you nothing for a New Year's gift, but a prayer that you may keep your heart pure and true--this is in your power--you will be rich enough--for a clear conscience is a Heaven in itself." So said old Gottlieb, and then he wrote down in an account-book the sum of two-and-twenty dollars that his son had given him. "All that you have cost me in childhood is now nearly paid up. Your savings amount to three hundred and seventeen dollars, which I have received." "Three hundred and seventeen dollars!" cried Mistress Katharine, in the greatest amazement; and then turning to Philip with a voice full of tenderness, "Ah, Philip," she said, "thou grievest me. Child of my heart! Yes, indeed thou dost. Hadst thou saved that money for thyself thou might have bought some land with it, and started as gardener on thy own account, and married Rose. NOW that is impossible. But take comfort, Philip. We are old, and thou wilt not have to support us long." "Mother!" exclaimed Philip, and he frowned a little; "what are you thinking of? Rose is dear to me as my life, but I would give up a hundred Roses rather than desert you and my father. I should never find any other parents in this world but you, but there are plenty of Roses, although I would have none but Mrs. Bittner's Rose, were there even ten thousand others." "You are right, Philip," said Gottlieb; "loving and marrying are not in the commandments--but to honor your father and mother is a duty and commandment. To give up strong passions and inclinations for the happiness of your parents is the truest gratitude of a son. It will gain you the blessing from above:--it will make you rich in your own heart." "If it were only not too long for Rose to wait," said Mrs. Katharine, "or if you could give up the engagement altogether! For Rose is a pretty girl, that can't be denied; and though she is poor, there will be no want of wooers. She is virtuous and understands housekeeping." "Never fear, mother," replied Philip; "Rose has solemnly sworn to marry no man but me; and that is sufficient. Her mother has nothing to object to me. And if I was in business and had money enough to keep a wife with, Rose would be my wife to-morrow. The only annoyance we have is, that her mother will not let us meet so often as we wish. She says frequent meetings do no good; but I differ from her, and so does Rose--for we think meeting often does us both a great deal of good. And we have agreed to meet to-night, at twelve o'clock, at the great door of St. Gregory's Church, for Rose is bringing in the year at a friend's house, and I am to take her home." In the midst of such conversation the clock of the neighboring tower struck three-quarters, and Philip took his father's great-coat from the warm stove where Katharine had carefully laid it, wrapped himself in it, and taking the lantern and staff, and wishing his parents good-night, proceeded to his post. II. Philip stalked majestically through the snow-covered streets of the capital, where as many people were still visible as in the middle of the day. Carriages were rattling in all directions, the houses were all brilliantly lighted. Our watchman enjoyed the scene, he sang his verses at ten o'clock, and blew his horn lustily in the neighborhood of St. Gregory's Church, with many a thought on Rose, who was then with her friend. "Now she hears me," he said to himself; "now she thinks on me, and forgets the scene around her. I hope she won't fail me at twelve o'clock at the church door." And when he had gone his round, he always returned to the dear house and looked up at the lighted windows. Sometimes he saw female figures, and his heart beat quick at the sight; sometimes he fancied he saw Rose herself; and sometimes he studied the long shadows thrown on the wall or the ceiling to discover which of them was Rose's, and to fancy what she was doing. It was certainly not a very pleasant employment to stand in frost and snow and look up at a window; but what care lovers for frost and snow? And watchmen are as fiery and romantic lovers as ever were the knights of ancient ballads. He only felt the effects of the frost when, at eleven o'clock, he had to set out upon his round. His teeth chattered with cold; he could scarcely call the hour or sound his horn. He would willingly have gone into a beer-house to warm himself at the fire. As he was pacing through a lonely by-street, he met a man with a black half-mask on his face, enveloped in a fire-colored silken mantle, and wearing on his head a magnificent hat turned up at one side, and fantastically ornamented with a number of high and waving plumes. Philip endeavored to escape the mask, but in vain. The stranger blocked up his path and said: "Ha! thou art a fine fellow; I like thy phiz amazingly. Where are you going, eh? I say, where are you going?" "To Mary Street," replied Philip. "I am going to call the hour there." "Enchanting!" answered the mask. "I'll hear thee: I'll go with thee. Come along, thou foolish fellow, and let me hear thee, and mind thou singest well, for I am a good judge. Canst thou sing me a jovial song?" Philip saw that his companion was of high rank and a little tipsy, and answered: "I sing better over a glass of wine in a warm room, than when up to my waist in snow." They had now reached Mary Street, and Philip sang and blew the horn. "Ha! that's but a poor performance," exclaimed the mask, who had accompanied him thither. "Give me the horn! I shall blow so well that you'll half die with delight." Philip yielded to the mask's wishes, and let him sing the verses and blow. For four or five times all was done as if the stranger had been a watchman all his life. He dilated most eloquently on the joys of such an occupation, and was so inexhaustible in his own praises that he made Philip laugh at his extravagance. His spirits evidently owed no small share of their elevation to an extra glass of wine. "I'll tell you what, my treasure, I've a great fancy to be a watchman myself for an hour or two. If I don't do it now, I shall never arrive at that honor in the course of my life. Give me your great-coat and wide-brimmed hat, and take my domino. Go into a beer-house and take a bottle at my expense; and when you have finished it, come again and give me back my masking-gear. You shall have a couple of dollars for your trouble. What do you think, my treasure?" But Philip did not like this arrangement. At last, however, at the solicitations of the mask, he capitulated as they entered a dark lane. Philip was half frozen; a warm drink would do him good, and so would a warm fire. He agreed for one half-hour to give up his watchmanship, which would be till twelve o'clock. Exactly at that time the stranger was to come to the great door of St. Gregory's and give back the great-coat, horn, and staff, taking back his own silk mantle, hat, and domino. Philip also told him the four streets in which he was to call the hour. The mask was in raptures: "Treasure of my heart, I could kiss thee if thou wert not a dirty, miserable fellow! But thou shalt have naught to regret, if thou art at the church at twelve, for I will give thee money for a supper then. Joy! I am a watchman!" The mask looked a watchman to the life, while Philip was completely disguised with the half-mask tied over his face, the bonnet ornamented with a buckle of brilliants on his head, and the red silk mantle thrown around him. When he saw his companion commence his walk he began to fear that the young gentleman might compromise the dignity of the watchman. He therefore addressed him once more, and said: "I hope you will not abuse my good nature and do any mischief or misbehave in any way, as it may cost me the situation." "Hallo!" answered the stranger. "What are you talking about? Do you think I don't know my duty? Off with you this moment, or I'll let you feel the weight of my staff. But come to St. Gregory's Church and give me back my clothes at twelve o'clock. Good-bye. This is glorious fun!" The new guardian of the streets walked onward with all the dignity becoming his office, while Philip hurried to a neighboring tavern. III. As he was passing the door of the royal palace, he was laid hold of by a person in a mask who had alighted from a carriage. Philip turned round, and in a low whispering voice asked what the stranger wanted. "My gracious lord," answered the mask, "in your reverie you have passed the door. Will your Royal Highness--" "What? Royal Highness?" said laughing. "I am no highness. What put that in your head?" The mask bowed respectfully, and pointed to the brilliant buckle in Philip's hat. "I ask your pardon if I have betrayed your disguise. But, in whatever character you asume, your noble bearing will betray you. Will you condescend to lead the way? Does your Highness intend to dance?" "I? To dance?" replied Philip. "No--you see I have boots on." "To play, then?" inquired the mask. "Still less. I have brought no money with me," said the assistant watchman. "Good heaven!" exclaimed the mask. "Command my purse--all that I possess is at your service!" Saying this, he forced a full purse into Philip's hand. "But do you know who I am?" inquired Philip, and rejected the purse. The mask whispered with a bow of profound obeisance: "His Royal Highness, Prince Julian." At this moment Philip heard his deputy in an adjoining street calling the hour very distinctly, and he now became aware of his metamorphosis. Prince Julian, who was well known in the capital as an amiable, wild, and good-hearted young man, had been the person with whom he had changed his clothes. "Now, then," thought Philip, "as he enacts the watchman so well, I will not shame his rank; I'll see if, for one half-hour, I can't be the Prince. If I make any mistake, he has himself to blame for it." He wrapped the red silken mantle closer round him, took the offered purse, put it in his pocket, and said: "Who are you, mask? I will return your gold to-morrow." "I am the Chamberlain Pilzou." "Good--lead the way--I'll follow." The Chamberlain obeyed, and tripped up the marble stairs, Philip coming close behind him. They entered an immense hall lighted by a thousand tapers and dazzling chandeliers, which were reflected by brilliant mirrors. A confused crowd of maskers jostled each other, sultans, Tyrolese, harlequins, knights in armor, nuns, goddesses, satyrs, monks, Jews, Medes, and Persians. Philip for a while was abashed and blinded. Such splendor he had never dreamt of. In the middle of the hall the dance was carried on with hundreds of people to the music of a full band. Philip, whom the heat of the apartment recovered from his frozen state, was so bewildered with the scene that he could scarcely nod his head as different masks addressed him, some confidentially, others deferentially. "Will you go to the hazard table?" whispered the Chamberlain, who stood beside him, and who Philip now saw was dressed as a Brahmin. "Let me get thawed first," answered Philip; "I am an icicle at present." "A glass of warm punch?" inquired the Brahmin, and led him into the refreshment-room. The pseudo-prince did not wait for a second invitation, but emptied one glass after the other in short time. The punch was good, and it spread its genial warmth through Philip's veins. "How is it you don't dance tonight, Brahmin?" he asked of his companion, when they returned into the hall. The Brahmin sighed, and shrugged his shoulders. "I have no pleasure now in the dance. Gayety is distasteful to me. The only person I care to dance with--the Countess Bonau--I thought she loved me; our families offered no objection--but all at once she broke with me." His voice trembled as he spoke. "How?" said Philip, "I never heard of such a thing." "You never heard of it?" repeated the other; "the whole city rings with it. The quarrel happened a fortnight ago, and she will not allow me to justify myself, but has sent back three letters I wrote to her, unopened. She is a declared enemy of the Baroness Reizenthal, and had made me promise to drop her acquaintance. But, think how unfortunate I was! When the Queen-mother made the hunting party to Freudenwald, she appointed me cavalier to the Baroness. What could I do? It was impossible to refuse. On the very birthday of the adorable Bonau I was obliged to set out.....She heard of it.....She put no trust in my heart!" "Well, then, Brahmin, take advantage of the present moment. The New Year makes up all quarrels. Is the Countess here?" "Do you not see her over there--the Carmelite on the left of the third pillar beside the two black dominos. She has laid aside her mask. Ah, Prince! your intercession would--" Philip thought: "Now I can do a good work!" and, as the punch had inspired him, he walked directly to the Carmelite. The Countess Bonau looked at him for some time seriously, and with flushed cheeks, as he sat down beside her. She was a beautiful girl; yet Philip remained persuaded that Rose was a thousand times more beautiful. "Countess," he said,--and became embarrassed when he met her clear bright eye fixed upon him. "Prince," said the Countess, "an hour ago you were somewhat too bold." "Fair Countess, I am therefore at this present moment the more quiet." "So much the better. I shall not, then, be obliged to keep out of your way." "Fair lady, allow me to ask one question. Have you put on a nun's gown to do penance for your sins?" "I have nothing to do penance for." "But you have, Countess!--your cruelties--your injustice to the poor Brahmin yonder, who seems neglected by his God and all the world." The beautiful Carmelite cast down her eyes, and appeared uneasy. "And do you know, fair Countess, that in the Freudenwald affair the Chamberlain is as innocent as I am?" "As you, Prince?" said the Countess, frowning, "what did you tell me an hour ago?" "You are right, dear Countess, I was too bold. You said so yourself. But now I declare to you the Chamberlain was obliged to go to Freudenwald by command of the Queen-mother--against his will was obliged to be cavalier to the hated Reizenthal--" "Hated--by him?"--interrupted the Countess with a bitter and sneering laugh. "Yes--he hates,--he despises the Baroness. Believe me, he scarcely treated her with civility, and incurred the Royal displeasure by so doing. I know it; and it was for your sake. You are the only person he loves--to you he offers his hand, his heart--and you!--you reject him!" "How comes it, Prince, that you intercede so warmly for Pilzou? You did not do so formerly." "That was because I did not know him, and still less the sad state into which you have thrown him by your behavior. I swear to you he is innocent--you have nothing to forgive in him--he has much to forgive in you." "Hush!" whispered the Carmelite, "we are watched here; away from this." She replaced her mask, stood up, and placing her arm within that of the supposed Prince, they crossed the hall and entered a side-room. The Countess uttered many bitter complaints against the Chamberlain, but they were the complaints of jealous love. The Countess was in tears, when the tender Brahmin soon after came timidly into the apartment. There was a deep silence among the three. Philip, not knowing how to conclude his intercession better, led the Brahmin to the Carmelite, and joined their hands together, without saying a word, and left them to fate. He himself returned into the hall. IV. Here he was hastily addressed by a Mameluke: "I'm glad I have met you, Domino. Is the Rose-girl in the side-room?" The Mameluke rushed into it, but returned in a moment evidently disappointed. "One word alone with you, Domino," he said, and led Philip into a window recess in a retired part of the hall. "What do you want?" asked Philip. "I beseech you," replied the Mameluke, in a subdued yet terrible voice, "where is the Rose-girl?" "What is the Rose-girl to me?" "But to me she is everything!" answered the Mameluke, whose suppressed voice and agitated demeanor showed that a fearful struggle was going on within. "To me she is everything. She is my wife. You make me wretched, Prince! I conjure you drive me not to madness. Think of my wife no more!" "With all my heart," answered Philip, dryly; "what have I to do with your wife?" "O Prince, Prince!" exclaimed the Mameluke, "I have made a resolve which I shall execute if it cost me my life. Do not seek to deceive me a moment longer. I have discovered everything. Here! look at this! 'tis a note my false wife slipped into your hand, and which you dropped in the crowd, without having read." Philip took the note. 'T was written in pencil, and in a fine delicate hand: "Change your mask. Everybody knows you. My husband watches you. He does not know me. If you obey me, I will reward you." "Hem!" muttered Philip. "As I live, this was not written to me. I don't trouble my head about your wife." "Death and fury, Prince! do not drive me mad! Do you know who it is that speaks to you? I am the Marshal Blankenswerd. Your advances to my wife are not unknown to me, ever since the last rout at the palace." "My Lord Marshal," answered Philip, "excuse me for saying that jealousy has blinded you. If you knew me well, you would not think of accusing me of such folly. I give you my word of honor I will never trouble your wife." "Are you in earnest, Prince?" "Entirely." "Give me a proof of this?" "Whatever you require." "I know you have hindered her until now from going with me to visit her relations in Poland. Will you persuade her to do so now?" "With all my heart, if you desire it." "Yes, yes! and your Royal Highness will prevent inconceivable and unavoidable misery." The Mameluke continued for some time, sometimes begging and praying, and sometimes threatening so furiously, that Philip feared he might make a scene before the whole assembly that would not have suited him precisely. He therefore quitted him as soon as possible. Scarcely had he lost himself in the crowd, when a female, closely wrapped in deep mourning, tapped him familiarly on the arm, and whispered: "Butterfly, whither away? Have you no pity for the disconsolate Widow?" Philip answered very politely: "Beautiful widows find no lack of comforters. May I venture to include myself amongst them?" "Why are you so disobedient? and why have you not changed your mask?" said the Widow, while she led him aside that they might speak more freely. "Do you really fancy, Prince, that every one here does not know who you are?" "They are very much mistaken in me, I assure you," replied Philip. "No, indeed," answered the Widow, "they know you very well, and if you do not immediately change your apparel, I shall not speak to you again the whole evening. I have no desire to give my husband an opportunity of making a scene." By this Philip discovered whom he was talking with. "You were the beautiful Rose-girl; are your roses withered so soon?" "What is there that does not wither? not the constancy of man? I saw you when you slipped off with the Carmelite. Acknowledge your inconstancy--you can deny it no longer." "Hem," answered Philip, dryly, "accuse me if you will, I can return the accusation." "How,--pretty butterfly?" "Why, for instance, there is not a more constant man alive than the Marshal." "There is not indeed!--and I am wrong, very wrong to have listened to you so long. I reproached myself enough, but he has unfortunately discovered our flirtation." "Since the last rout at Court, fair Widow---" "Were you so unguarded and particular--pretty butterfly!" "Let us repair the mischief. Let us part. I honor the Marshal, and, for my part, do not like to give him pain." The Widow looked at him for some time in speechless amazement. "If you have indeed any regard for me," continued Philip, "you will go with the Marshal to Poland, to visit your relations. 'Tis better that we should not meet so often. A beautiful woman is beautiful--but a pure and virtuous woman is more beautiful still." "Prince!" cried the astonished Widow, "are you really in earnest? Have you ever loved me, or have you all along deceived?" "Look you," answered Philip, "I am a tempter of a peculiar kind. I search constantly among women to find truth and virtue, and 'tis but seldom that I encounter them. Only the true and virtuous can keep me constant--therefore I am true to none; but no!--I will not lie--there is one that keeps me in her chains--I am sorry, fair Widow, that that one--is not you!" "You are in a strange mood to-night, Prince," answered the Widow, and the trembling of her voice and heaving of her bosom showed the working of her mind. "No," answered Philip, "I am in as rational a mood to-night as I ever was in my life. I wish only to repair an injury; I have promised to your husband to do so." "How!" exclaimed the Widow, in a voice of terror, "you have discovered all to the Marshal?" "Not everything," answered Philip, "only what I knew." The Widow wrung her hands in the extremity of agitation, and at last said, "Where is my husband?" Philip pointed to the Mameluke, who at this moment approached them with slow steps. "Prince," said the Widow, in a tone of inexpressible rage,--"Prince, you may be forgiven this, but not from me! I never dreamt that the heart of man could be so deceitful,--but you are unworthy of a thought. You are an impostor! My husband in the dress of a barbarian is a prince; you in the dress of a prince are a barbarian. In this world you see me no more!" With these words she turned proudly away from him, and going up to the Mameluke, they left the hall in deep and earnest conversation. Philip laughed quietly, and said to himself: "My substitute, the watchman, must look to it, for I do not play my part badly; I only hope when he returns he will proceed as I have begun." He went up to the dancers, and was delighted to see the beautiful Carmelite standing up in a set with the overjoyed Brahmin. No sooner did the latter perceive him, than he kissed his hand to him, and in dumb-show gave him to understand in what a blessed state he was. Philip thought: "'T is a pity I am not to be prince all my life-time. The people would be satisfied then; to be a prince is the easiest thing in the world. He can do more with a single word than a lawyer with a four-hours' speech. Yes! if I were a prince, my beautiful Rose would be--lost to me for ever. No! I would not be a prince." He now looked at the clock, and saw 't was half-past eleven. The Mameluke hurried up to him and gave him a paper. "Prince," he exclaimed, "I could fall at your feet and thank you in the very dust. I am reconciled to my wife. You have broken her heart; but it is better that it should be so. We leave for Poland this very night, and there we shall fix our home. Farewell! I shall be ready whenever your Royal Highness requires me, to pour out my last drop of blood in your service. My gratitude is eternal. Farewell!" "Stay!" said Philip to the Marshal, who was hurrying away, "what am I to do with this paper?" "Oh, that,-'tis the amount of my loss to your Highness last week at hazard. I had nearly forgotten it; but before my departure, I must clear my debts. I have indorsed it on the back." With these words the Marshal disappeared. V. Philip opened the paper, and read in it an order for five thousand dollars. He put it in his pocket, and thought: "Well, it's a pity that I'm not a prince." Some one whispered in his ear: "Your Royal Highness, we are both discovered; I shall blow my brains out." Philip turned round in amazement, and saw a negro at his side. "What do you want, mask?" he asked, in an unconcerned tone. "I am Colonel Kalt," whispered the negro. "The Marshal's wife has been chattering to Duke Herman, and he has been breathing fire and fury against us both." "He is quite welcome," answered Philip. "But the King will hear it all," sighed the negro. "This very night I may be arrested and carried to a dungeon; I'll sooner hang myself." "No need of that," said Philip. "What! am I to be made infamous for my whole life? I am lost, I tell you. The Duke will demand entire satisfaction. His back is black and blue yet with the marks of the cudgelling I gave him. I am lost, and the baker's daughter too! I'll jump from the bridge and drown myself at once!" "God forbid!" answered Philip; "what have you and the baker's daughter to do with it?" "Your Royal Highness banters me, and I am in despair!--I humbly beseech you to give me two minutes' private conversation." Philip followed the negro into a small boudoir dimly lighted up with a few candles. The negro threw himself on a sofa, quite overcome, and groaned aloud. Philip found some sandwiches and wine on the table, and helped himself with great relish. "I wonder your Royal Highness can be so cool on hearing this cursed story. If that rascally Salmoni was here who acted the conjurer, he might save us by some contrivance, for the fellow was a bunch of tricks. As it is, he has slipped out of the scrape." "So much the better," interrupted Philip, replenishing his glass; "since he has got out of the way, we can throw all the blame on his shoulders." "How can we do that? The Duke, I tell you, knows that you, and I, and the Marshal's wife, and the baker's daughter, were all in the plot together, to take advantage of his superstition. He knows that it was you that engaged Salmoni to play the conjurer; that it was I that instructed the baker's daughter (with whom he is in love) how to inveigle him into the snare; that it was I that enacted the ghost, that knocked him down, and cudgelled him till he roared again. If I had only not carried the joke too far, but I wished to cool his love a little for my sweetheart. 'T was a devilish business. I'll take poison." "Rather swallow a glass of wine--'t is delicious," said Philip, taking another tart at the same time. "For to tell you the truth, my friend, I think you are rather a white-livered sort of rogue for a colonel, to think of hanging, drowning, shooting, and poisoning yourself about such a ridiculous story as that. One of these modes would be too much, but as to all the four--nonsense. I tell you that at this moment I don't know what to make out of your tale." "Your Royal Highness, have pity on me, my brain is turned. The Duke's page, an old friend of mine, has told me this very moment, that the Marshal's wife, inspired by the devil, went up to the Duke, and told him that the trick played on him at the baker's house was planned by Prince Julian, who opposed his marriage with his sister; that the spirit he saw was myself, sent by the Princess to be a witness of his superstition; that your Highness was a witness of his descent into the pit after hidden gold, and of his promise to make the baker's daughter his mistress, and also to make her one of the nobility immediately after his marriage with the Princess. 'Do not hope to gain the Princess. It is useless for you to try,' were the last words of the Marshal's wife to the Duke." "And a pretty story it is," muttered Philip; "why, behavior like that would be a disgrace to the meanest of the people. I declare there is no end to these deviltries." "Yes, indeed. 'T is impossible to behave more meanly than the Marshal's lady. The woman must be a fury. My gracious Lord, save me from destruction." "Where is the Duke?" asked Philip. "The page told me he started up on hearing the story, and said, 'I will go to the King.' And if he tells the story to the King in his own way--" "Is the King here, then?" "Oh, yes, he is at play in the next room, with the Archbishop and the Minister of Police." Philip walked with long steps through the boudoir. The case required consideration. "Your Royal Highness," said the negro, "protect me. Your own honor is at stake. You can easily make all straight; otherwise, I am ready at the first intimation of danger to fly across the border. I will pack up, and to-morrow I shall expect your last commands as to my future behavior." With these words the negro took his leave. VI. "It is high time I were a watchman again," thought Philip. "I am getting both myself and my substitute into scrapes he will find it hard to get out of--and this makes the difference between a peasant and a prince. One is no better off than the other. Good heavens! what stupid things these court lords are doing which we do not dream of with our lanterns and staff in hand, or when at the spade. We think they lead the lives of angels, without sin or care. Pretty piece of business! Within a quarter of an hour I have heard of more rascally tricks than I ever played in my whole life. And--" but his reverie was interrupted by a whisper. "So lonely, Prince! I consider myself happy in having a minute's conversation with your Royal Highness." Philip looked at the speaker; and he was a miner, covered over with gold and jewels. "But one instant," said the mask. "The business is pressing, and deeply concerns you." "Who are you?" inquired Philip. "Count Bodenlos, the Minister of Finance, at your Highness's service," answered the miner, and showed his face, which looked as if it were a second mask, with its little eyes and copper-colored nose. "Well, then, my lord, what are your commands?" "May I speak openly? I waited on your Royal Highness thrice, and was never admitted to the honor of an audience; and yet--Heaven is my witness--no man in all this court has a deeper interest in your Royal Highness than I have." "I am greatly obliged to you," replied Philip; "what is your business just now? But be quick." "May I venture to speak of the house of Abraham Levi?" "As much as you like." "They have applied to me about the fifty thousand dollars which you owe them, and threaten to apply to the King. And you remember your promise to his Majesty, when last he paid your debts." "Can't the people wait?" asked Philip. "No more than the Brothers, goldsmiths, who demand their seventy-five thousand dollars." "It is all one to me. If the people won't wait for their money, I must--" "No hasty resolution, my gracious Lord! I have it in my power to make everything comfortable, if--" "Well, if what?" "If you will honor me by listening to me one moment. I hope to have no difficulty in redeeming all your debts. The house of Abraham Levi has bought up immense quantities of corn, so that the price is very much raised. A decree against importation will raise it three or four percent. higher. By giving Abraham Levi the monopoly, the business will be arranged. The house erases your debt, and pays off your seventy-five thousand dollars to the goldsmiths, and I give you over the receipts. But everything depends on my continuing for another year at the head of the Finance. If Baron Griefensack succeeds in ejecting me from the Ministry, I shall be unable to serve your Royal Highness as I could wish. If your Highness will leave the party of Griefensack, our point is gained. For me, it is a matter of perfect indifference whether I remain in office or not. I sigh for repose. But for your Royal Highness, it is a matter of great moment. If I have not the mixing of the pack, I lose the game." Philip for some time did not know what answer to make. At last, while the Finance Minister, in expectation of his reply, took a pinch out of his snuff-box set with jewels, Philip said: "If I rightly understand you, Sir Count, you would starve the country a little, in order to pay my debts. Consider, sir, what misery you will cause. And will the King consent to it?" "If I remain in office I will answer for that, my gracious Lord! When the price of corn rises, the King will, of course, think of permitting importation, and prevent exportation by levying heavy imposts. The permission to do so is given to the house of Abraham Levi, and they export as much as they choose. But, as I said before, if Griefensack gets the helm, nothing can be done. For the first year he would be obliged to attend strictly to his duty, in order to be able afterwards to feather his nest at the expense of the country. He must first make sure of his ground. He is dreadfully grasping!" "A pretty project," answered Philip; "and how long do you think a finance minister must be in office before he can lay his shears on the flock to get wool enough for himself and me?" "Oh, if he has his wits about him, he may manage it in a year." "Then the King ought to be counselled to change his finance minister every twelve months, if he wishes to be faithfully and honorably served." "I hope, your Royal Highness, that since I have had the Exchequer, the King and Court have been faithfully served?" "I believe you, Count, and the poor people believe you still more. Already they scarcely know how to pay their rates and taxes. You should treat us with a little more consideration, Count." "Us!--don't I do everything for the Court?" "No! I mean the people. You should have a little more consideration for them." "I appreciate what your Royal Highness says; but I serve the King and the Court, and the people are not to be considered. The country is his private property, and the people are only useful to him as increasing the value of the land. But this is no time to discuss the old story about the interests of the people. I beg your Royal Highness' answer to my propositions. Shall I have the honor to discharge your debts on the above specified conditions?" "Answer,--no--never, never! at the expense of hundreds and thousands of starving families." "But, your Royal Highness, if, in addition to the clearance of your debts, I make the house of Abraham Levi present you with fifty thousand dollars in hard cash? I think it may afford you that sum. The house will gain so much by the operation, that--" "Perhaps it may be able to give YOU also a mark of its regard." "Your Highness is pleased to jest with me. I gain nothing by the affair. My whole object is to obtain the protection of your Royal Highness." "You are very polite!" "I may hope, then, Prince? My duty is to be of service to you. To-morrow I shall send for Abraham, and conclude the arrangement with him. I shall have the honor to present your Royal Highness with the receipt for all your debts, besides the gift of fifty thousand dollars." "Go, I want to hear no more of it." "And your Royal Highness will honor me with your favor? For unless I am in the Ministry, it is impossible for me to deal with Abraham Levi so as--" "I wish to Heaven you and your Ministry and Abraham Levi were all three on the Blocksberg! I tell you what, unless you lower the price of corn, and take away the monopoly from that infernal Jew, I'll go this moment and reveal your villainy to the King, and get you and Abraham Levi banished from the country. See to it--I'll keep my word." Philip turned away in a rage, and proceeded into the dancing-room, leaving the Minister of Finance petrified with amazement. VII. "When does your Royal Highness require the carriage?" whispered a stout little Dutch merchant in a bob-wig. "Not at all," answered Philip. "'Tis after half-past eleven, and the beautiful singer expects you. She will tire of waiting." "Let her sing something to cheer her." "How, Prince? Have you changed your mind? Would you leave the captivating Rollina in the lurch, and throw away the golden opportunity you have been sighing for for two months? The letter you sent to-day, inclosing the diamond watch, did wonders. The proud but fragile beauty surrenders. This morning you were in raptures, and now you are as cold as ice! What is the cause of the change?" "That is my business, not yours," said Philip. "I had your orders to join you at half-past eleven. Perhaps you have other engagements?" "Perhaps." "A petit souper with the Countess Born? She is not present here; at least among all the masks I can't trace her out. I should know her among a thousand by that graceful walk and her peculiar way of carrying her little head--eh, Prince?" "Well, but if it were so, there would be no necessity for making you my confidant, would there?" "I will take the hint, and be silent. But won't you at any rate send to the Signora Rollina to let her know you are not coming?" "If I have sighed for her for two months, she had better sigh a month or two for me. I sha'n't go near her." "So that beautiful necklace which you sent her for a New Year's present was all for nothing?" "As far as I am concerned." "Will you break with her entirely?" "There is nothing between us to break, that I know of." "Well, then, since you speak so plainly, I may tell you something which you perhaps know already. Your love for the Signora has hitherto kept me silent; but now that you have altered your mind about her, I can no longer keep the secret from you. You are deceived." "By whom?" "By the artful singer. She would divide her favors between your Royal Highness and a Jew." "A Jew?" "Yes! with the son of Abraham Levi." "Is that rascal everywhere?" "So your Highness did not know it? but I am telling you the exact truth; if it were not for your Royal Highness, she would be his mistress. I am only sorry you gave her that watch." "I don't regret it at all." "The jade deserves to be whipped." "Few people meet their deserts," answered Philip. "Too true, too true, your Royal Highness. For instance, I have discovered a girl--O Prince, there is not such another in this city or in the whole world! Few have seen this angel.--Pooh! Rollina is nothing to her. Listen--a girl tall and slender as a palm tree--with a complexion like the red glow of evening upon snow--eyes like sunbeams--rich golden tresses,--in short, the most beautiful creature I ever beheld--a Venus--a goddess in rustic attire. Your Highness, we must give her chase." "A peasant girl?" "A mere rustic; but then you must see her yourself, and you will love her. But my descriptions are nothing. Imagine the embodiment of all that you can conceive most charming--add to that, artlessness, grace, and innocence. But the difficulty is to catch sight of her. She seldom leaves her mother. I know her seat in church, and have watched her for many Sundays past, as she walked with her mother to the Elm-Gate. I have ascertained that a handsome young fellow, a gardener, is making court to her. He can't marry her, for he is a poor devil, and she has nothing. The mother is the widow of a poor weaver." "And the mother's name is?" "Widow Bittner, in Milk Street; and the daughter, fairest of flowers, is in fact called Rose." Philip's blood boiled at the sound of the beloved name. His first inclination was to knock the communicative Dutchman down. He restrained himself, however, and only asked: "Are you the devil himself?" "'T is good news, is it not? I have taken some steps in the matter already, but you must see her first. But perhaps such a pearl has not altogether escaped your keen observation? Do you know her?" "Intimately." "So much the better. Have I been too lavish of my praises? You confess their truth? She sha'n't escape us. We must go together to the widow; you must play the philanthropist. You have heard of the widow's poverty, and must insist on relieving it. You take an interest in the good woman; enter into her misfortunes; leave a small present at each visit, and by this means become acquainted with Rose. The rest follows, of course. The gardener can be easily got out of the way, or perhaps a dozen or two dollars slipped quietly into his hand may--" Philip's rage broke forth. "I'll throttle you--" "If the gardener makes a fuss?" interposed the Dutchman. "Leave me to settle this matter. I'll get him kidnapped, and sent to the army to fight for his country. In the meantime you get possession of the field; for the girl has a peasant's attachment for the fellow, and it will not be easy to get the nonsense out of her head, which she has been taught by the canaille. But I will give her some lessons, and then--" "I'll break your neck." "Your Highness is too good. But if your Highness would use your influence with the King to procure me the Chamberlain's key--" "I wish I could procure you--" "Oh, don't flatter me, your Highness. Had I only known you thought so much of her beauty, she would have been yours long ago." "Not a word more," cried the enraged Philip, in a smothered voice; for he dared not speak aloud, he was so surrounded by maskers, who were listening, dancing, talking, as they passed him, and he might have betrayed himself; "not a word more!" "No, there will be more than words. Deeds shall show my sincerity. You may advance. You are wont to conquer. The outposts will be easily taken. The gardener I will manage, and the mother will range herself under your gilded banners. Then the fortress will be won!" "Sir, if you venture," said Philip, who now could hardly contain himself. It was with great difficulty he refrained from open violence, and he clutched the arm of the Dutchman with the force of a vice. "Your Highness, for Heaven's sake, moderate your joy. I shall scream--you are mashing my arm!" "If you venture to go near that innocent girl, I will demolish every bone in your body." "Good, good," screamed the Dutchman, in intense pain; "only let go my arm." "If I find you anywhere near Milk Street, I'll dash your miserable brains out. So look to it." The Dutchman seemed almost stupefied; trembling, he said: "May it please your Highness, I could not imagine you really loved the girl as it seems you do." "I love her! I will own it before the whole world!" "And are loved in return?" "That's none of your business. Never mention her name to me again. Do not even think of her; it would be a stain upon her purity. Now you know what I think. Be off!" Philip twirled the unfortunate Dutchman round as he let go his arm, and that worthy gentleman slunk out of the hall. VIII. In the meantime Philip's substitute supported his character of watchman on the snow-covered streets. It is scarcely necessary to say that this was none other than Prince Julian who had taken a notion to join the watch--his head being crazed by the fire of the sweet wine. He attended to the directions left by Philip, and went his rounds, and called the hour with great decorum, except that, instead of the usual watchman's verses, he favored the public with rhymes of his own. He was cogitating a new stanza, when the door of a house beside him opened, and a well-wrapped-up girl beckoned to him, and ran into the shadow of the house. The Prince left his stanza half finished, and followed the apparition. A soft hand grasped his in the darkness, and a voice whispered: "Good-evening, dear Philip. Speak low, that nobody may hear us. I have only got away from the company for one moment to speak to you as you passed. Are you happy to see me?" "Blest as a god, my angel,--who could be otherwise than happy by thy side?" "I've some good news for you, Philip. You must sup at our house to-morrow evening. My mother has allowed me to ask you. You 'll come?" "For the whole evening, and as many more as you wish. Would we might be together till the end of the world! 'T would be a life fit for gods!" "Listen, Philip; in half an hour I shall be at St. Gregory's. I shall expect you there. You won't fail me? Don't keep me waiting long--we shall have a walk together. Go now--we may be discovered." She tried to go, but Julian held her back and threw his arms round her. "What, wilt thou leave me so coldly?" he said, and tried to press a kiss upon her lips. Rose did not know what to think of this boldness, for Philip had always been modest, and never dared more than kiss her hand, except once, when her mother had forbidden their meeting again. They had then exchanged their first kiss in great sorrow and in great love, but never since then. She struggled to free herself, but Julian held her firm, till at last she had to buy her liberty by submitting to the kiss, and begged him to go. But Julian seemed not at all inclined to move. "What! go? I'm not such a fool as that comes to! You think I love my horn better than you? No indeed!" "But then it isn't right, Philip." "Not right? why not, my beauty? there is nothing against kissing in the ten commandments." "Why, if we could marry, perhaps you might--but you know very well we can't marry, and--" "Not marry? why not? You can marry me any day you like." "Philip!--why will you talk such folly? You know we must not think of such a thing." "But _I_ think very seriously about it--if you would consent." "You are unkind to speak thus. Ah, Philip, I had a dream last night." "A dream--what was it?" "You had won a prize in the lottery; we were both so happy! you had bought a beautiful garden, handsomer than any in the city. It was a little paradise of flowers--and there were large beds of vegetables, and the trees were laden with fruit. And when I awoke, Philip, I felt so wretched--I wished I had not dreamed such a happy dream. You've nothing in the lottery, Philip, have you? Have you really won anything? The drawing took place to-day." "How much must I have gained to win you too?" "Ah, Philip, if you had only gained a thousand dollars, you might buy such a pretty garden!" "A thousand dollars! And what if it were more?" "Ah, Philip--what? is it true? is it really? Don't deceive me! 'twill be worse than the dream. You had a ticket! and you've won!--own it! own it!" "All you can wish for." Rose flung her arms around his neck in the extremity of her joy, and kissed him. "More than the thousand dollars? and will they pay you the whole?" Her kiss made the Prince forget to answer. It was so strange to hold a pretty form in his arms, receive its caresses, and to know they were not meant for him. "Answer me, answer me!" cried Rose, impatiently. "Will they give you all that money?" "They've done it already--and if it will add to your happiness I will hand it to you this moment." "What! have you got it with you?" The Prince took out his purse, which he had filled with money in expectation of some play. "Take it and weigh it, my girl," he said, placing it in her hand and kissing her again. "This, then, makes you mine!" "Oh, not THIS--nor all the gold in the world, if you were not my own dear Philip!" "And how if I had given you twice as much as all this money, and yet were not your own dear Philip?" "I would fling the purse at your feet, and make you a very polite curtsey," said Rose. A door now opened; the light streamed down the steps, and the laughing voices of girls were heard. Rose whispered: "In half an hour, at St. Gregory's," and ran up the steps, leaving the Prince in the darkness. Disconcerted by the suddenness of the parting, and his curiosity excited by his ignorance of the name of his new acquaintance, and not even having had a full view of her face, he consoled himself with the rendezvous at St. Gregory's Church door. This he resolved to keep, though it was evident that all the tenderness which had been bestowed on him was intended for his friend the watchman. IX. The interview with Rose, or the coldness of the night, increased the effect of the wine to such an extent that the mischievous propensities of the young Prince got the upper hand of him. Standing amidst a crowd of people, in the middle of the street, he blew so lustily on his horn that the women screamed, and the men gasped with fear. He called the hour, and then shouted, at the top of his lungs: The bus'ness of our lovely state Is stricken by the hand of fate-- Even our maids, both light and brown, Can find no sale in all the town; They deck themselves with all their arts, But no one buys their worn-out hearts." "Shame! shame!" cried several female voices from the window at the end of this complimentary effusion, which, however, was crowned with a loud laugh from the men. "Bravo, watchman!" cried some; "Encore! encore!" shouted others. "How dare you, fellow, insult ladies in the open street?" growled a young lieutenant, who had a very pretty girl on his arm. "Mr. Lieutenant," answered a miller, "unfortunately watchmen always tell the truth, and the lady on your arm is a proof of it. Ha! young jade, do you know me? do you know who I am? Is it right for a betrothed bride to be gadding at night about the streets with other men? To-morrow your mother shall hear of this. I'll have nothing more to do with you!" The girl hid her face, and nudged the young officer to lead her away. But the lieutenant, like a brave soldier, scorned to retreat from the miller, and determined to keep the field. He therefule made use of a full round of oaths, which were returned with interest, and a sabre was finally resorted to, with some flourishes; but two Spanish cudgels were threateningly held over the head of the lieutenant by a couple of stout townsmen, while one of them, who was a broad-shouldered beer-brewer, cried: "Don't make any more fuss about the piece of goods beside you--she ain't worth it. The miller's a good fellow, and what he says is true, and the watchman's right too. A plain tradesman can hardly venture to marry now. All the women wish to marry above their station. Instead of darning stockings, they read romances; instead of working in the kitchen, they run after comedies and concerts. Their houses are dirty, and they are walking out, dressed like princesses; all they bring a husband as a dowry are handsome dresses, lace ribbons, intrigues, romances, and idleness! Sir, I speak from experience; I should have married long since, if girls were not spoiled." The spectators laughed heartily, and the lieutenant slowly put back his sword, saying peevishly: "It's a little too much to be obliged to hear a sermon from the canaille." "What! Canaille!" cried a smith, who held the second cudgel. "Do you call those canaille who feed you noble idlers by duties and taxes? Your licentiousness is the cause of our domestic discords, and noble ladies would not have so much cause to mourn if you had learned both to pray and to work." Several young officers had gathered together already, and so had some mechanics; and the boys, in the meantime, threw snowballs among both parties, that their share in the fun might not be lost. The first ball hit the noble lieutenant on the nose, and thinking it an attack from the canaille, he raised his sabre. The fight began. The Prince, who had laughed amazingly at the first commencement of the uproar, had betaken himself to another region, and felt quite unconcerned as to the result. In the course of his wanderings, he came to the palace of Count Bodenlos, the Minister of Finance, with whom, as Philip had discovered at the masquerade, the Prince was not on the best terms. The Countess had a large party. Julian saw the lighted windows, and still feeling poetically disposed, he planted himself opposite the balcony, and blew a peal on his horn. Several ladies and gentlemen opened the shutters, because they had nothing better to do, and listened to what he should say. "Watchman," cried one of them, "sing us a New Year's greeting!" This invitation brought a fresh accession of the Countess' party to the windows. Julian called the hour in the usual manner, and sang, loud enough to be distinctly heard inside: "Ye who groan with heavy debts, And swift approaching failure frets, Pray the Lord that He this hour May raise you to some place of power; And while the nation wants and suffers, Fill your own from the people's coffers." "Outrageous!" screamed the lady of the Minister; "who is the insolent wretch that dares such an insult?" "Pleashe your exshellenshy," answered Julian, imitating the Jewish dialect in voice and manner, "I vash only intendsh to shing you a pretty shong. I am de Shew Abraham Levi, vell known at dish court. Your ladyship knowsh me ver' well." "How dare you tell such a lie, you villain?" exclaimed a voice, trembling with rage, at one of the windows; "how dare you say you are Abraham Levi? I am Abraham Levi! You are a cheat!" "Call the police!" cried the Countess. "Have that man arrested!" At these words the party confusedly withdrew from the windows. Nor did the Prince remain where he was, but quickly effected his escape through a cross-street. A crowd of servants rushed out of the palace, led by the secretaries of the Finance Minister, and commenced a search for the offender. "We have him!" cried some, as the rest eagerly approached. It was in fact the real guardian of the night, who was carefully perambulating his beat, in innocent unconsciousness of any offence. In spite of all he could say, he was disarmed and carried off to the watch-house, and charged with causing a disturbance by singing libellous songs. The officer of the police shook his head at the unaccountable event, and said: "We have already one watchman in custody, whose verses about some girl caused a very serious affray between the town's people and the garrison." The prisoner would confess to nothing, but swore prodigiously at the tipsy young people who had disturbed him in the fulfilment of his duty. One of the secretaries of the Finance Minister repeated the whole verse to him. The soldiers standing about laughed aloud, but the ancient watchman swore with tears in his eyes that he had never thought of such a thing. While the examination was going on, and one of the secretaries of the Finance Minister began to be doubtful whether the poor watchman was really in fault or not, an uproar was heard outside, and loud cries of "Watch, watch!" The guard rushed out, and in a few minutes the Field-Marshal entered the office, accompanied by the captain of the guards on duty. "Have that scoundrel locked up tight," said the Marshal, pointing behind him--and two soldiers brought in a watchman, whom they held close prisoner, and whom they had disarmed of his staff and horn. "Are the watchmen gone all mad to-night?" exclaimed the chief of police. "I'll have the rascal punished for his infamous verses," said the Field-Marshal angrily. "Your excellency," exclaimed the trembling watchman, "as true as I live, I never made a verse in my born days." "Silence, knave!" roared the Marshal. "I'll have you hanged for them! And if you contradict me again, I'll cut you in two on the spot." The police officer respectfully observed to the Field-Marshal that there must be some poetical epidemic among the watchmen, for three had been brought before him within the last quarter of an hour, accused of the same offence. "Gentlemen," said the Marshal to the officers who had accompanied him, "since the scoundrel refuses to confess, it will be necessary to take down from your remembrance the worlds of his atrocious libel. Let them be written down while you still recollect them. Come, who can say them?" The officer of police wrote to the dictation of the gentlemen who remembered the whole verses between them: "On empty head a flaunting feather, A long queue tied with tape and leather; Padded breast and waist so little, Make the soldier to a tittle; By cards and dance, and dissipation, He's sure to win a Marshal's station." "Do you deny, you rascal," cried the Field-Marshal to the terrified watchman; "do you deny that you sang these infamous lines as I was coming out of my house?" "They may sing it who like, it was not me," said the watchman. "Why did you run away, then, when you saw me?" "I did not run away." "What!" said the two officers who had accompanied the Marshal--"not run away? Were you not out of breath when at last we laid hold of you there by the market?" "Yes, but it was with fright at being so ferociously attacked. I am trembling yet in every limb." "Lock the obstinate dog up till the morning," said the Marshal; "he will come to his senses by that time!" With these words the wrathful dignitary went away. These incidents had set the whole police force of the city on the qui vive. In the next ten minutes two more watchmen were brought to the office on similar charges with the others. One was accused of singing a libel under the window of the Minister of Foreign Affairs, in which it was insinuated that there were no affairs to which he was more foreign than those of his own department. The other had sung some verses before the door of the Bishop's palace, informing him that the "lights of the church" were by no means deficient in tallow, but gave a great deal more smoke than illumination. The Prince, who had wrought the poor watchmen all this woe, was always lucky enough to escape, and grew bolder and bolder with every new attempt. The affair was talked of everywhere. The Minister of Police, who was at cards with the King, was informed of the insurrection among the hitherto peaceful watchmen, and, as a proof of it, some of the verses were given to him in writing. The King laughed very heartily at the doggerel verse about the miserable police, who were always putting their noses into other people's family affairs, but could never smell anything amiss in their own, and were therefore lawful game, and ordered the next poetical watchman who should be taken to be brought before him. He broke up the card-table, for he saw that the Minister of Police had lost his good humor. X. In the dancing-hall next to the card-room, Philip had looked at his watch, and discovered that the time of his appointment with Rose at St. Gregory's had nearly come. He was by no means sorry at the prospect of giving back his silk mantle and plumed bonnet to his substitute, for he began to find high life not quite to his taste. As he was going to the door, the Negro once more came up to him, and whispered: "Your Highness, Duke Herrman is seeking for you everywhere." Philip shook his head impatiently and hurried out, followed by the Negro. When they got to the ante-chamber, the Negro cried out, "By Heaven, here comes the Duke!"--and slipped back into the hall. A tall black mask walked fiercely up to Philip, and said: "Stay a moment, sir; I've a word or two to say to you; I've been seeking for you long." "Quick, then," said Philip, "for I have no time to lose." "I would not waste a moment, sir; I have sought you long enough; you owe me satisfaction, you have injured me infamously." "Not that I am aware of." "You don't know me, perhaps," said the Duke, lifting up his mask; "now that you see me, your own conscience will save me any more words. I demand satisfaction. You and the cursed Salmoni have deceived me!" "I know nothing about it," said Philip. "You got up that shameful scene in the cellar of the baker's daughter. It was at your instigation that Colonel Kalt made an assault upon me with a cudgel." "There's not a word of truth in what you say." "What!--you deny it? The Lady Blankenswerd, the Marshal's lady, was an eye-witness of it all, and she has told me every circumstance." "She has told your grace a fancy tale--I have had nothing to do with it; if you made an ass of yourself in the baker's cellar, that was your own fault." "I ask, once more, will you give me satisfaction? If not, I will expose you. Follow me instantly to the King. You shall either fight with me, or--go to his Majesty." Philip was nonplussed. "Your grace," he said, "I have no wish either to fight with you or to go to the King." This was indeed the truth, for he was afraid he should be obliged to unmask, and would be punished, of course, for the part he had played. He therefore tried to get off by every means, and watched the door to seize a favorable moment for effecting his escape. The Duke, on the other hand, observed the uneasiness of the Prince (as he thought him), and waxed more valorous every minute. At last he seized poor Philip by the arm, and was dragging him into the hall. "What do you want with me?" said Philip, sorely frightened, and shook off the Duke. "To the King. He shall hear how shamefully you insult a guest at his court." "Very good," replied Philip, who saw no hope of escape, except by continuing the character of the Prince. "Very good. Come, then, I am ready. By good luck I happen to have the agreement with me between you and the baker's daughter, in which you promise--" "Nonsense! stuff!" answered the Duke, "that was only a piece of fun, which may be allowed surely with a baker's daughter. Show it if you like, I will explain all that." But it appeared that the Duke was not quite so sure of the explanation, for he no longer urged Philip to go before the King. He, however, insisted more earnestly than ever on getting into his carriage, and going that moment--Heaven knows where--to decide the matter with sword and pistol, an arrangement which did not suit our watchman at all. Philip pointed out the danger and consequences of such a proceeding, but the Duke overruled all objections. He had made every preparation, and when it was over he would leave the city that same night. "If you are not the greatest coward in Europe, you will follow me to the carriage--Prince!" "I--am--no--prince," at last stuttered Philip, now driven to extremities. "You are! Everybody recognized you at the ball. I know you by your hat. You sha'n't escape me." Philip lifted up his mask, and showed the Duke his face. "Now, then, am I a prince?" Duke Herrman, when he saw the countenance of a man he had never seen before, started back, and stood gazing as if he had been petrified. To have revealed his secrets to a perfect stranger! 'T was horrible beyond conception! But before he had recovered from his surprise, Philip had opened the door and effected his escape. XI. The moment he found himself at liberty he took off his hat and feathers, and wrapping them in his silk mantle, rushed through the streets towards St. Gregory's, carrying them under his arm. There stood Rose already, in a corner of the high church door, expecting his arrival. "Ah, Philip, dear Philip," she said, pressing his hand, "how happy you have made me! how lucky we are! I was very uneasy to get away from my friend's house, and I have been waiting here this quarter of an hour, but never cared for the frost and snow--my happiness was so great: I am so glad you're come back." "And I too, dear Rose, thank God that I have got back to you. May the eagles fly away with these trinkum-trankums of great people. But I'll tell you some other time of the scenes I've had. Tell me now, my darling, how you are, and whether you love me still!" "Ah! Philip, you've become a great man now, and it would be better to ask if you still care anything for me." "Thunder! How came you to know so soon that I've been a great man?" "Why, you told me yourself. Ah! Philip, Philip, I only hope you won't be proud, now that you've grown so rich. I am but a poor girl, and not good enough for you now--and I have been thinking, Philip, if you forsake me, I would rather have had you continue a poor gardener. I should fret myself to death if you forsook me." "What are you talking about, Rose? 'T is true that for one half-hour I have been a prince; 't was but a joke, and I want no more of such jokes in my life. Now I am a watchman again, and as poor as ever. To be sure, I have five thousand dollars in my pocket, that I got from a Mameluke; that would make us rich, but unfortunately they don't belong to me!" "You're speaking nonsense, Philip," said Rose, giving him the purse of gold that the Prince had given her. "Here, take back your money, 't is too heavy for my bag." "What should I do with all this gold? Where did you get it, Rose?" "You won it in the lottery, Philip." "What! have I won? and they told me at the office my number was not yet out. I had hoped and wished that it might come to give us a setting up in the world; but gardener Redman said to me as I went a second time towards the office: 'Poor Philip--a blank.' Huzzah! I have won! Now I will buy a large garden and marry you. How much is it?" "Are you crazy, Philip, or have you drunk too much? You must know better than I can tell you how much it is. I only looked at it quietly under the table at my friend's, and was frightened to see so many glittering coins, all of gold, Philip. Ah! then I thought, no wonder Philip was so impertinent--for, you know, you were very impertinent, Philip,--but I can't blame you for it. Oh, I could throw my own arms round your neck and cry for joy." "Rose, if you will do it I shall make no objections. But there's some misunderstanding here. Who was it that gave you this money, and told you it was my prize in the lottery? I have my ticket safe in my drawer at home, and nobody has asked me for it." "Ah! Philip, don't play your jokes on me! you yourself told me it half an hour ago, and gave me the purse with your own hand." "Rose--try to recollect yourself. This morning I saw you at mass, and we agreed to meet here to-night, but since that time I have not seen you for an instant." "No, except half an hour ago, when I saw you at Steinman's door. But what is that bundle under your arm? why are you without a hat this cold night? Philip! Philip! be careful. All that gold may turn your brain. You've been in some tavern, Philip, and have drunk more than you should. But tell me, what is in the bundle? Why--here's a woman's silk gown.--Philip, Philip, where have you been?" "Certainly not with you half an hour ago; you want to play tricks on me, I fancy; where have you got that money, I should like to know?" "Answer me first, Philip, where you got that woman's gown. Where have you been, sir?" They were both impatient for explanations, both a little jealous--and finally began to quarrel. XII. But as this was a lovers' quarrel, it ended as lovers' quarrels invariably do. When Rose took out her white pocket-handkerchief, put it to her beautiful eyes, and turned away her head as the sighs burst forth from her breast, this sole argument proved instantly that she was in the right, and Philip decidedly in the wrong. He confessed he was to blame for everything, and told her that he had been at a masked ball, and that his bundle was not a silk gown, but a man's mantle and a hat and feathers. And now he had to undergo a rigid examination. Every maiden knows that a masked ball is a dangerous maze for unprotected hearts. It is like plunging into a whelming sea of dangers, and you will be drowned if you are not a good swimmer. Rose did not consider Philip the best swimmer in the world--it is difficult to say why. He denied having danced, but when she asked him, he could not deny having talked with some feminine masks. He related the whole story to her, yet would constantly add: "The ladies were of high rank, and they took me for another." Rose doubted him a little, but she suppressed her resentment until he said they took him for Prince Julian. Then she shook her little head, and still more when she heard that Prince Julian was transformed into a watchman while Philip was at the ball. But he smothered her doubts by saying that in a few minutes the Prince would appear at St. Gregory's Church and exchange his watch-coat for the mask. Rose, in return, related all her adventure; but when she came to the incident of the kiss-- "Hold there!" cried Philip; "I didn't kiss you, nor, I am sure, did you kiss me in return." "I am sure 'twas INTENDED for you, then," replied Rose, whilst her lover rubbed his hair down, for fear it should stand on end. "If 'twas not you," continued Rose, anxiously, "I will believe all that you have been telling me." But as she went on in her story a light seemed to break in on her, and she exclaimed: "And, after all, I do not believe it was Prince Julian in your coat!" Philip was certain it was, and cried: "The rascal! He stole my kisses--now I understand! That's the reason why he wanted to take my place and gave me his mask!" And now the stories he had heard at the masquerade came into Philip's head. He asked if anybody had called at her mother's to offer her money; if any gentleman was much about Milk Street; if she saw any one watching her at church; but to all his questions her answers were so satisfactory, that it was impossible to doubt her total ignorance of all the machinations of the rascally courtiers. He warned her against all the advances of philanthropical and compassionate princes--and Rose warned him against the dangers of a masked ball and adventures with ladies of rank, by which many young men have been made unhappy--and as everything was now forgiven, in consideration of the kiss not been wilfully bestowed, he was on the point of claiming for himself the one of which he had been cheated, when his designs were interrupted by an unexpected incident. A man out of breath with his rapid flight rushed against them. By the great-coat, staff, and horn, Philip recognized his deputy. He, on the other hand, snatched at the silk cloak and hat. "Ah! sir," said Philip, "here are your things. I would not change places with you again in this world! I should be no gainer by the operation." "Quick! quick!" cried the Prince, and threw the watchman's apparel on the snow and fastened on his mask, hat, and cloak. Philip returned to his old beaver and coat, and took up the lantern and staff. Rose had shrunk back into the door. "I promised thee a dole, comrade--but it's a positive fact--I have not got my purse." "I've got it here," said Philip, and held it out to him. "You gave it to my intended there; but, please your Highness, I must forbid all presents in that quarter." "Comrade, keep what you've got, and be off as quick as you can. You are not safe here." The Prince was flying off as he spoke, but Philip held him by the mantle. "One thing, my Lord, we have to settle--" "Run! watchman! I tell you. They're in search of you." "I have nothing to run for. But your purse, here--" "Keep it, I tell you. Fly! if you can run." "And a billet of Marshal Blankenswerd's for five thousand dollars--" "Ha! what the plague do you know about Marshal Blankenswerd?" "He said it was a gambling debt he owed you. He and his lady start to-night for their estates in Poland." "Are you mad? how do you know that? Who gave you the message for me?" "And, your Highness, the Minister of Finance will pay all your debts to Abraham Levi and others if you will use your influence with the King to keep him in office." "Watchman! you've been tampering with Old Nick." "But I rejected the offer." "YOU rejected the offer of the Minister?" "Yes, your Highness. And, moreover, I have entirely reconciled the Baroness Bonau with the Chamberlain Pilzou." "Which of us two is a fool?" "Another thing, your Highness. Signora Rollina is a bad woman. I have heard of some love affairs of hers. You are deceived--I therefore thought her not worthy of your attentions, and put off the meeting to-night at her house." "Signora Rollina! How did you come to hear of her?" "Another thing. Duke Herrman is terribly enraged about that business in the cellar. He is going to complain of you to the King." "The Duke! Who told you about that?" "Himself. You are not secure yet--but I don't think he'll go to the King, for I threatened him with his agreement with the baker's daughter. But he wants to fight you; be on yoor guard." "Once for all--do you know how the Duke was informed of all this?" "Through the Marshal's wife. She told all, and confessed she had acted the witch in the ghost-raising." The Prince took Philip by the arm. "My good fellow," he said, "you are no watchman." He turned his face towards a lamp, and started when he saw the face of this strange man. "Are you possessed by Satan, or...Who are you?" said Julian, who had now become quite sober. "I am Philip Stark, the gardener, son of old Gottlieb Stark, the watchman," said Philip, quietly. XIII. "Lay hold on him! That's the man!" cried many voices, and Philip, Rose, and Julian saw themselves surrounded by six lusty servants of the police. Rose screamed, Philip took her hand, and told her not to be alarmed. The Prince clapped his hand on Philip's shoulder. "'Tis a stupid business," he said, "and you should have escaped when I told you. But don't be frightened; there shall no harm befall you." "That's to be seen," said one of the captors. "In the meantime he must come along with us." "Where to?" inquired Philip; "I am doing my duty. I am watchman of this beat." "That's the reason we take you. Come." The Prince stepped forward. "Let the man go, good people," he said, and searched in all his pockets for his purse. As he found it nowhere, he was going to whisper to Philip to give it him, but the police tore them apart, and one of them shouted: "On! We can't stop to talk here." "The masked fellow must go with us too; he is suspicious-looking." "Not so," exclaimed Philip; "you are in search of the watchman. Here I am, if you choose to answer for taking me from my duty. But let this gentleman go." "We don't want any lessons from you in our duty," replied the sergeant; "march! all of them!" "The damsel too?" asked Philip; "you don't want her surely!" "No, she may go; but we must see her face, and take down her name and residence; it may be of use." "She is the daughter of Widow Bittner," said Philip; and was not a little enraged when the whole party took Rose to a lamp and gazed on her tearful face. "Go home, Rose, and don't be alarmed on my account," said Philip, trying to comfort her; "my conscience is clear." But Rose sobbed so as to move even the policemen to pity her. The Prince, availing himself of the opportunity, attempted to spring out of his captors' hands, but one of the men was a better jumper than he, and put an obstacle in his way. "Hallo!" cried the sergeant, "this conscience is not quite so clear; hold him firm; march!" "Whither?" said the Prince. "Directly to the Minister of Police." "Listen," said the Prince, seriously but affably, for he did not like the turn affairs were taking, as he was anxious to keep his watchman frolic concealed. "I have nothing to do with this business. I belong to the court. If you venture to force me to go with you, you will be sorry for it when you are feasting on bread and water tomorrow in prison." "For Heaven's sake, let the gentleman go," cried Philip; "I give you my word he is a great lord, and will make you repent your conduct. He is--" "Hush; be silent," interrupted Julian; "tell no human being who I am. Whatever happens keep my name a secret. Do you hear? an entire secret from every one!" "We do our duty," said the sergeant, "and nobody can punish us for that; you may go to a prison yourself; we have often had fellows speak as high, and threaten as fiercely; forward!" "Men! take advice; he is a distinguished man at court." "If it were a king himself he should go with us. He is a suspicious character, and we must do our duty." While the contest about the Prince went on, a carriage, with eight horses and outriders, bearing flambeaux, drove past the church. "Stop!" said a voice from the carriage, as it was passing the crowd of policemen who had the Prince in custody. The carriage stopped. The door flew open, and a gentleman, with a brilliant star on the breast of his surtout, leaped out. He pushed through the party, and examined the Prince from head to foot. "I thought," he said, "I knew the bird by his feathers. Mask, who are you?" Julian was taken by surprise, for in the inquirer he recognized Duke Herrman. "Answer me," roared Herrman in a voice of thunder. Julian shook his head, and made signs to the Duke to desist, but he pressed the question he upon him, being determined to know who it he had accosted at the masquerade. He asked the policemen. They stood with heads uncovered, and told him they had orders to bring the watchman instantly before the Minister of Police, for he had been singing wicked verses, they had heard some of them; that the mask had given himself out as some great lord of the court, but that they believed that to be a false pretence, and therefore considered it their duty to take him into custody. "The man is not of the court," answered the Duke; "take my word for that. He himself clandestinely into the ball, and himself off for Prince Julian. I forced him to unmask, and detected the impostor, but he escaped me. I have informed the Lord Chamberlain; off with him to the palace! You have made a fine prize!" With these words the Duke strode back to his carriage, and once more urging them not to let the villains escape, gave orders to drive on. The Prince saw no chance left. To reveal himself now would be to make his night's adventures the talk of the whole city. He thought it better to disclose his incognito to the Chamberlain or the Minister of Police. "Since it must be so, come on then," he said; and the party marched forward, keeping a firm hand on the two prisoners. XIV. Phipip was not sure whether he was bewitched, or whether the whole business was not a dream, for it was a night such as he had never passed before in his life. He had nothing to blame himself for except that he had changed clothes with the Prince, and then, whether he would or no, been forced to support his character. He felt pretty safe, for it was the princely watchman who had been at fault, and he saw no occasion for his being committed. His heart beat, however, when they came to the palace. His coat, horn, and staff were taken from him. Julian spoke a few words to a young nobleman, and immediately the policemen were sent away. The Prince ascended the stairs, and Philip had to follow. "Fear nothing," said Julian, and left him. Philip was taken to a little ante-room, where he had to wait a good while. At last one of the royal grooms came to him, and said: "Come this way; the King will see you." Philip was distracted with fear. His knees shook so that he could hardly walk. He was led into a splendid chamber. The old King was sitting at a table, and laughing long and load; near him stood Prince Julian without a mask. Besides these, there was nobody in the room. The King looked at Philip with a good-humored expression. "Tell me all--without missing a syllable--that you have done to-night." Philip took courage from the condescension of the old King, and told the whole story from beginning to end. He had the good sense, however, to conceal all he had heard among the courtiers that could turn to the prejudice of the Prince. The King laughed again and again, and at last took two gold-pieces from his pocket and gave them to Philip. "Here, my son, take these, but say not a word of your night's adventures. Await your trial; no harm shall cone of it to you. Now go, my friend, and remember what I have told you." Philip knelt down at the King's feet and kissed his hand as he stammered some words of thanks. When he arose, and was leaving the room, Prince Julian said: "I beseech your Majesty to allow the young man to wait a few minutes outside. I have some compensation to make to him for the inconvenience he has suffered." The King, smiling, nodded his assent, and Philip left the apartment. "Prince!" said the King, holding up his forefinger in a threatening manner to his son, "'tis well for you that you told me nothing but the truth. For this time I must pardon your wild scrape, but if such a thing happens again you will offend me. There will be no excuse for you! I must take Duke Herrman in hand myself. I shall not be sorry if we can get quit of him. As to the Ministers of Finance and Police. I must have further proofs of what you say. Go now, and give some present to the gardener. He has shown more discretion in your character than you have in his." The Prince took leave of the King, and having changed his dress in an ante-room, sent for Philip to go to his palace with him; there he made him go over--word for word--everything that had occurred. When Philip had finished his narrative, the Prince clapped him on the shoulder and said: "Philip, listen! You're a sensible fellow. I can confide in you, and I am satisfied with you. What you have done in my name with the Chamberlain Pilzou, the Countess Bonau, the Marshal and his wife, Colonel Kalt, and the Minister of Finance--I will maintain--as if I had done it myself. But, on the other hand, YOU must take all the blame of my doings with the horn and staff. As a penalty for verses, you shall lose your office of watchman. You shall be my head-gardener from this date, and have charge of my two gardens at Heimleben and Quellenthal. The money I gave your bride she shall keep as her marriage portion,--and I give you the order of Marshal Blankenswerd for five thousand dollars, as a mark of my regard. Go, now; be faithful and true!" Who could be happier than Philip! He almost flew to Rose's house. She had not yet gone to bed, but sat with her mother beside a table, and was weeping. He threw the purse on the table and said: "Rose, there is thy dowry! and here are five thousand dollars, which are mine! As a watchman I have transgressed, and shall therefore lose my father's situation; but the day after to-morrow I shall go, as head-gardener of Prince Julian, to Heimleben. And you, mother and Rose, must go with me. My father and mother also. I can support you all. Huzza! Gods send all good people such a happy New Year!" Mother Bittner hardly knew whether to believe Philip or not, notwithstanding she saw the gold. But when he told her how it had all happened--though with some reservations--she wept with joy, embraced him, laid her her daughter on his breast, and then danced about the room in a perfect ecstasy, "Do thy father and mother know this, Philip?" she said. And when he answered no, she cried: "Rose, kindle the fire, put over the water, and make some coffee for all of us." She then wrapped herself in her little woollen shawl and left the house. But Rose lay on Philip's breast, and forgot all about the wood and water. And there she yet lay when Mother Bittner returned with old Gottlieb and Mother Katharine. They surrounded their children and blessed them. Mother Bittner saw if she wanted coffee, she would be obliged to cook it herself. Philip lost his situation as watchman. Rose became his wife in two weeks; their parents went with them to--; but this does not belong to the adventures of a New Year's Eve, a night more ruinous to the Minister of Finance than any one else; neither have we heard of any more pranks by the wild Prince Julian. 
6022	----	STORIES BY FOREIGN AUTHORS - GERMAN CHRISTIAN GELLERT'S LAST CHRISTMAS ...... BY BERTHOLD AUERBACH A GHETTO VIOLET ..... BY LEOPOLD KOMPERT THE SEVERED HAND .... BY WILHELM HAUFF PETER SCHLEMIHL ..... BY ADELBERT VON CHAMISSO PUBLISHERS' NOTE The translations in this volume, where previously published, are used by arrangement with the owners of the copyrights (as specified at the beginning of each story). Translations made especially for the series are covered by its general copyright. All rights in both classes are reserved. CHRISTIAN GELLERT'S LAST CHRISTMAS BY BERTHOLD AUERBACH From "German Tales." 1869 Three o'clock had just struck from the tower of St. Nicholas, Leipzig, on the afternoon of December 22d, 1768, when a man, wrapped in a loose overcoat, came out of the door of the University. His countenance was exceedingly gentle, and on his features cheerfulness still lingered, for he had been gazing upon a hundred cheerful faces; after him thronged a troop of students, who, holding back, allowed him to precede them: the passengers in the streets saluted him, and some students, who pressed forwards and hurried past him homewards, saluted him quite reverentially. He returned their salutations with a surprised and almost deprecatory air, and yet he knew, and could not conceal from himself, that he was one of the best beloved, not only in the good city of Leipzig, but in all lands far and wide. It was Christian Furchtegott Gellert, the Poet of Fables, Hymns, and Lays, who was just leaving his college. When we read his "Lectures upon Morals," which were not printed until after his death, we obtain but a very incomplete idea of the great power with which they came immediately from Gellert's mouth. Indeed, it was his voice, and the touching manner in which he delivered his lectures, that made so deep an impression upon his hearers; and Rabener was right when once he wrote to a friend, that "the philanthropic voice" of Gellert belonged to his words. Above all, however, it was the amiable and pure personal character of Gellert which vividly and edifyingly impressed young hearts. Gellert was himself the best example of pure moral teaching; and the best which a teacher can give his pupils is faith in the victorious might, and the stability of the eternal moral laws. His lessons were for the Life, for his life in itself was a lesson. Many a victory over the troubles of life, over temptations of every kind, ay, many an elevation to nobility of thought, and to purity of action, had its origin in that lecture-hall, at the feet of Gellert. It was as though Gellert felt that it was the last time he would deliver these lectures; that those words so often and so impressively uttered would be heard no more from his mouth; and there was a peculiar sadness, yet a peculiar strength, in all he said that day. He had this day earnestly recommended modesty and humility; and it appeared almost offensive to him, that people as he went should tempt him in regard to these very virtues; for continually he heard men whisper, "That is Gellert!" What is fame, and what is honor? A cloak of many colors, without warmth, without protection: and now, as he walked along, his heart literally froze in his bosom, as he confessed to himself that he had as yet done nothing--nothing which could give him a feeling of real satisfaction. Men honored him and loved him: but what was all that worth? His innermost heart could not be satisfied with that; in his own estimation he deserved no meed of praise; and where, where was there any evidence of that higher and purer life which he would fain bring about! Then, again, the Spirit would comfort him and say: "Much seed is lost, much falls in stony places, and much on good ground and brings forth sevenfold." His inmost soul heard not the consolation, for his body was weak and sore burdened from his youth up, and in his latter days yet more than ever; and there are conditions of the body in which the most elevating words, and the cheeriest notes of joy, strike dull and heavy on the soul. It is one of the bitterest experiences of life to discover how little one man can really be to another. How joyous is that youthful freshness which can believe that, by a thought transferred to another's heart, we can induce him to become another being, to live according to what he must acknowledge true, to throw aside his previous delusions, and return to the right path! The youngsters go their way! Do your words follow after? Whither are they going? What are now their thoughts? What manner of life will be theirs? "My heart yearns after them, but cannot be with them: oh, how happy were those messengers of the Spirit, who cried aloud to youth or manhood the words of the Spirit, that they must leave their former ways, and thenceforth change to other beings! Pardon me, O God! that I would fain be like them; I am weak and vile, and yet, methinks, there must be words as yet unheard, unknown--oh! where are they, those words which at once lay hold upon the soul?" With such heavy thoughts went Gellert away from his college-gate to Rosenthal. There was but one small pathway cleared, but the passers cheerfully made way for him, and walked in the snow that they might leave him the pathway unimpeded; but he felt sad, and "as if each tree had somewhat to cast at him." Like all men really pure, and cleaving to the good with all their might, Gellert was not only far from contenting himself with work already done: he also, in his anxiety to be doing, almost forgot that he the inward depression easily changes to displeasure against every one, and the household of the melancholic suffers thereby intolerably; for the displeasure turns against them,--no one does anything properly, nothing is in its place. How very different is Gellert's melancholy! Not a soul suffers from it but himself, against himself alone his gloomy thoughts turn, and towards every other creature he is always kind, amiable, and obliging: he bites his lips; but when he speaks to any one, he is wholly good, forbearing, and self-forgetful. Whilst they were talking together, Gellert was sitting in his room, and had lighted a pipe to dispel the agitation which he would experience in opening his letters; and while smoking, he could read them much more comfortably. He reproached himself for smoking, which was said to be injurious to his health, but he could not quite give up the "horrible practice," as he called it. He first examined the addresses and seals of the letters which had arrived, then quietly opened and read them. A fitful smile passed over his features; there were letters from well-known friends, full of love and admiration, but from strangers also, who, in all kinds of heart-distress, took counsel of him. He read the letters full of friendly applause, first hastily, that he might have the right of reading them again, and that he might not know all at once; and when he had read a friend's letter for the second time, he sprang from his seat and cried, "Thank God! thank God! that I am so fortunate as to have such friends!" To his inwardly diffident nature these helps were a real requirement; they served to cheer him, and only those who did not know him called his joy at the reception of praise--conceit; it was, on the contrary, the truest modesty. How often did he sit there, and all that he had taught and written, all that he had ever been to men in word and deed, faded, vanished, and died away, and he appeared to himself but a useless servant of the world. His friends he answered immediately; and as his inward melancholy vanished, and the philanthropy, nay, the sprightliness of his soul beamed forth, when he was among men and looked in a living face, so was it also with his letters. When he bethought him of the friends to whom he was writing, he not only acquired tranquillity, that virtue for which his whole life long he strove; but his loving nature received new life, and only by slight intimations did he betray the heaviness and dejection which weighed upon his soul. He was, in the full sense of the word, "philanthropic," in the sight of good men; and in thoughts for their welfare, there was for him a real happiness and a joyous animation. When, however, he had done writing and felt lonely again, the gloomy spirits came back: he had seated himself, wishing to raise his thoughts for composing a sacred song; but he was ill at ease, and had no power to express that inward, firm, and self-rejoicing might of faith which lived in him. Again and again the scoffers and free-thinkers rose up before his thoughts: he must refute their objections, and not until that was done did he become himself. It is a hard position, when a creative spirit cannot forget the adversaries which on all sides oppose him in the world: they come unsummoned to the room and will not be expelled; they peer over the shoulder, and tug at the hand which fain would write; they turn images upside down, and distort the thoughts; and here and there, from ceiling and wall, they grin, and scoff, and oppose: and what was just gushing as an aspiration from the soul, is converted to a confused absurdity. At such a time, the spirit, courageous and self-dependent, must take refuge in itself and show a firm front to a world of foes. A strong nature boldly hurls his inkstand at the Devil's head; goes to battle with his opponents with words both written and spoken; and keeps his own individuality free from the perplexities with which opponents disturb all that has been previously done, and make the soul unsteadfast and unnerved for what is to come. Gellert's was no battling, defiant nature, which relies upon itself; he did not hurl his opponents down and go his way; he would convince them, and so they were always ready to encounter him. And as the applause of his friends rejoiced him, so the opposition of his enemies could sink him in deep dejection. Besides, he had always been weakly; he had, as he himself complained, in addition to frequent coughs and a pain in his loins, a continual gnawing and pressure in the centre of his chest, which accompanied him from his first rising in the morning until he slept at night. Thus he sat for a while, in deep dejection: and, as often before, his only wish was, that God would give him grace whereby when his hour was come, he might die piously and tranquilly. It was past midnight when he sought his bed and extinguished his light. And the buckets at the well go up and go down. About the same hour, in Duben Forest, the rustic Christopher was rising from his bed. As with steel and flint he scattered sparks upon the tinder, in kindling himself a light, his wife, awakening, cried: "Why that heavy sigh?" "Ah! life is a burden: I'm the most harassed mortal in the world. The pettiest office-clerk may now be abed in peace, and needn't break off his sleep, while I must go out and brave wind and weather." "Be content," replied his wife: "why, I dreamt you had actually been made magistrate, and wore something on your head like a king's crown." "Oh! you women; as though what you see isn't enough, you like to chatter about what you dream." "Light the lamp, too," said his wife, "and I'll get up and make you a nice porridge." The peasant, putting a candle in his lantern, went to the stable; and after he had given some fodder to the horses, he seated himself upon the manger. With his hands squeezed between his knees and his head bent down, he reflected over and over again what a wretched existence he had of it. "Why," thought he, "are so many men so well-off, so comfortable, whilst you must be always toiling? What care I if envy be not a virtue?--and yet I'm not envious, I don't grudge others being well-off, only I should like to be well-off too; oh, for a quiet, easy life! Am I not worse off than a horse? He gets his fodder at the proper time, and takes no care about it. Why did my father make my brother a minister? He gets his salary without any trouble, sits in a warm room, has no care in the world; and I must slave and torment myself." Strange to say, his very next thought, that he would like to be made local magistrate, he would in no wise confess to himself. He sat still a long while; then he went back again to the sitting-room, past the kitchen, where the fire was burning cheerily. He seated himself at the table and waited for his morning porridge. On the table lay an open book; his children had been reading it the previous evening: involuntarily taking it up, he began to read. Suddenly he started, rubbed his eyes, and then read again. How comes this verse here just at this moment? He kept his hand upon the book, and so easily had he caught the words, that he repeated them to himself softly with his lips, and nodded several times, as much as to say: "That's true!" And he said aloud: "It's all there together: short and sweet!" and he was still staring at it, when his wife brought in the smoking porridge. Taking off his cap, he folded his hands and said aloud: "Accept God's gifts with resignation, Content to lack what thou hast not: In every lot there's consolation; There's trouble, too, in every lot!" The wife looked at her husband with amazement. What a strange expression was upon his face! And as he sat down and began to eat, she said: "What is the meaning of that grace? What has to you? Where did you find it?" "It the best of all graces, the very best,--real God's word. Yes, and all your life you've never made such nice porridge before. You must have put something special in it!" "I don't know what you mean. Stop! There's the book lying there--ah! that's it--and it's by Gellert, of Leipzig." "What! Gellert, of Leipzig! Men with ideas like that don't live now; there may have been such, a thousand years ago, in holy lands, not among us; those are the words of a saint of old." "And I tell you they are by Gellert, of Leipzig, of whom your brother has told us; in fact, he was his tutor, and haven't you heard how pious and good he is?" "I wouldn't have believed that such men still lived, and so near us, too, as Leipzig." "Well, but those who lived a thousand years ago were also once living creatures: and over Leipzig is just the same heaven, and the same sun shines, and the same God rules, as over all other cities." "Oh! yes, my brother has an apt pupil in you!" "Well, and why not? I've treasured up all he told us of Professor Gellert." "Professor!" "Yes, Professor!" "A man with such a proud, new-fangled title couldn't write anything like that!" "He didn't give himself the title, and he is poor enough withal! and how hard it has fared with him! Even from childhood he has been well acquainted with poverty: his father was a poor minister in Haynichen, with thirteen children; Gellert, when quite a little fellow, was obliged to be a copying office-clerk: who can tell whether he didn't then contract that physical weakness of his? And now that he's an old man, things will never go better with him; he has often no wood, and must be pinched with cold. It is with him, perhaps, as with that student of whom your brother has told us, who is as poor as a rat, and yet must read; and so in winter he lies in bed with an empty stomach, until day is far advanced; and he has his book before him, and first he takes out one hand to hold his book, and then, when that is numb with cold, the other. Ah! tongue cannot tell how poorly the man must live; and yet your brother has told me, if he has but a few pounds, he doesn't think at all of himself; he always looks out for one still poorer than he is, and then gives all away: and he's always engaged in aiding and assisting others. Oh! dear, and yet he is so poor! May be at this moment he is hungry and cold; and he is said to be in ill-health, besides." "Wife, I would willingly do the man a good turn if I could. If, now, he had some land, I could plough, and sow, and reap, and carry, and thresh by the week together for him. I should like to pay him attention in such a way that he might know there was at least one who cared for him. But his profession is one in which I can't be of any use to him." "Well, just seek him out and speak with him once; you are going to-day, you know, with your wood to Leipzig. Seek him out and thank him; that sort of thing does such a man's heart good. Anybody can see him." "Yes, yes; I should like much to see him, and hold out to him my hand,--but not empty: I wish I had something!" "Speak to your brother, and get him to give you a note to him." "No, no; say nothing to my brother; but it might be possible for me to meet him in the street. Give me my Sunday coat; it will come to no harm under my cloak." When his wife brought him the coat, she said: "If, now, Gellert had a wife, or a household of his own, one might send him something; but your brother says he is a bachelor, and lives quite alone." Christopher had never before so cheerfully harnessed his horses and put them to his wood-laden wagon; for a long while he had not given his hand so gayly to his wife at parting as to-day. Now he started with his heavily-laden vehicle through the village; the wheels creaked and crackled in the snow. At the parsonage he stopped, and looked away yonder where his brother was still sleeping; he thought he would wake him and tell him his intention: but suddenly he whipped up his horses, and continued his route. He wouldn't yet bind himself to his intention--perchance it was but a passing thought; he doesn't own that to himself, but he says to himself that he will surprise his brother with the news of what he has done; and then his thoughts wandered away to the good man still sleeping yonder in the city; and he hummed the verse to himself in an old familiar tune. Wonderfully in life do effects manifest themselves, of which we have no trace. Gellert, too, heard in his dreams a singing; he knew not what it was, but it rang so consolingly, so joyously! ... Christopher drove on, and he felt as though a bandage had been taken from his eyes; he reflected what a nice house, what a bonny wife and rosy children he had, and how warm the cloak which he had thrown over him was, and how well off were both man and beast; and through the still night he drove along, and beside him sat a spirit; but not an illusion of the brain, such as in olden time men conjured up to their terror, a good spirit sat beside him--beside the woodman who his whole life long had never believed that anything could have power over him but what had hands and feet. It is said that, on troublous nights, evil spirits settle upon the necks of men, and belabor them so that they gasp and sweat for very terror; quite another sort it was to-day which sat by the woodman: and his heart was warm, and its beating quick. In ancient times, men also carried loads of wood through the night, that heretics might be burned thereon: these men thought they were doing a good deed in helping to execute justice; and who can say how painful it was to their hearts, when they were forced to think: To-morrow, on this wood which now you carry, will shriek, and crackle, and gasp, a human being like yourself? Who can tell what black spirits settled on the necks of those who bore the wood to make the funeral-pile? How very different was it to-day with our woodman Christopher! And earlier still, in ancient times, men brought wood to the temple, whereon they offered victims in the honor of God; and, according to their notions, they did a good deed: for when words can no longer suffice to express the fervency of the heart, it gladly offers what it prizes, what it dearly loves, as a proof of its devotion, of the earnestness of its intent. How differently went Christopher from the Duben Forest upon his way! He knew not whether he were intending to bring a purer offering than men had brought in bygone ages; but his heart grew warm within him. It was day as he arrived before the gates of Leipzig. Here there met him a funeral-procession; behind the bier the scholars of St. Thomas, in long black cloaks, were chanting. Christopher stopped and raised his hat. Whom were they burying? Supposing it were Gellert.--Yes, surely, he thought, it is he: and how gladly, said he to himself, would you now have done him a kindness--ay, even given him your wood! Yes, indeed you would, and now he is dead, and you cannot give him any help! As soon as the train had passed, Christopher asked who was being buried. It was a simple burgher, it was not Gellert; and in the deep breath which Christopher drew lay a double signification: on the one hand, was joy that Gellert was not dead; on the other, a still small voice whispered to him that he had now really promised to give him the wood: ah! but whom had he promised?--himself: and it is easy to argue with one's own conscience. Superstition babbles of conjuring-spells, by which, without the co-operation of the patient, the evil spirit can be summarily ejected. It would be convenient if one had that power, but, in truth, it is not so: it is long ere the evil desire and the evil habit are removed from the soul into which they have nestled; and the will, for a long while in bondage, must co-operate, if a releasing spell from without is to set the prisoner free. One can only be guided, but himself must move his feet. As Christopher now looked about him, he found that he had stopped close by an inn; he drove his load a little aside, went into the parlor, and drank a glass of warmed beer. There was already a goodly company, and not far from Christopher sat a husbandman with his son, a student here, who was telling him how there had been lately quite a stir. Professor Gellert had been ill, and riding a well-trained horse had been recommended for his health. Now Prince Henry of Prussia, during the Seven Years' War, at the occupation of Leipzig, had sent him a piebald, that had died a short time ago; and the Elector, hearing of it, had sent Gellert from Dresden another--a chestnut--with golden bridle, blue velvet saddle, and gold-embroidered housings. Half the city had assembled when the groom, a man with iron-gray hair, brought the horse; and for several days it was to be seen at the stable; but Gellert dared not mount it, it was so young and high-spirited. The rustic now asked his son whether the Professor did not make money enough to procure a horse of his own, to which the son answered: "Certainly not. His salary is but one hundred and twenty-five dollars, and his further gains are inconsiderable. His Lectures on Morals he gives publicly, i.e., gratis, and he has hundreds of hearers; and, therefore, at his own lectures, which must be paid for, he has so many the fewer. To be sure, he has now and then presents from grand patrons; but no one gives him, once and for all, enough to live upon, and to have all over with a single acknowledgment." Our friend Christopher started as he heard this; he had quite made up his mind to take Gellert the wood: but he had yet to do it. How easy were virtue, if will and deed were the same thing! if performance could immediately succeed to the moment off burning enthusiasm! But one must make way over obstacles; over those that outwardly lie in one's path, and over those that are hidden deep in the heart; and negligence has a thousand very cunning advocates. How many go forth, prompted by good intentions, but let little hindrances turn them from their way--entirely from their way of life! In front of the house Christopher met other woodmen whom he knew, and--"You are stirring betimes!" "Prices are good to-day!" "But little comes to the market now!" was the cry from all sides. Christopher wanted to say that all that didn't concern him, but he was ashamed to confess that his design was, and an inward voice told him he must not lie. Without answering he joined the rest, and wended his way to the market; and on the road he thought: "There are Peter, and Godfrey, and John, who have seven times your means, and not one of them, I'm sure, would think of doing anything of this kind; why will you be the kind-hearted fool? Stay! what matters it what others do or leave undone? Every man shall answer for himself. Yes, but go to market--it is better it should be so; yes, certainly, much better: sell your wood--who knows? perhaps he doesn't want it--and take him the proceeds, or at least the greater portion. But is the wood still yours? You have, properly speaking, already given it away; it has only not been taken from your keeping...." There are people who cannot give; they can only let a thing be taken either by the hand of chance, or by urgency and entreaty. Christopher had such fast hold of possession, that it was only after sore wrestling that he let go; and yet his heart was kind, at least to-day it was so disposed, but the tempter whispered: "It is not easy to find so good-natured a fellow as you. How readily would you have given, had the man been in want, and your good intention must go for the deed." Still, on the other hand, there was something in him which made opposition,--an echo from those hours, when, in the still night, he was driving hither,--and it burned in him like sacred fire, and it said, "You must now accomplish what you intended. Certainly no one knows of it, and you are responsible to no one; but you know of it yourself, and One above you knows, and how shall you be justified?" And he said to himself, "I'll stand by this: look, it is just nine; if no one ask the price of your wood until ten o'clock, until the stroke of ten,--until it has done striking, I mean; if no one ask, then the wood belongs to Professor Gellert: but if a buyer come, then it is a sign that you need not--should not give it away. There, that's all settled. But how? what means this? Can you make your good deed dependent on such a chance as this? No, no; I don't mean it. But yet--yet--only for a joke, I'll try it." Temptation kept him turning as it were in a circle, and still he stood with an apparently quiet heart by his wagon in the market. The people who heard him muttering in this way to himself looked at him with wonder, and passed by him to another wagon, as though he had not been there. It struck nine. Can you wait patiently another hour? Christopher lighted his pipe, and looked calmly on, while this and that load was driven off. It struck the quarter, half-hour, three-quarters. Christopher now put his pipe in his pocket; it had long been cold, and his hands were almost frozen; all his blood had rushed to his heart. Now it struck the full hour, stroke after stroke. At first he counted; then he fancied he had lost a stroke and miscalculated. Either voluntarily or involuntarily, he said to himself, when it had finished striking, "You're wrong; it is nine, not ten." He turned round that he might not see the dial, and thus he stood for some time, with his hands upon the wagon-rack, gazing at the wood. He knew not how long he had been thus standing, when some one tapped him on the shoulder, and said, "How much for the load of wood?" Christopher turned round: there was an odd look of irresolution in his eyes as he said: "Eh? eh? what time is it?" "Half-past ten." "Then the wood is now no longer mine--at least to sell:" and, collecting himself, he became suddenly warm, and with firm hand turned his horses round, and begged the woodmen who accompanied him to point him out the way to the house with the "Schwarz Brett," Dr. Junius's. There he delivered a full load: at each log he took out of the wagon he smiled oddly. The wood-measurer measured the wood carefully, turning each log and placing it exactly, that there might not be a crevice anywhere. "Why are you so over-particular to-day, pray?" asked Christopher, and he received for answer: "Professor Gellert must have a fair load; every shaving kept back from him were a sin." Christopher laughed aloud, and the wood-measurer looked at him with amazement; for such particularity generally provoked a quarrel. Christopher had still some logs over; these he kept by him on the wagon. At this moment the servant Sauer came up, and asked to whom the wood belonged. "To Professor Gellert," answered Christopher. "The man's mad! it isn't true. Professor Gellert has not bought any wood; it is my business to look after that." "He has not bought it, and yet it is his!" cried Christopher. Sauer was on the point of giving the mad peasant a hearty scolding, raising his voice so much the louder, as it was striking eleven by St. Nicholas. At this moment, however, he became suddenly mute; for yonder from the University there came, with tired gait, a man of a noble countenance: at every step he made, on this side and on that, off came the hats and the caps of the passers-by, and Sauer simply called out, "There comes the Professor himself." What a peculiar expression passed over Christopher's face! He looked at the new-comer, and so earnest was his gaze, that Gellert, who always walked with his head bowed, suddenly looked up. Christopher said: "Mr. Gellert, I am glad to see you still alive." "I thank you," said Gellert, and made as though he would pass on; but Christopher stepped up closer to him, and, stretching out his hand to him, said: "I have taken the liberty--I should like--will you give me your hand, Mr. Gellert?" Gellert drew his long thin hand out of his muff and placed it in the hard oaken-like hand of the peasant; and at this moment, when the peasant's hand lay in the scholar's palm, as one felt the other's pressure in actual living grasp, there took place, though the mortal actors in the scene were all unconscious of it, a renewal of that healthy life which alone can make a people one. How long had the learned world, wrapped up in itself, separated from the fellow-men around, thought in Latin, felt as foreigners, and lived buried in contemplation of bygone worlds! From the time of Gellert commences the ever-increasing unity of good-fellowship throughout all classes of life, kept up by mutual giving and receiving. As the scholar--as the solitary poet endeavors to work upon others by lays that quicken and songs that incite, so he in his turn is a debtor to his age, and the lonely thinking and writing become the property of all; but the effects are not seen in a moment; for higher than the most highly gifted spirit of any single man is the spirit of a nation. With the pressure which Gellert and the peasant exchanged commenced a mighty change in universal life, which never more can cease to act. "Permit me to enter your room?" said Christopher, and Gellert nodded assent. He was so courteous that he motioned to the peasant to enter first; however, Sauer went close after him: he thought it must be a madman; he must protect his master; the man looked just as if he were drunk. Gellert, with his amanuensis, Godike, followed them. Gellert, however, felt that the man must be actuated by pure motives: he bade the others retire, and took Christopher alone into his study; and, as he clasped his left with his own right hand, he asked: "Well, my good friend, what is your business?" "Eh? oh! nothing--I've only brought you a load of wood there--a fair, full load; however, I'll give you the few logs which I have in my wagon, as well." "My good man, my servant Sauer looks after buying my wood." "It is no question of buying. No, my dear sir, I give it to you." "Give it to me? Why me particularly?" "Oh! sir, you do not know at all what good you do, what good you have done me; and my wife was right; why should there not be really pious men in our day too? Surely the sun still shines as he shone thousands of years ago; all is now the same as then; and the God of old is still living." "Certainly, certainly; I am glad to see you so pious." "Ah! believe me, dear sir, I am not always so pious; and that I am so disposed today is owing to you. We have no more confessionals now, but I can confess to you: and you have taken a heavier load from my heart than a wagon-load of wood. Oh! sir, I am not what I was. In my early days I was a high-spirited, merry lad, and out in the field, and indoors in the inn and the spinning-room, there was none who could sing against me; but that is long past. What has a man on whose head the grave-blossoms are growing," and he pointed to his gray head, "to do with all that trash? And besides, the Seven Years' War has put a stop to all our singing. But last night, in the midst of the fearful cold, I sang a lay set expressly for me--all old tunes go to it: and it seemed to me as though I saw a sign-post which pointed I know not whither--or, nay, I do know whither." And now the peasant related how discontented and unhappy in mind he had been, and how the words in the lay had all at once raised his spirits and accompanied him upon the journey, like a good fellow who talks to one cheerfully. At this part of the peasant's tale Gellert folded his hands in silence, and the peasant concluded: "How I always envied others, I cannot now think why; but you I do envy, sir: I should like to be as you." And Gellert answered: "I thank God, and rejoice greatly that my writings have been of service to you. Think not so well of me. Would God I were really the good man I appear in your eyes! I am far from being such as I should, such as I would fain be. I write my books for my own improvement also, to show myself as well as others what manner of men we should be." Laughing, the peasant replied: "You put me in mind of the story my poor mother used to tell of the old minister; he stood up once in the pulpit and said: 'My dear friends, I speak not only for you, but for myself also; I, too, have need of it.'" Christopher laughed outrageously when he had finished, and Gellert smiled, and said: "Yes, whoever in the darkness lighteth another with a lamp, lighteth himself also; and the light is not part of ourselves,--it is put into our hands by Him who hath appointed the suns their courses." The peasant stood speechless, and looked upon the ground: there was something within him which took away the power of looking up; he was only conscious that it ill became him to laugh so loudly just now, when he told the story of the old minister. A longer pause ensued, and Gellert seemed to be lost in reflection upon this reference to a minister's work, for he said half to himself: "Oh! how would it fulfil my dearest wish to be a village-pastor! To move about among my people, and really be one with them; the friend of their souls my whole life long, never to lose them out of my sight! Yonder goes one whom I have led into the right way; there another, with whom I still wrestle, but whom I shall assuredly save; and in them all the teaching lives which God proclaims by me. Did I not think that I should be acting against my duty, I would this moment choose a country life for the remnant of my days. When I look from my window over the country, I have before me the broad sky, of which we citizens know but little, a scene entirely new; there I stand and lose myself for half an hour in gazing and in thinking. Yes, good friend, envy no man in the rank of scholars. Look at me; I am almost always ill; and what a burden is a sickly body! How strong, on the contrary, are you! I am never happier than when, without being remarked, I can watch a dinner-table thronged by hungry men and maids. Even if these folks be not generally so happy as their superiors, at table they are certainly happier." "Yes, sir; we relish our eating and drinking. And, lately, when felling and sorting that wood below, I was more than usually lively; it seems as though I had a notion I was to do some good with it." "And must I permit you to make me a present?" asked Gellert, resting his chin upon his left hand. The peasant answered: "It is not worth talking about." "Nay, it might be well worth talking about; but I accept your present. It is pride not to be ready to accept a gift. Is not all we have a gift from God? And what one man gives another, he gives, as is most appropriately said, for God's sake. Were I your minister, I should be pleased to accept a present from you. You see, good friend, we men have no occasion to thank each other. You have given me nothing of yours, and I have given you nothing of mine. That the trees grow in the forest is none of your doing, it is the work of the Creator and Preserver of the world; and the soil is not yours; and the sun and the rain are not yours; they all are the works of His hand; and if, perchance, I have some healthy thoughts rising up in my soul, which benefit my fellow-men, it is none of mine, it is His doing. The word is not mine, and the spirit is not mine; and I am but an instrument in His hand. Therefore one man needs not to utter words of thanks to his fellow, if every one would but acknowledge who it really is that gives." The peasant looked up in astonishment. Gellert remarked it, and said: "Understand me aright. I thank you from my heart; you have done a kind action. But that the trees grow is none of yours, and it is none of mine that thoughts arise in me; every one simply tills his field, and tends his woodland, and the honest, assiduous toil he gives thereto is his virtue. That you felled, loaded, and brought the wood, and wish no recompense for your labor, is very thank-worthy. My wood was more easily felled; but those still nights which I and all of my calling pass in heavy thought--who can tell what toil there is in them? There is in the world an adjustment which no one sees, and which but seldom discovers itself; and this and that shift thither and hither, and the scales of the balance become even, and then ceases all distinction between 'mine' and 'thine,' and in the still forest rings an axe for me, and in the silent night my spirit thinks and my pen writes for you." The peasant passed both his hands over his temples, and his look was as though he said to himself, "Where are you? Are you still in the world? Is it a mortal man who speaks to you? Are you in Leipzig, in that populous city where men jostle one another for gain and bare existence?" Below might be heard the creaking of the saw as the wood was being sundered: and now the near horse neighs, and Christopher is in the world again. "It may injure the horse to stand so long in the cold; and no money for the wood! but perhaps a sick horse to take home into the bargain; that would be too much," he thought. "Yes, yes, Mr. Professor," said he--he had his hat under his arm, and was rubbing his hands--"yes, I am delighted with what I have done; and I value the lesson, believe me, more than ten loads of wood: and never shall I forget you to my dying day. And though I see you are not so poor as I had imagined, still I don't regret it. Oh! no, certainly not at all." "Eh! did you think me so very poor, then?" "Yes, miserably poor." "I have always been poor, but God has never suffered me to be a single day without necessaries. I have in the world much happiness which I have not deserved, and much unhappiness I have not, which perchance I have deserved. I have found much favor with both high and low, for which I cannot sufficiently thank God. And now tell me, cannot I give you something, or obtain something for you? You are a local magistrate, I presume?" "Why so?" "You look like it: you might be." Christopher had taken his hat into his hands, and was crumpling it up now; he half closed his eyes, and with a sly, inquiring glance, he peered at Gellert. Suddenly, however, the expression of his face changed, and the muscles quivered, as he said: "Sir, what a man are you! How you can dive into the recesses of one's heart! I have really pined night and day, and been cross with the whole world, because I could not be magistrate, and you, sir, you have actually helped to overcome that in me. Oh! sir, as soon as I read that verse in your book, I had an idea, and now I see still more plainly that you must be a man of God, who can pluck the heart from one's bosom, and turn it round and round. I had thought I could never have another moment's happiness, if my neighbor, Hans Gottlieb, should be magistrate: and with that verse of yours, it has been with me as when one calms the blood with a magic spell." "Well, my good friend, I am rejoiced to hear it: believe me, every one has in himself alone a whole host to govern. What can so strongly urge men to wish to govern others? What can it profit you to be local magistrate, when to accomplish your object you must perhaps do something wrong? What were the fame, not only of a village, but even of the whole world, if you could have no self-respect? Let it suffice for you to perform your daily duties with uprightness; let your joys be centred in your wife and children, and you will be happy. What need you more? Think not that honor and station would make you happy. Rejoice, and again I say, rejoice: 'A contented spirit is a continual feast.' I often whisper this to myself, when I feel disposed to give way to dejection: and although misery be not our fault, yet lack of endurance and of patience in misery is undoubtedly our fault." "I would my wife were here too, that she also might hear this; I grudge myself the hearing of it all alone; I cannot remember it all properly, and yet I should like to tell it to her word for word. Who would have thought that, by standing upon a load of wood, one could get a peep into heaven!" Gellert in silence bowed his head; and afterwards he said: "Yes, rejoice in your deed, as I do in your gift. Your wood is sacrificial-wood. In olden time--and it was right in principle, because man could not yet offer prayer and thanks in spirit--it was a custom and ordinance to bring something from one's possessions, as a proof of devotion: this was a sacrifice. And the more important the gift to be given, or the request to be granted, the more costly was the sacrifice. Our God will have no victims; but whatsoever you do unto one of the least of His, you do unto Him. Such are our sacrifices. My dear friend, from my heart I thank you; for you have done me a kindness, in that you have given me a real, undeniable proof, that my words have penetrated your heart, and that I do not live on for nothing: and treasure it up in your heart, that you have caused real joy to one who is often, very often, weighed down with heaviness and sorrow. You have not only kindled bright tapers upon my Christmas-tree, but the tree itself burns, gives light, and warms: the bush burns, and is not consumed, which is an image of the presence of the Holy Spirit, and its admonition to trust in the Most High in this wilderness of life, in mourning and in woe. Oh! my dear friend, I have been nigh unto death. What a solemn, quaking stride is the stride into eternity! What a difference between ideas of death in the days of health, and on the brink of the grave! And how shall I show myself worthy of longer life? By learning better to die. And, mark, when I sit here in solitude pursuing my thoughts, keeping some and driving away others, then I can think, that in distant valleys, upon distant mountains, there are living men who carry my thoughts within their hearts; and for them I live, and they are near and dear to me, till one day we shall meet where there is no more parting, no more separation. Peasant and scholar, let us abide as we are. Give me your hand--farewell!" And once again, the soft and the hard hand were clasped together, and Christopher really trembled as Gellert laid his hand upon his shoulder. They shook hands, and therewith something touched the heart of each more impressively, more completely, than ever words could touch it. Christopher got downstairs without knowing how: below, he threw down the extra logs of wood, which he had kept back, with a clatter from the wagon, and then drove briskly from the city. Not till he arrived at Lindenthal did he allow himself and his horses rest or food. He had driven away empty: he had nothing on his wagon, nothing in his purse; and yet who can tell what treasures he took home; and who can tell what inextinguishable fire he left behind him yonder, by that lonely scholar! Gellert, who usually dined at his brother's, today had dinner brought into his own room, remained quite alone, and did not go out again: he had experienced quite enough excitement, and society he had in his own thoughts. Oh! to find that there are open, susceptible hearts, is a blessing to him that writes in solitude, and is as wondrous to him as though he dipped his pen in streams of sunshine, and as if all he wrote were Light. The raindrop which falls from the cloud cannot tell upon what plant it drops: there is a quickening power in it, but for what? And a thought which finds expression from a human heart; an action, nay, a whole life is like the raindrop falling from the cloud: the whole period of a life endures no longer than the raindrop needs for falling. And as for knowing where your life is continued, how your work proceeds, you cannot attain to that. And in the night all was still around: nothing was astir; the whole earth was simple rest, as Gellert sat in his room by his lonely lamp; his hand lay upon an open book, and his eyes were fixed upon the empty air; and on a sudden came once more upon him that melancholy gloom, which so easily resumes its place after more than usual excitement. It is as though the soul, suddenly elevated above all, must still remember the heaviness it but now experienced, though that expresses itself as tears of joy in the eye. In Gellert, however, this melancholy had a more peculiar phase: a sort of timidity had rooted itself in him, connected with his weak chest, and that secret gnawing pain in his head; it was a fearfulness which his manner of life only tended to increase. Surrounded though he was by nothing but love and admiration in the world, he could not divest himself of the fear that all which is most horrible and terrible would burst suddenly upon him: and so he gazed fixedly before him. He passed his hand over his face, and with an effort concentrated his looks and thoughts upon surrounding objects, saying to himself almost aloud: "How comforting is light! Were there no light from without to illumine objects for us, we should perish in gloom, in the shadows of night. And light is a gentle friend that watches by us, and, when we are sunk in sorrow, points out to us that the world is still here, that it calls, and beckons us, and requires of us duty and cheerfulness. 'You must not be lost in self,' it says, 'see! the world is still here:' and a friend beside us is as a light which illumines surrounding objects; we cannot forget them, we must see them and mingle with them. How hard is life, and how little I accomplish! I would fain awaken the whole world to goodness and to love; but my voice is weak, my strength is insufficient: how insignificant is all I do!" And now he rose up and strode across the room; and he stood at the hearth where the fire was burning, made of wood given to him that very day, and his thoughts reverted to the man who had given it. Why had he not asked his name, and where he came from? Perchance he might have been able in thought to follow him all the way, as he drove home; and now ... but yet 'tis more, 'tis better as it is: it is not an individual, it is not So-and-so, who has shown his gratitude, but all the world by the mouth of one. "The kindnesses I receive," he thought, "are indeed trials; but yet I ought to accept them with thanks. I will try henceforth to be a benefactor to others as others are to me, without display, and with grateful thanks to God, our highest Benefactor: this will I do, and search no further for the why and for the wherefore." And once more a voice spoke within him, and he stood erect, and raised his arms on high. "Who knows," he thought, "whether at this moment I have not been in this or that place, to this or that man, a brother, a friend, a comforter, a saviour; and from house to house, may be, my spirit travels, awakening, enlivening, refreshing--yonder in the attic, where burns a solitary light; and afar in some village a mother is sitting by her child, and hearing him repeat the thoughts I have arranged in verse; and peradventure some solitary old man, who is waiting for death, is now sitting by his fireside, and his lips are uttering my words." "And yonder in the church, the choir is chanting a hymn of yours; could you have written this hymn without its vigor in your heart? Oh! no, it MUST be there." And with trembling he thought: "There is nothing so small as to have no place in the government of God! Should you not then believe that He suffered this day's incident to happen for your joy? Oh! were it so, what happiness were yours! A heart renewed." ... He moved to the window, looked up to heaven, and prayed inwardly: "My soul is with my brothers and my sisters: nay, it is with Thee, my God, and in humility I acknowledge how richly Thou hast blessed me. And if, in the kingdom of the world to come, a soul should cry to me: 'Thou didst guide and cheer me on to happiness eternal!' all hail! my friend, my benefactor, my glory in the presence of God. ... In these thoughts let me die, and pardon me my weakness and my sins!" "And the evening and morning were the first day." At early morning, Gellert was sitting at his table, and reading according to his invariable custom, first of all in the Bible. He never left the Bible open--he always shut it with a peaceful, devotional air, after he had read therein: there was something grateful as well as reverential in his manner of closing the volume; the holy words should not lie uncovered. To-day, however, the Bible was lying open when he rose. His eye fell upon the history of the creation, and at the words, "And the evening and the morning were the first day," he leaned back his head against the arm-chair, and kept his hand upon the book, as though he would grasp with his hand also the lofty thought, how night and day were divided. For a long while he sat thus, and he was wondrously bright in spirit, and a soft reminiscence dawned upon him; of a bright day in childhood, when he had been so happy, and in Haynichen, his native place, had gone out with his father for a walk. An inward warmth roused his heart to quicker pulsation; and suddenly he started and looked about him: he had been humming a tune. Up from the street came the busy sound of Jay: at other times how insufferable he had found it! and now how joyous it seemed that men should bestir themselves, and turn to all sorts of occupations! There was a sound of crumbling snow: and how nice to have a house and a blaze upon the hearth! "And the evening and the morning were the first day!" And man getteth himself a light in the darkness: but how long, O man! could you make it endure? What could you do with your artificial light, if God did not cause His sun to shine? Without it grows no grass, no corn. On the hand lying upon the book there fell a bright sunbeam. How soon, at other times, would Gellert have drawn the defensive curtain! Now he watches the little motes that play about in the sunbeam. The servant brought coffee, and the amanuensis, Godike, asked if there were anything to do. Generally, Gellert scarce lifted his head from his books, hastily acknowledging the attention and reading on in silence; to-day, he motioned to Godike to stay, and said to Sauer, "Another cup: Mr. Godike will take coffee with me. God has given me a day of rejoicing." Sauer brought the cup, and Gellert said: "Yes, God has given me a day of rejoicing, and what I am most thankful for is, that He has granted me strength to thank Him with all my heart: not so entirely, however, as I should like." "Thank God, Mr. Professor, that you are once more in health, and cheerful: and permit me, Mr. Professor, to tell you that I was myself also ill a short time ago, and I then learned a lesson which I shall never forget. Who is most grateful? The convalescent. He learns to love God and His beautiful world anew; he is grateful for everything, and delighted with everything. What a flavor has his first cup of coffee! How he enjoys his first walk outside the house, outside the gate! The houses, the trees, all give us greeting: all is again in us full of health and joy!" So said Godike, and Gellert rejoined: "You are a good creature, and have just spoken good words. Certainly, the convalescent is the most grateful. We are, however, for the most part, sick in spirit, and have not strength to recover: and a sickly, stricken spirit is the heaviest pain." Long time the two sat quietly together: it struck eight. Gellert started up, and cried irritably: "There, now, you have allowed me to forget that I must be on my way to the University." "The vacation has begun: Mr. Professor has no lecture to-day." "No lecture to-day? Ah! and I believe today is just the time when I could have told my young friends something that would have benefited them for their whole lives." There was a shuffling of many feet outside the door: the door opened, and several boys from St Thomas' School-choir advanced and sang to Gellert some of his own hymns; and as they chanted the verse-- "And haply there--oh! grant it, Heaven! Some blessed saint will greet me too; 'All hail! all hail! to you was given To save my life and soul, to you!' O God! my God! what joy to be The winner of a soul to thee!" Gellert wept aloud, folded his hands, and raised his eyes to heaven. A happier Christmas than that of 1768 had Gellert never seen; and it was his last. Scarcely a year after, on the 13th of December, 1769, Gellert died a pious, tranquil death, such as he had ever coveted. As the long train which followed his bier moved to the churchyard of St. John's, Leipzig, a peasant with his wife and children in holiday clothes entered among the last. It was Christopher with his family. The whole way he had been silent: and whilst his wife wept passionately at the pastor's touching address, it was only by the working of his features that Christopher showed how deeply moved he was. But on the way home he said: "I am glad I did him a kindness in his lifetime; it would now be too late." The summer after, when he built a new house, he had this verse placed upon it as an inscription: "Accept God's gifts with resignation, Content to lack what thou hast not: In every lot there's consolation; There's trouble, too, in every lot." A GHETTO VIOLET BY LEOPOLD KOMPERT From "Christian and Leah." Translated by A.S. Arnold. Through the open window came the clear trill of a canary singing blithely in its cage. Within the tidy, homely little room a pale-faced girl and a youth of slender frame listened intently while the bird sang its song. The girl was the first to break the silence. "Ephraim, my brother!" she said. "What is it, dear Viola?" "I wonder does the birdie know that it is the Sabbath to-day?" "What a child you are!" answered Ephraim. "Yes, that's always the way; when you clever men can't explain a thing, you simply dismiss the question by calling it childish," Viola exclaimed, as though quite angry. "And, pray, why shouldn't the bird know? The whole week it scarcely sang a note: to-day it warbles and warbles so that it makes my head ache. And what's the reason? Every Sabbath it's just the same, I notice it regularly. Shall I tell you what my idea is? "The whole week long the little bird looks into our room and sees nothing but the humdrum of work-a-day life. To-day it sees the bright rays of the Sabbath lamp and the white Sabbath cloth upon the table. Don't you think I'm right, Ephraim?" "Wait, dear Viola," said Ephraim, and he went to the cage. The bird's song suddenly ceased. "Now you've spoilt its Sabbath!" cried the girl, and she was so excited that the book which had been lying upon her lap fell to the ground. Ephraim turned towards her; he looked at her solemnly, and said quietly: "Pick up your prayer-book first, and then I'll answer. A holy book should not be on the ground like that. Had our mother dropped her prayer-book, she would have kissed it ... Kiss it, Viola, my child!" Viola did so. "And now I'll tell you, dear Viola, what I think is the reason why the bird sings so blithely to-day ... Of course, I don't say I'm right." Viola's brown eyes were fixed inquiringly upon her brother's face. "How seriously you talk to-day," she said, making a feeble attempt at a smile. "I was only joking. Mustn't I ask if the bird knows anything about the Sabbath?" "There are subjects it is sinful to joke about, and this may be one of them, Viola." "You really quite frighten me, Ephraim." "You little goose, I don't want to frighten you," said Ephraim, while a faint flush suffused his features. "I'll tell you my opinion about the singing of the bird. I think, dear Viola, that our little canary knows ... that before long it will change its quarters." "You're surely not going to sell it or give it away?" cried the girl, in great alarm; and springing to her feet, she quickly drew her brother away from the cage. "No, I'm not going to sell it nor give it away," said Ephraim, whose quiet bearing contrasted strongly with his sister's excitement. "Is it likely that I should do anything that would give you pain? And yet, I have but to say one word ... and I'll wager that you will be the first to open the cage and say to the bird, 'Fly, fly away, birdie, fly away home!'" "Never, never!" cried the girl. "Viola," said Ephraim beseechingly, "I have taken a vow. Surely you would not have me break it?" "A vow?" asked his sister. "Viola," Ephraim continued, as he bent his head down to the girl's face, "I have vowed to myself that whenever he ... our father ... should return, I would give our little bird its freedom. It shall be free, free as he will be." "Ephraim!" "He is coming--he is already on his way home." Viola flung her arms round her brother's neck. For a long time brother and sister remained locked in a close embrace. Meanwhile the bird resumed its jubilant song. "Do you hear how it sings again?" said Ephraim; and he gently stroked his sister's hair. "It knows that it will soon be free." "A father out of jail!" sobbed Viola, as she released herself from her brother's arms. "He has had his punishment, dear Viola!" said Ephraim softly. Viola turned away. There was a painful silence, and then she looked up at her brother again. Her face was aglow, her eyes sparkled with a strange fire; she was trembling with agitation. Never before had Ephraim seen her thus. "Ephraim, my brother," she commenced, in that measured monotone so peculiar to intense emotion, "with the bird you can do as you please. You can set it free, or, if you like, you can wring its neck. But as for him, I'll never look in his face again, from me he shall not have a word of welcome. He broke our mother's heart ... our good, good mother; he has dishonored himself and us. And I can never forget it." "Is it right for a child to talk like that of her own father?" said Ephraim in a tremulous voice. "When a child has good cause to be ashamed of her own father!" cried Viola. "Oh, my Viola, you must have forgotten dear mother's dying words. Don't you remember, as she opened her eyes for the last time, how she gathered up her failing strength, and raising herself in her bed, 'Children,' she said, 'my memory will protect you both, yea, and your father too.' Viola, have you forgotten?" Had you entered that little room an hour later, a touching sight would have met your eyes. Viola was seated on her brother's knee, her arms round his neck, whilst Ephraim with the gentle love of a brother for a younger sister, was stroking her hair, and whispering in her ear sweet words of solace. The bird-cage was empty. ... That evening Ephraim sat up till midnight. Outside in the Ghetto reigned the stillness of night. All at once Ephraim rose from his chair, walked to the old bureau which stood near the door, opened it, and took from it a bulky volume, which he laid upon the table in front of him. But he did not seem at all bent upon reading. He began fingering the pages, until he came upon a bundle of bank-notes, and these he proceeded to count, with a whispering movement of his lips. He had but three or four more notes still to count, when his sharp ear detected the sound of stealthy footsteps, in the little courtyard in front of the house. Closing the book, and hastily putting it back again in the old bureau, Ephraim sprang to the window and opened it. "Is that you, father?" he cried. There was no answer. Ephraim repeated his question. He strained his eyes, peering into the dense darkness, but no living thing could he see. Then quite close to him a voice cried: "Make no noise ... and first put out the light." "Heavens! Father, it is you then...!" Ephraim exclaimed. "Hush!" came in a whisper from without, "first put out the light." Ephraim closed the window, and extinguished the light. Then, with almost inaudible step, he walked out of the room into the dark passage; noiselessly he proceeded to unbolt the street-door. Almost at the same moment a heavy hand clasped his own. "Father, father!" Ephraim cried, trying to raise his parent's hand to his lips. "Make no noise," the man repeated, in a somewhat commanding tone. With his father's hand in his, cautiously feeling his way, Ephraim led him into the room. In the room adjoining lay Viola, sleeping peacefully. ... Time was when "Wild" Ascher's welcome home had been far otherwise. Eighteen years before, upon that very threshold which he now crossed with halting, stealthy steps, as of a thief in the night, stood a fair and loving wife, holding a sturdy lad aloft in her arms, so that the father might at once see, as he turned the street corner, that wife and child were well and happy. Not another Ghetto in all Bohemia could show a handsomer and happier couple than Ascher and his wife. "Wild" Ascher was one of those intrepid, venturesome spirits, to whom no obstacle is so great that it cannot be surmounted. And the success which crowned his long, persistent wooing was often cited as striking testimony to his indomitable will. Gudule was famous throughout the Ghetto as "the girl with the wonderful eyes," eyes--so the saying ran--into which no man could look and think of evil. During the earlier years of their married life those unfathomable brown eyes exercised on Ascher the full power of their fascination. A time came, however, when he alleged that those very eyes had been the cause of all his ruin. Gudule's birthplace was far removed from the Ghetto, where Ascher had first seen the light. Her father was a wealthy farmer in a secluded village in Lower Bohemia. But distant though it was from the nearest town of any importance, the solitary grange became the centre of attraction to all the young swains far and near. But there was none who found favor in Gudule's eyes save "Wild Ascher," in spite of many a friendly warning to beware of him. One day, just before the betrothal of the young people, an anonymous letter was delivered at the grange. The writer, who called himself an old friend, entreated the farmer to prevent his dear child from becoming the wife of one who was suspected of being a gambler. The farmer was of an easy-going, indulgent nature, shunning care and anxiety as a very plague. Accordingly, no sooner had he read the anonymous missive than he handed it to his daughter, as though its contents were no concern of his. When Gudule had read the letter to the end, she merely remarked: "Father, this concerns me, and nobody else." And so the matter dropped. Not until the wedding-day, half an hour before the ceremony, when the marriage canopy had already been erected in the courtyard, did the farmer sum up courage to revert to the warning of the unknown letter-writer. Taking his future son-in-law aside, he said: "Ascher, is it true that you gamble?" "Father," Ascher answered with equal firmness, "Gudule's eyes will save me!" Ascher had uttered no untruth when he gave his father-in-law this assurance. He spoke in all earnestness, for like every one else he knew the magnetic power of Gudule's eyes. Nowhere, probably, does the grim, consuming pestilence of gaming claim more victims than in the Ghetto. The ravages of drink and debauchery are slight indeed; but the tortuous streets can show too many a humble home haunted by the spectres of ruin and misery which stalked across the threshold when the FIRST CARD GAME was played. It was with almost feverish anxiety that the eyes of the Ghetto were fixed upon the development of a character like Ascher's; they followed his every step with the closest attention. Long experience had taught the Ghetto that no gambler could be trusted. As though conscious that all eyes were upon him, Ascher showed himself most punctilious in the discharge of even the minutest of communal duties which devolved upon him as a denizen of the Ghetto, and his habits of life were almost ostentatiously regular and decorous. His business had prospered, and Gudule had borne him a son. "Well, Gudule, my child," the farmer asked his daughter on the day when his grandson was received into the covenant of Abraham,--"well, Gudule, was the letter right?" "What letter?" asked Gudule. "That in which your husband was called a gambler." "And can you still give a thought to such a letter?" was Gudule's significant reply. Three years later, Gudule's father came to visit her. This time she showed him his second grandchild, her little Viola. He kissed the children, and round little Viola's neck clasped three rows of pearls, "that the child may know it had a grandfather once." "And where are your pearls, Gudule?" he asked, "those left you by your mother,--may she rest in peace! She always set such store by them." "Those, father?" Gudule replied, turning pale; "oh, my husband has taken them to a goldsmith in Prague. They require a new clasp." "I see," remarked her father. Notwithstanding his limited powers of observation, it did not escape the old man's eyes that Gudule looked alarmingly wan and emaciated. He saw it, and it grieved his very soul. He said nothing however: only, when leaving, and after he had kissed the Mezuza [Footnote: Small cylinder inclosing a roll of parchment inscribed with the Hebrew word Shadai (Almighty) and with other texts, which is affixed to the lintel of every Jewish house.], he said to Gudule (who, with little Viola in her arms, went with him to the door), in a voice quivering with suppressed emotion: "Gudule, my child, the pearl necklet which I have given your little Viola has a clasp strong enough to last a hundred years ... you need never, therefore, give it to your husband to have a new clasp made for it." And without bestowing another glance upon his child the easy-going man left the house. It was his last visit. Within the year Gudule received a letter from her eldest brother telling her that their father was dead, and that she would have to keep the week of mourning for him. Ever since his last visit to her--her brother wrote--the old man had been somewhat ailing, but knowing his vigorous constitution, they had paid little heed to his complaints. It was only during the last few weeks that a marked loss of strength had been noticed. This was followed by fever and delirium. Whenever he was asked whether he would not like to see Gudule, his only answer was: "She must not give away the clasp of little Viola's necklet." And but an hour before his death, he raised his voice, and loudly called for "the letter." Nobody knew what letter. "Gudule knows where it is," he said, with a gentle shake of his head. Those were the last words he spoke. Had the old man's eyes deceived him on the occasion of his last visit to his son-in-law's house? No! For, setting aside the incident of the missing pearls, the whole Ghetto could long since have told him that the warning of the anonymous letter was not unfounded--for Gudule was the wife of a gambler. With the resistless impetuosity of a torrent released from its prison of ice and snow, the old invincible disease had again overwhelmed its victim. Gudule noticed the first signs of it when one day her husband returned home from one of his business journeys earlier than he had arranged. Gudule had not expected him. "Why did you not come to meet me with the children?" he cried peevishly; "do you begrudge me even that pleasure?" "_I_ begrudge you a pleasure?" Gudule ventured to remark, as she raised her swimming eyes to his face. "Why do you look at me so tearfully?" he almost shouted. Ascher loved his wife, and when he saw the effect which his rough words had produced, he tenderly embraced her. "Am I not right, Gudule?" he said, "after a man has been working and slaving the livelong week, don't you think he looks forward with longing eyes for his dear children to welcome him at his door?" At that moment Gudule felt the long latent suspicion revive in her that her husband was not speaking the truth. As if written in characters of fire, the words of that letter now came back to her memory; she knew now what was the fate that awaited her and her children. Thenceforward, all the characteristic tokens of a gambler's life, all the vicissitudes which attend his unholy calling, followed close upon each other in grim succession. Most marked was the disturbance which his mental equilibrium was undergoing. Fits of gloomy despondency were succeeded, with alarming rapidity, by periods of tumultuous exaltation. One moment it would seem as though Gudule and the children were to him the living embodiment of all that was precious and lovable, whilst at other times he would regard them with sullen indifference. It soon became evident to Gudule that her husband's affairs were in a very bad way, for her house-keeping allowance no longer came to her with its wonted regularity. But what grieved and alarmed her most, was the fact that Ascher was openly neglecting every one of his religious duties. To return home late on Friday night, long after sunset had ushered in the Sabbath, was now a common practice. Once even it happened, that with his clothes covered with dust, he came home from one of his business tours on a Sabbath morning, when the people in holiday attire were wending their way to the synagogue. Nevertheless, not a sound of complaint escaped Gudule's lips. Hers was one of those proud, sensitive natures, such as are to be met with among all classes and amid all circumstances of life, in Ghetto and in secluded village, no less than among the most favored ones of the earth. Had she not cast to the winds the well-intentioned counsel given her in that unsigned letter? Why then should she complain and lament, now that the seed had borne fruit? She shrank from alluding before her husband to the passion which day by day, nay, hour by hour, tightened its hold upon him. She would have died sooner than permit the word "gambler" to pass her lips. Besides, did not her eyes tell Ascher what she suffered? Those very eyes were, according to Ascher, the cause of his rapid journey along the road to ruin. "Why do you look at me so, Gudule?" he would testily ask her, at the slightest provocation. Often when, as he explained, he had had "a specially good week," he would bring home the costliest gifts for his children. Gudule, however, made no use whatever of these trinkets, neither for herself nor for the children. She put the things away in drawers and cupboards, and never looked at them, more especially as she observed that, under some pretext or another, Ascher generally took those glittering things away again, "in order to exchange them for others," he said: as often as not never replacing them at all. "Gudule!" he said one day, when he happened to be in a particularly good humor, "why do you let the key remain in the door of that bureau where you keep so many valuables?" And again Gudule regarded him with those unfathomable eyes. "There, you're ... looking at me again!" he exclaimed with sudden vehemence. "They're safe enough in the cupboard," Gudule said, smiling, "why should I lock it?" "Gudule, do you mean to say ..." he cried, raising his hand as for a blow. Then he fell back in his chair, and his frame was shaken with sobs. "Gudule, my heart's love," he cried, "I am not worthy that your eyes should rest on me. Everywhere, wherever I go, they look at me, those eyes ... and that is my ruin. If business is bad, your eyes ask me, 'Why did you mix yourself up with these things, without a thought of wife or children?'... Then I feel as if some evil spirit possessed me and tortured my soul. Oh, why can't you look at me again as you did when you were my bride?--then you looked so happy, so lovely! At other times I think: 'I shall yet grasp fortune with both hands ... and then I can face my Gudule's eyes again.' But now, now ... oh, don't look at me, Gudule!" There spoke the self-reproaching voice, which sometimes burst forth unbidden from a suffering soul. As for Gudule, she already knew how to appreciate this cry of her husband's conscience at its true value. It was not that she felt one moment's doubt as to its sincerity, but she knew dot so far as it affected the future, it was a mere cry and nothing more. The years rolled on. The children were growing up. Ephraim had entered his fifteenth year. Viola was a little pale girl of twelve. In opinion of the Ghetto they were the most extraordinary children in the world. In the midst of the harassing life to which her marriage with the gambler had brought her, Gudule so reared them that they grew to be living reflections of her own inmost being. People wondered when they beheld the strange development of "Wild" Ascher's children. Their natures were as proud and reserved as that of their mother. They did not associate with the youth of the Ghetto; it seemed as though they were not of their kind, as though an insurmountable barrier divided them. And many a bitter sneer was hurled at Gudule's head. "Does she imagine," she often heard people whisper, "that because her father was a farmer her children are princes? Let her remember that her husband is but a common gambler." How different would have been their thoughts had they known that the children were Gudule's sole comfort. What their father had never heard from her, she poured into their youthful souls. No tear their mother shed was unobserved by them; they knew when their father had lost and when he had won; they knew, too, all the varying moods of his unhinged mind; and in this terrible school of misery they acquired an instinctive intelligence, which in the eyes of strangers seemed mere precocity. The two children, however, had early given evidence of a marked difference in disposition. Ephraim's nature was one of an almost feminine gentleness, whilst Viola was strong-willed and proudly reserved. "Mother," she said one day, "do you think he will continue to play much longer?" "Viola, how can you talk like that?" Ephraim cried, greatly disturbed. Thereupon Viola impetuously flung her arms round her mother's neck, and for some moments she clung to her with all the strength of her passionate nature. It was as though in that wild embrace she would fain pour forth the long pent-up sorrows of her blighted childhood. "Mother!" she cried, "you are so good to him. Never, never shall he have such kindness from me!" "Ephraim," said Gudule, "speak to your sister. In her sinful anger, Viola would revenge herself upon her own father. Does it so beseem a Jewish child?" "Why does he treat you so cruelly, then?" Viola almost hissed the words. Soon after fell the final crushing blow. Ascher had been away from home for some weeks, when one day Gudule received a letter, dated a prison in the neighborhood of Vienna. In words of genuine sympathy the writer explained that Ascher had been unfortunate enough to forge the signature to a bill. She would not see him again for the next five years. God comfort her! The letter was signed: "A fellow-sufferer with your husband." As it had been with her old father, after he had bidden her a last farewell, so it was now with Gudule. From that moment her days were numbered, and although not a murmur escaped her lips, hour by hour she wasted away. One Friday evening, shortly after the seven-branched Sabbath lamp had been lit, Gudule, seated in her arm-chair, out of which she had not moved all day, called the two children to her. A bright smile hovered around her lips, an unwonted fire burned in her still beautiful eyes, her bosom heaved ... in the eyes of her children she seemed strangely changed. "Children," said she, "come and stand by me. Ephraim, you stand here on my right, and you, dear Viola, on my left. I would like to tell you a little story, such as they tell little children to soothe them to sleep. Shall I?" "Mother!" they both cried, as they bent towards her. "You must not interrupt me, children," she observed, still with that strange smile on her lips, "but leave me to tell my little story in my own way. "Listen, children," she resumed, after a brief pause. "Every human being--be he ever so wicked--if he have done but a single good deed on earth, will, when he arrives above, in the seventh heaven, get his Sechus, that is to say, the memory of the good he has done here below will be remembered and rewarded bountifully by the Almighty." Gudule ceased speaking. Suddenly a change came over her features: her breath came and went in labored gasps; but her brown eyes still gleamed brightly. In tones well-nigh inaudible she continued: "When Jerusalem, the Holy City, was destroyed, the dead rose up out of their graves ... the holy patriarchs Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob ... and also Moses, and Aaron his brother ... and David the King ... and prostrating themselves before God's throne they sobbed: 'Dost Thou not remember the deeds we have done?... Wouldst Thou now utterly destroy all these our children, even to the innocent babe at the breast?' But the Almighty was inexorable. "Then Sarah, our mother, approached the Throne... When God beheld her, He covered His face, and wept. 'Go,' said He, 'I cannot listen to thee.' ... But she exclaimed ... 'Dost Thou no longer remember the tears I shed before I gave birth to my Joseph and Benjamin ... and dost Thou not remember the day when they buried me yonder, on the borders of the Promised Land ... and now, must mine eyes behold the slaughter of my children, their disgrace, and their captivity?'... Then God cried: 'For THY sake will I remember thy children and spare them.' ..." "Would you like to know," Gudule suddenly cried, with uplifted voice, "what this Sechus is like? It has the form of an angel, and it stands near the Throne of the Almighty. ... But, since the days of Rachel, our mother, it is the Sechus of a mother that finds most favor in God's eyes. When a mother dies, her soul straightway soars heavenward, and there it takes its place amid the others. "'Who art thou?' asks God. 'I am the Sechus of a mother,' is the answer, 'of a mother who has left children behind her on earth.' 'Then do thou stand here and keep guard over them!' says God. And when it is well with the children, it is the Sechus of a mother which has caused them to prosper, and when evil days befall them ... it is again the Angel who stands before God and pleads: 'Dost Thou forget that these children no longer have a mother?'... and the evil is averted. ..." Gudule's voice had sunk to a mere whisper. Her eyes closed, her head fell back, her breathing became slower and more labored. "Are you still there, children?" she softly whispered. Anxiously they bent over her. Then once again she opened her eyes. "I see you still"--the words came with difficulty from her blanched lips--"you, Ephraim, and you, my little Viola ... I am sure my Sechus will plead for you ... for you and your father." They were Gudule's last words. When her children, whose eyes had never as yet been confronted with Death, called her by her name, covering her icy hands with burning kisses, their mother was no more ... Who can tell what influence causes the downtrodden blade to raise itself once more! Is it the vivifying breath of the west wind, or a mysterious power sent forth from the bosom of Mother Earth? It was a touching sight to see how those two children, crushed as they were beneath the weight of a twofold blow, raised their heads again, and in their very desolation found new-born strength. And it filled the Ghetto with wonder. For what were they but the offspring of a gambler? Or was it the spirit of Gudule, their mother, that lived in them? After Gudule's death, her eldest brother, the then owner of the grange, came over to discuss the future of his sister's children. He wished Ephraim and Viola to go with him to his home in Lower Bohemia, where he could find them occupation. The children, however, were opposed to the idea. They had taken no previous counsel together, yet, upon this point, both were in perfect accord,--they would prefer to be left in their old home. "When father comes back again," said Ephraim, "he must know where to find us. But to you, Uncle Gabriel, he would never come." The uncle then insisted that Viola at least should accompany him, for he had daughters at home whom she could assist in their duties in the house and on the farm. But the child clung to Ephraim, and with flaming eyes, and in a voice of proud disdain, which filled the simple farmer with something like terror, she cried: "Uncle, you have enough to do to provide for your own daughters; don't let ME be an additional burden upon you; besides, sooner would I wander destitute through the world than be separated from my brother." "And what do you propose to do then?" exclaimed the uncle, after he had somewhat recovered from his astonishment at Viola's vehemence. "You see, Uncle Gabriel," said Ephraim, a sudden flush overspreading his grief-stricken features, "you see I have thought about it, and I have come to the conclusion that this is the best plan. Viola shall keep house, and I ... I'll start a business." "YOU start a business?" cried the uncle with a loud laugh. "Perhaps you can tell me what price I'll get for my oats next market day? A business!... and what business, my lad?" "Uncle," said Ephraim, "if I dispose of all that is left us, I shall have enough money to buy a small business. Others in our position have done the same... and then..." "Well, and then?" the uncle cried, eagerly anticipating his answer. "Then the Sechus of our mother will come to our aid." Ephraim said softly. The farmer's eyes grew dim with moisture; his sister had been very dear to him. "As I live!" he cried, brushing his hand across his eyes, "you are true children of my sister Gudule. That's all _I_ can say." Then, as though moved by a sudden impulse, he quickly produced, from the depths of his overcoat, a heavy pocketbook. "There!"... he cried, well-nigh out of breath, "there are a hundred gulden for you, Ephraim. With that you can, at all events, make a start; and then you needn't sell the few things you still have. There ... put the money away... oats haven't fetched any price at all to-day, 'tis true; but for the sake of Gudule's children, I don't mind what I do... Come, put it away, Ephraim... and may God bless you, and make you prosper." "Uncle!" cried Ephraim, as he raised the farmer's hand to his lips, "is all this to be mine? All this?" "Yes, my boy, yes; it IS a deal of money isn't it?" ... said Gudule's brother, accompanying his words with a sounding slap on his massive thigh. "I should rather think it is. With that you can do something, at all events ... and shall I tell you something? In Bohemia the oat crop is, unfortunately, very bad this season. But in Moravia it's splendid, and is two groats cheaper ... So there's your chance, Ephraim, my child; you've got the money, buy!" All at once a dark cloud overspread his smiling face. "It's a lot of money, Ephraim, that I am giving you ... many a merchant can't lay his hands on it," he said, hesitatingly; "but if ... you were to ... gam--" The word remained unfinished, for upon his arm he suddenly felt a sensation as of a sharp, pricking needle. "Uncle Gabriel!" cried Viola--for it was she who had gripped his arm--and the child's cheeks were flaming, whilst her lips curled with scorn, and her white teeth gleamed like those of a beast of prey. "Uncle Gabriel!" she almost shrieked, "if you don't trust Ephraim, then take your money back again ... it's only because you are our mother's brother that we accept it from you at all ... Ephraim shall repay you to the last farthing ... Ephraim doesn't gamble ... you sha'n't lose a single penny of it." With a shake of his head the farmer regarded the strange child. He felt something like annoyance rise within him; an angry word rose to the lips of the usually good tempered man. But it remained unsaid; he was unable to remove his eyes from the child's face. "As I live," he muttered, "she has Gudule's very eyes." And with another thumping slap on his leg, he merrily exclaimed: "All right, we'll leave it so then.... If Ephraim doesn't repay me, I'll take YOU, you wild thing... for you've stood surety for your brother, and then I'll take you away, and keep you with me at home. Do you agree... you little spit-fire, eh?" "Yes, uncle!" cried Viola. "Then give me a kiss, Viola." The child hesitated for a moment, then she laid her cheek upon her uncle's face. "Ah, now I've got you, you little spit-fire," he cried, kissing her again and again. "Aren't you ashamed now to have snapped your uncle up like that?" Then after giving Ephraim some further information about the present price of oats, and the future prospects of the crops, with a sideshot at the chances of wool, skins, and other merchandise, he took his leave. There was great surprise in the Ghetto when the barely fifteen-year-old lad made his first start in business. Many made merry over "the great merchant," but before the year was ended, the sharp-seeing eyes of the Ghetto saw that Ephraim had "a lucky hand." Whatever he undertook he followed up with a calmness and tact which often baffled the restless activity of many a big dealer, with all his cuteness and trickery. Whenever Ephraim, with his pale, sad fnce, made his appearance at a farmstead, to negotiate for the purchase of wool, or some such matter, it seemed as though some invisible messenger had gone before him to soften the hearts of the farmers. "No one ever gets things as cheap as you do," he was assured by many a farmer's wife, who had been won by the unconscious eloquence of his dark eyes. No longer did people laugh at "the little merchant," for nothing so quickly kills ridicule as success. When, two years later, his Uncle Gabriel came again to see how the children were getting on, Ephraim was enabled to repay, in hard cash, the money he had lent him. "Oho!" cried Gudule's brother, with big staring eyes, as he clutched his legs with both hands, "how have you managed in so short a time to save so much? D'ye know that that's a great deal of money?" "I've had good luck, uncle," said Ephraim, modestly. "You've been...playing, perhaps?" The words fell bluntly from the rough country-man, but hardly had they been uttered, when Viola sprang from her chair, as though an adder had stung her. "Uncle," she cried, and a small fist hovered before Gabriel's eyes in such a threatening manner that he involuntarily closed them. But the child, whose features reminded him so strongly of his dead sister, could not make him angry. "Ephraim," he exclaimed, in a jocund tone, warding off Viola with his hands, "you take my advice. Take this little spit-fire with you into the village one day...they may want a young she-wolf there." Then he pocketed the money. "Well, Ephraim," said he, "may God bless you, and grant you further luck. But you won't blame me if I take the money,--I can do with it, and in oats, as you know, there's some chance of good business just now. But I am glad to see that you're so prompt at paying. Never give too much credit! That's always my motto; trust means ruin, and eats up a man's business, as rats devour the contents of a corn-barn." There was but one thing that constantly threw its dark shadow across these two budding lives,--it was the dark figure in a distant prison. This it was that saddened the souls of the two children with a gloom which no sunshine could dispel. When on Fridays Ephraim returned, fatigued and weary from his work, to the home over which Viola presided with such pathetic housewifely care, no smile of welcome was on her face, no greeting on his. Ephraim, 'tis true, told his sister where he had been, and what he had done, but in the simplest words there vibrated that tone of unutterable sadness which has its constant dwelling-place in such sorely-tried hearts. Meanwhile, a great change had come over Viola. Nature continues her processes of growth and development 'mid the tempests of human grief, and often the fiercer the storm the more beautiful the after effects. Viola was no longer the pale child, "the little spit-fire," by whom her Uncle Gabriel's arm had been seized in such a violent grip. A womanly gentleness had come over her whole being, and already voices were heard in the Ghetto praising her grace and beauty, which surpassed even the loveliness of her dead mother in her happiest days. Many an admiring eye dwelt upon the beautiful girl, many a longing glance was cast in the direction of the little house, where she dwelt with her brother. But the daughter of a "gambler," the child of a man who was undergoing imprisonment for the indulgence of his shameful vice! That was a picture from which many an admirer shrank with horror! One day Ephraim brought home a young canary for his sister. When he handed her the bird in its little gilt cage, her joy knew no bounds, and showering kisses by turns upon her brother, and on the wire-work of the cage, her eyes sparkling with animation: "You shall see, Ephraim, how I'll teach the little bird to speak," she cried. The softening influence which had, during the last few months, come over his sister's nature was truly a matter of wonder to Ephraim. Humbly and submissively she accepted the slightest suggestion on his part, as though it were a command. He was to her a father and mother, and never were parents more implicitly obeyed by a child than this brother by a sister but three years his junior. There was one subject, however, upon which Ephraim found his sister implacable and firm--their absent father, the mere mention of whose name made her tremble. Then there returned that haughty curl of the lips, and all the other symptoms of a proud, inflexible spirit. It was evident that Viola hated the man to whom she owed her existence. Thus had it come about that Ephraim was almost afraid to pronounce his father's name. Neither did he care to allude to their mother before Viola, for the memory of her death was too closely bound up with that dark form behind the distant prison walls. Let us now return to the night on which Ephraim opened the door to his father. How had it come about? A thousand times Ephraim had thought about his father's return--and now he durst not even kindle a light, to look upon the long-estranged face. As silent as when he had come, Ascher remained during the rest of the night; he had seated himself at the window, and his arm was resting upon the very spot where formerly the cage had stood. The bird had obtained its freedom, and was, no doubt, by this time asleep, nestling amid the breeze-swept foliage of some wooded glen. HE too had regained his liberty, but no sleep closed his eyes, and yet he was in safe shelter, in the house of his children. At length the day began to break. The sun was still hiding behind the mountain-tops, but its earliest rays were already reflected upon the window-panes. In the Ghetto footsteps became audible; here and there the grating noise of an opening street-door was heard, while from round the corner resounded, ever and anon, the hammer of the watchman, calling the people to morning service; for it was a Fast-day, which commenced at sunrise. At that moment Ascher raised himself from his chair, and quickly turned away from the window. Ephraim was already by his side. "Father, dear father!" he cried from the inmost depths of his heart, as he tried to grasp the hand of the convict. "Don't make such a noise," said the latter, casting a furtive glance in the direction of the window, and speaking in the same mysterious whisper in which he had asked for admittance into the house. What a strange awakening it was to his son, when, in the gray twilight of the breaking day, he looked at Ascher more closely. In his imagination Ephraim had pictured a wan, grief-worn figure, and now he saw before him a strong, well-built man, who certainly did not present the appearance of a person who had just emerged from the dank atmosphere of a prison! On the contrary, he seemed stronger and more vigorous than he had appeared in his best days. "Has he had such a good time of it...?" Ephraim felt compelled to ask himself... "how different our poor mother looked!" With a violent effort he repressed the feelings which swelled his bosom. "Dear father," he said, with tears in his eyes, "make yourself quite comfortable; you haven't closed your eyes the whole night, you must be worn out. You are at home, remember...father!" "It's all right," said Ascher, with a deprecating gesture, "WE fellows know other ways of spending the night." "WE FELLOWS!" The words cut Ephraim to the heart. "But you may be taken ill, father," he timidly observed. "I taken ill! What do you take me for?" Ascher laughed, boisterously. "I haven't the slightest intention of falling ill." At that moment the watchman was heard hammering at the door of the next house. The reverberating blows seemed to have a strangely disquieting effect upon the strong man: a violent tremor seized him; he cast one of the frightened glances which Ephraim had noticed before in the direction of the window, then with one bound he was at the door, and swiftly turned the knob. "Father, what's the matter?" Ephraim cried, much alarmed. "Does the watchman look into the room when he passes by?" asked Ascher, while his eyes almost burst from their sockets, with the intentness of their gaze. "Never," Ephraim assured him. "Let me see, wait..." whispered Ascher. The three well-known knocks now resounded upon their own door, then the shadow of a passing figure was thrown upon the opposite wall. With a sigh of relief, the words escaped Ascher's bosom: "He did not look inside..." he muttered to himself. Then he removed his hand from the door-knob, came back into the centre of the room, and approaching the table, rested his hand upon it. "Ephraim..." he said after a while, in that suppressed tone which seemed to be peculiar to him, "aren't you going to synagogue?" "No, father," replied Ephraim, "I'm not going to-day." "But they'll want to know," Ascher observed, and at the words an ugly sneer curled the corners of his lip; "they'll want to know who your guest is. Why don't you go and tell them?" "Father!" cried Ephraim. "Then be good enough to draw down the blinds. ...What business is it of theirs who your guest is? Let them attend to their own affairs... But they wouldn't be of 'the chosen race' if they didn't want to know what was taking place in the furthermost corner of your brain. You can't be too careful with them...you're never secure against their far-scenting noses and their sharp, searching eyes." It was now broad daylight. Ephraim drew down the blinds. "The blinds are too white..." Ascher muttered, and moving a chair forward, he sat down upon it with his back to the window. Ephraim proceeded to wind the phylacteries round his arm, and commenced to say his prayers softly. His devotions over, he hurriedly took the phylacteries from his head and hand. Ascher was still sitting immovable, his back to the window, his eyes fixed upon the door. "Why don't you ask me where I've left my luggage?" he suddenly cried. "I'll fetch it myself if you'll tell me where it is," Ephraim remarked, in all simplicity. "Upon my word, you make me laugh," cried Ascher, and a laugh like that of delirium burst from his lips. "All I can say, Ephraim, is, the most powerful giant upon earth would break his back beneath the weight of my luggage!" Then only did Ephraim grasp his father's meaning. "Don't worry yourself, father..." he said lovingly. "Would you like to support me, perhaps!" Ascher shouted, with cutting disdain. Ephraim's heart almost ceased to beat. Then movements were heard in the adjoining room. "Have you any one with you?" cried Ascher springing up. His sharp ears had instantly caught the sounds, and again the strong man was seized with violent trembling. "Father, it's only dear Viola," said Ephraim. A nameless terror seemed to have over-powered Ascher. With one hand convulsively clenched upon the arm of the chair, and the other pressed to his temple, he sat breathing heavily. Ephraim observed with alarm what a terrible change had come over his father's features during the last few seconds: his face had become ashen white, his eyes had lost their lustre, he seemed to have aged ten years. The door opened, and Viola entered. "Viola!" cried Ephraim, "here is our--" "Welcome!" said the girl, in a low voice, as she approached a few steps nearer. She extended her hand towards him, but her eyes were cast down. She stood still for a moment, then, with a hurried movement, turned away. "Gudule!" cried Ascher, horror-stricken, as he fell back almost senseless in his chair. Was it the glamour of her maiden beauty that had so overpowered this unhappy father? Or was it the extraordinary resemblance she bore to the woman who had so loved him, and whose heart he had broken? The utterance of her name, the terror that accompanied the exclamation, denoted the effect which the girl's sudden appearance had produced upon that sadly unhinged mind. "Viola!" Ephraim cried, in a sorrow-stricken voice, "why don't you come here?" "I CAN'T, Ephraim, I CAN'T..." she moaned, as, with halting steps, she walked towards the door. "Come, speak to him, do," Ephraim entreated, taking her hand in his. "Let me go!" she cried, trying to release herself ... "I am thinking of mother!" Suddenly Ascher rose. "Where's my stick?" he cried. "I want the stick which I brought with me...Where is it? I must go." "Father, you won't..." cried Ephraim. Then Viola turned round. "Father," she said, with twitching lips... "you'll want something to eat before you go." "Yes, yes, let me have something to eat," he shouted, as he brought his fist down upon the table. "Bring me wine...and let it be good ...I am thirsty enough to drink the river dry. ...Wine, and beer, and anything else you can find, bring all here, and then, when I've had my fill, I'll go." "Go, Viola," Ephraim whispered in his sister's ear, "and bring him all he asks for." When Viola had left the room, Ascher appeared to grow calmer. He sat down again leaning his arms upon the table. "Yes," he muttered to himself: "I'll taste food with my children, before I take up my stick and go...They say it's lucky to have the first drink of the day served by one's own child ...and luck I will have again, at any price... What good children! While I've been anything but a good father to them, they run hither and thither and take the trouble to get me food and drink, and I, I've brought them home nothing but a wooden stick. But I'll repay them, so help me God, I'll make them rich yet, but I've got nothing but a wooden stick, and I want money, no play without money, and no luck either..." Gradually a certain thoughtfulness overspread Ascher's agitated features, his lips were tightly compressed, deep furrows lined his forehead, while his eyes were fixed in a stony glare, as if upon some distant object. In the meantime Ephraim had remained standing almost motionless, and it was evident that his presence in the room had quite escaped his father's observation. With a chilling shudder running through his frame, his hair on end with horror, he listened to the strange soliloquy!...Then he saw his father's eyes travelling slowly in the direction of the old bureau in the corner, and there they remained fixed. "Why does he leave the key in the door, I wonder," he heard him mutter between his teeth, "just as Gudule used to do; I must tell him when he comes back, keys shouldn't be left indoors, never, under any circumstances." The entrance of Viola interrupted the old gambler's audible train of thought. Ephraim gave a gasp of relief. "Ah, what have you brought me?" cried Ascher, and his eyes sparkled with animation, as Viola produced some bottles from under her apron, and placed them and some glasses upon the table. "Now then, fill up the glass," he shouted, in a commanding voice, "and take care that you don't spill any, or you'll spoil my luck." With trembling hand Viola did as she was bidden, without spilling a single drop. Then he took up the glass and drained it at one draught. His face flushed a bright crimson: he poured himself out another glass. "Aren't you drinking, Ephraim?" he exclaimed, after he had finished that glass also. "I don't drink to-day, father," Ephraim faltered, "it's a fast." "A fast? What fast? I have been fasting too," he continued, with a coarse laugh, "twice a week, on bread and water; an excellent thing for the stomach. Fancy, a fast-day in midsummer. On such a long day, when the sun is up at three already, and at eight o'clock at night is still hesitating whether he'll go to bed or not ...what have I got to do with your Fast-day?" His face grew redder every moment; he had drunk a third and a fourth glass, and there was nothing but a mere drain left in the bottle. Already his utterance was thick and incoherent, and his eyes were fast assuming that glassy brightness that is usually the forerunner of helpless intoxication. It was a sight Ephraim could not bear to see. Impelled by that natural, almost holy shame which prompted the son of Noah to cover the nakedness of his father, he motioned to his sister to leave. Then HE, too, softly walked out of the room. Outside, in the corridor, the brother and sister fell into each other's arms. Both wept bitterly: for a long time neither of them could find words in which to express the grief which filled their souls. At length Viola, her head resting upon Ephraim's shoulder, whispered: "Ephraim, what do you think of him?" "He is ill, I think..." said Ephraim, in a voice choked with sobs. "What, you call THAT illness, Ephraim?" Viola cried; "if that's illness, then a wild beast is ill too." "Viola, for Heaven's sake, be quiet: he's our own father after all!" "Ephraim!" said the girl, with a violent outburst of emotion, as she again threw herself into her brother's arms... "just think if mother had lived to see this!" "Don't, don't, Viola, my sweet!" Ephraim exclaimed, sobbing convulsively. "Ephraim!" the girl cried, shaking her head in wild despair, "I don't believe in the Sechus! When we live to see all this, and our hearts do not break, we lose faith in everything...Ephraim, what is to become of us?" "Hush, dear Viola, hush, you don't know what you are saying," replied Ephraim, "I believe in it, because mother herself told us...you must believe in it too." But Viola again shook her head. "I don't believe in it any longer," she moaned, "I can't." Noiselessly, Ephraim walked toward the door of the front room; he placed his ear against the keyhole, and listened. Within all was silent. A fresh terror seized him. Why was no sound to be heard?...He opened the door cautiously lest it should creak. There sat his father asleep in the arm-chair, his head bent on his bosom, his arms hanging limp by his side. "Hush, Viola," he whispered, closing the door as cautiously as he had opened it, "he is asleep. ...I think it will do him good. Be careful that you make no noise." Viola had seated herself upon a block of wood outside the kitchen door, and was sobbing silently. In the meantime, Ephraim, unable to find a word of solace for his sister, went and stood at the street door, so that no unbidden guest should come to disturb his father's slumbers. It was mid-day; from the church hard by streamed the peasants and their wives in their Sunday attire, and many bestowed a friendly smile upon the well-known youth. But he could only nod his head in return, his heart was sore oppressed, and a smile at such a moment seemed to him nothing short of sin. He went back into the house, and listened at the door of the room. Silence still reigned unbroken, and with noiseless steps he again walked away. "He is still sleeping," he whispered to his sister. "Just think what would have happened if we had still had that bird...He wouldn't have been able to sleep a wink." "Ephraim, why do you remind me of it?" cried Viola with a fresh outburst of tears. "Where is the little bird now, I wonder?..." Ephraim sat down beside his sister, and took her hand in his. Thus they remained seated for some time, unable to find a word of comfort for each other. At length movements were heard. Ephraim sprang to his feet and once more approached the door to listen. "He is awake!" he softly said to Viola, and slowly opening the door, he entered the room. Ascher was walking up and down with heavy tread. "Do you feel refreshed after your sleep, father?" Ephraim asked timidly. Ascher stood still, and confronted his son. His face was still very flushed, but his eyes had lost their glassy stare; his glance was clear and steady. "Ephraim, my son," he began, in a kindly, almost cheerful tone, "you've grown into a splendid business man, as good a business man as one can meet with between this and Vienna. I'm sure of it. But I must give you one bit of advice; it's worth a hundred pounds to one in your position. Never leave a key in the lock of a bureau!" Ephraim looked at his father as though stupefied. Was the man mad or delirious to talk in such a strain? At that moment, from the extreme end of the Ghetto, there sounded the three knocks, summoning the people to evening prayer. As in the morning, so again now the sound seemed to stun the vigorous man. His face blanched and assumed an expression of terror; he trembled from head to foot. Then again he cast a frightened glance in the direction of the window. "Nothing but knocking, knocking!" he muttered. "They would like to knock the most hidden thoughts out of one's brains, if they only could. What makes them do it, I should like to know?...To the clanging of a bell you can, at all events, shut your ears, you need only place your hands to them...but with that hammer they bang at every confounded door, and drive one crazy. Who gives them the right to do it, I should like to know?" He stood still listening. "Do you think he will be long before he reaches here?" he asked Ephraim, in a frightened voice. "Who, father?" "The watch." "He has already knocked next door but one." Another minute, and the three strokes sounded on the door of the house. Ascher heaved a sigh of relief; he rubbed his hand across his forehead; it was wet with perspiration. "Thank God!" he cried, as though addressing himself, "that's over, and won't come again till to-morrow." "Ephraim, my son!" he cried, with a sudden outburst of cheerfulness, accompanying the words with a thundering bang upon the table, "Ephraim, my son, you shall soon see what sort of a father you have. Now, you're continually worrying your brains, walking your feet off, trying to get a skin, or praying some fool of a peasant to be good enough to sell you a bit of wool. Ephraim, my son, all that shall soon be changed, take my word for it. I'll make you rich, and as for Viola, I'll get her a husband--such a husband that all the girls in Bohemia will turn green and yellow with envy...Ascher's daughter shall have as rich a dowry as the daughter of a Rothschild... But there's one thing, and one thing only, that I need, and then all will happen as I promise, in one night." "And what is that, father!" asked Ephraim, with a slight shudder. "Luck, luck, Ephraim, my son!" he shouted. "What is a man without luck? Put a man who has no luck in a chest full of gold; cover him with gold from head to foot; when he crawls out of it, and you search his pockets, you'll find the gold has turned to copper." "And will you have luck, father?" asked Ephraim. "Ephraim, my son!" said the old gambler, with a cunning smile, "I'll tell you something--There are persons whose whole powers are devoted to one object--how to win a fortune; in the same way as there are some who study to become doctors, and the like, so these study what we call luck...and from them I've learned it." He checked himself in sudden alarm lest he might have said too much, and looked searchingly at his son. A pure soul shone through Ephraim's open countenance, and showed his father that his real meaning had not been grasped. "Never mind," he shouted loudly, waving his arms in the air, "what is to come no man can stop. Give me something to drink, Ephraim." "Father," the latter faltered, "don't you think it will harm you?" "Don't be a fool, Ephraim!" cried Ascher, "you don't know my constitution. Besides, didn't you say that to-day was a fast, when it is forbidden to eat anything? And have I asked you for any food? But as for drink, that's quite another thing! The birds of the air can't do without it, much less man!" Ephraim saw that for that evening, at all events, it would not do to oppose his father. He walked into the kitchen where Viola was preparing supper, or rather breakfast, for after the fast this was the first meal of the day. "Viola," he said, "make haste and fetch some fresh wine." "For him?" cried Viola, pointing her finger almost threateningly in the direction of the sitting-room door. "Don't, don't, Viola!" Ephraim implored. "And you are fasting!" she said. "Am I not also fasting for him?" said Ephraim. With a full bottle in his hand Ephraim once more entered the room. He placed the wine upon the table, where the glasses from which Ascher had drunk in the morning were still standing. "Where is Viola?" asked Ascher, who was again pacing the room with firm steps. "She is busy cooking." "Tell her she shall have a husband, and a dowry that will make half the girls in Bohemia turn green and yellow with envy." Then he approached the table, and drank three brimming glasses, one after the other. "Now then," he said, as with his whole weight he dropped into the old arm-chair... "Now I'll have a good night's rest. I need strength and sharp eyes, and they are things which only sleep can give. Ephraim, my son," he continued after awhile in thick, halting accents... "tell the watch--Simon is his name, I think--he can give six knocks instead of three upon the door, in the morning, he won't disturb me...and to Viola you can say I'll find her a husband, handsomer than her eyes have ever beheld, and tell her on her wedding-day she shall wear pearls round her neck like those of a queen--no, no, like those of Gudule, her mother." A few moments later he was sound asleep. It was the dead of night. All round reigned stillness and peace, the peace of night! What a gentle sound those words convey, a sound akin only to the word HOME! Fraught, like it, with sweetest balm, a fragrant flower from long-lost paradise. Thou art at rest, Ascher, and in safe shelter; the breathing of thy children is so restful, so tranquil... Desist! desist! 'T is too late. Side by side with the peace of night, there dwell Spirits of Evil, the never-resting, vagrant, home-destroying guests, who enter unbidden into the human soul! Hark, the rustling of their raven-hued plumage! They take wing, they fly aloft; 't is the shriek of the vulture, swooping down upon the guileless dove. Is there no eye to watch thee? Doth not thine own kin see thy foul deeds? Desist! 'T is too late... Open is the window, no grating noise has accompanied the unbolting of the shutter... The evil spirits have taken care that the faintest sound shall die away...even the rough iron obeys their voices...it is they who have bidden: "Be silent; betray him not; he is one of us." Even the key in the door of the old bureau is turned lightly and without noise. Groping fingers are searching for a bulky volume. Have they found it? Is there none there to cry in a voice of thunder: "Cursed be the father who stretches forth his desecrating hand towards the things that are his children's"?... They HAVE found it, the greedy fingers! and now, but a spring through the open window, and out into the night... At that moment a sudden ray of light shines through a crack in the door of the room... Swiftly the door opens, a girlish figure appears on the threshold, a lighted lamp in her hand... "Gudule!" he shrieks, horror-stricken, and falls senseless at her feet. Ascher was saved. The terrible blow which had struck him down had not crushed the life from him. He was awakened. But when, after four weeks of gruesome fever and delirium, his mind had somewhat regained its equilibrium, his hair had turned white as snow, and his children beheld an old, decrepit man. That which Viola had denied her father when he returned to them in all the vigor of his manhood, she now lavished upon him in his suffering and helplessness, with that concentrated power of love, the source of which is not human, but Divine. In the space of one night of terror, the merest bud of yesterday had suddenly blossomed forth into a flower of rarest beauty. Never did gentler hands cool a fever-heated brow, never did sweeter voice mingle its melody with the gruesome dreams of delirium. On his sick-bed, lovingly tended by Ephraim and Viola, an ennobling influence gradually came over the heart of the old gambler, and so deeply touched it, that calm peace crowned his closing days. It was strange that the events of that memorable night, and the vicissitudes that had preceded it, had left no recollection behind, and his children took good care not to re-awaken, by the slightest hint, his sleeping memory. A carriage drew up one day in front of Ascher's house. There has evidently been a splendid crop of oats this year. Uncle Gabriel has come. Uncle Gabriel has only lately assumed the additional character of father-in-law to Ephraim, for he declared that none but Ephraim should be his pet daughter's husband. And now he has come for the purpose of having a confidential chat with Viola. There he sits, the kind-hearted, simple-minded man, every line of his honest face eloquent with good-humor and happiness, still guilty of an occasional violent onslaught upon his thighs. Viola still remains his "little spit-fire." "Now, Viola, my little spit-fire," said he, "won't you yet allow me to talk to my Nathan about you? Upon my word, the boy can't bear the suspense any longer." "Uncle," says Viola, and a crimson blush dyes her pale cheeks: "Uncle," she repeats, in a tone of such deep earnestness, that the laughing expression upon Gabriel's face instantly vanishes, "please don't talk to him at all. MY place is with my father!" And to all appearances Viola will keep her word. Had she taken upon herself a voluntary penance for having, in her heart's bitter despair, presumed to abjure her faith in the Sechus of her mother? Or was there yet another reason? The heart of woman is a strangely sensitive thing. It loves not to build its happiness upon the hidden ruins of another's life. THE SEVERED HAND BY WILHELM HAUFF I was born in Constantinople; my father was a dragoman at the Porte, and besides, carried on a fairly lucrative business in sweet-scented perfumes and silk goods. He gave me a good education; he partly instructed me himself, and also had me instructed by one of our priests. He at first intended me to succeed him in business one day, but as I showed greater aptitude than he had expected, he destined me, on the advice of his friends, to be a doctor; for if a doctor has learned a little more than the ordinary charlatan, he can make his fortune in Constantinople. Many Franks frequented our house, and one of them persuaded my father to allow me to travel to his native land to the city of Paris, where such things could be best acquired and free of charge. He wished, however, to take me with himself gratuitously on his journey home. My father, who had also travelled in his youth, agreed, and the Frank told me to hold myself in readiness three months hence. I was beside myself with joy at the idea of seeing foreign countries, and eagerly awaited the moment when we should embark. The Frank had at last concluded his business and prepared himself for the journey. On the evening before our departure my father led me into his little bedroom. There I saw splendid dresses and arms lying on the table. My looks were however chiefly attracted to an immense heap of gold, for I had never before seen so much collected together. My father embraced me and said: "Behold, my son, I have procured for thee clothes for the journey. These weapons are thine; they are the same which thy grandfather hung around me when I went abroad. I know that thou canst use them aright; but only make use of them when thou art attacked; on such occasions, however, defend thyself bravely. My property is not large; behold I have divided it into three parts, one part for thee, another for my support and spare money, but the third is to me a sacred and untouched property, it is for thee in the hour of need." Thus spoke my old father, tears standing in his eyes, perhaps from some foreboding, for I never saw him again. The journey passed off very well; we had soon reached the land of the Franks, and six days later we arrived in the large city of Paris. There my Frankish friend hired a room for me, and advised me to spend wisely my money, which amounted in all to two thousand dollars. I lived three years in this city, and learned what is necessary for a skilful doctor to know. I should not, however, be stating the truth if I said that I liked being there, for the customs of this nation displeased me; besides, I had only a few chosen friends there, and these were noble young men. The longing after home at last possessed me mightily; during the whole of that time I had not heard anything from my father, and I therefore seized a favorable opportunity of reaching home. An embassy from France left for Turkey. I acted as surgeon to the suite of the Ambassador and arrived happily in Stamboul. My father's house was locked, and the neighbors, who were surprised on seeing me, told me my father had died two months ago. The priest who had instructed me in my youth brought me the key; alone and desolate I entered the empty house. All was still in the same position as my father had left it, only the gold which I was to inherit was gone. I questioned the priest about it, and he, bowing, said: "Your father died a saint, for he has bequeathed his gold to the Church." This was and remained inexplicable to me. However, what could I do? I had no witness against the priest, and had to be glad that he had not considered the house and the goods of my father as a bequest. This was the first misfortune that I encountered. Henceforth nothing but ill-luck attended me. My reputation as doctor would not spread at all, because I was ashamed to act the charlatan; and I felt everywhere the want of the recommendation of my father, who would have introduced me to the richest and most distinguished, but who now no longer thought of the poor Zaleukos! The goods of my father also had no sale, for his customers had deserted him after his death, and new ones are only to be got slowly. Thus when I was one day meditating sadly over my position, it occurred to me that I had often seen in France men of my nation travelling through the country exhibiting their goods in the markets of the towns. I remembered that the people liked to buy of them, because they came from abroad, and that such a business would be most lucrative. Immediately I resolved what to do. I disposed of my father's house, gave part of the money to a trusty friend to keep for me, and with the rest I bought what are very rare in France, shawls, silk goods, ointments, and oils, took a berth on board a ship, and thus entered upon my second journey to the land of the Franks. It seemed as if fortune had favored me again as soon as I had turned my back upon the Castles of the Dardanelles. Our journey was short and successful. I travelled through the large and small towns of the Franks, and found everywhere willing buyers of my goods. My friend in Stamboul always sent me fresh stores, and my wealth increased day by day. When I had saved at last so much that I thought I might venture on a greater undertaking, I travelled with my goods to Italy. I must however confess to something, which brought me not a little money: I also employed my knowledge of physic. On reaching a town, I had it published that a Greek physician had arrived, who had already healed many; and in fact my balsam and medicine gained me many a sequin. Thus I had at length reached the city of Florence in Italy. I resolved upon remaining in this town for some time, partly because I liked it so well, partly also because I wished to recruit myself from the exertions of my travels. I hired a vaulted shop, in that part of the town called Sta. Croce, and not far from this a couple of nice rooms at an inn, leading out upon a balcony. I immediately had my bills circulated, which announced me to be both physician and merchant. Scarcely had I opened my shop when I was besieged by buyers, and in spite of my high prices I sold more than any one else, because I was obliging and friendly towards my customers. Thus I had already lived four days happily in Florence, when one evening, as I was about to close my vaulted room, and on examining once more the contents of my ointment boxes, as I was in the habit of doing, I found in one of the small boxes a piece of paper, which I did not remember to have put into it. I unfolded the paper, and found in it an invitation to be on the bridge which is called Ponto Vecchio that night exactly at midnight. I was thinking for a long time as to who it might be who had invited me there; and not knowing a single soul in Florence, I thought perhaps I should be secretly conducted to a patient, a thing which had already often occurred. I therefore determined to proceed thither, but took care to gird on the sword which my father had once presented to me. When it was close upon midnight I set out on my journey, and soon reached the Ponte Vecchio. I found the bridge deserted, and determined to await the appearance of him who called me. It was a cold night; the moon shone brightly, and I looked down upon the waves of the Arno, which sparkled far away in the moonlight. It was now striking twelve o'clock from all the churches of the city, when I looked up and saw a tall man standing before me completely covered in a scarlet cloak, one end of which hid his face. At first I was somewhat frightened, because he had made his appearance so suddenly; but was however myself again shortly afterwards, and said: "If it is you who have ordered me here, say what you want?" The man dressed in scarlet turned round and said in an undertone: "Follow!" At this, however, I felt a little timid to go alone with this stranger. I stood still and said: "Not so, sir, kindly first tell me where; you might also let me see your countenance a little, in order to convince me that you wish me no harm." The red one, however, did not seem to pay any attention to this. "If thou art unwilling, Zaleukos, remain," he replied, and continued his way. I grew angry. "Do you think," I exclaimed, "a man like myself allows himself to be made a fool of, and to have waited on this cold night for nothing?" In three bounds I had reached him, seized him by his cloak, and cried still louder, whilst laying hold of my sabre with my other hand. His cloak, however, remained in my hand, and the stranger had disappeared round the nearest corner. I became calmer by degrees. I had the cloak at any rate, and it was this which would give me the key to this remarkable adventure. I put it on and continued my way home. When I was at a distance of about a hundred paces from it, some one brushed very closely by me and whispered in the language of the Franks: "Take care, Count, nothing can be done to-night." Before I had time, however, to turn round, this somebody had passed, and I merely saw a shadow hovering along the houses. I perceived that these words did not concern me, but rather the cloak, yet it gave me no explanation concerning the affair. On the following morning I considered what was to be done. At first I had intended to have the cloak cried in the streets, as if I had found it. But then the stranger might send for it by a third person, and thus no light would be thrown upon the matter. Whilst I was thus thinking, I examined the cloak more closely. It was made of thick Genoese velvet, scarlet in color, edged with Astrachan fur and richly embroidered with gold. The magnificent appearance of the cloak put a thought into my mind which I resolved to carry out. I carried it into my shop and exposed it for sale, but placed such a high price upon it that I was sure nobody would buy it. My object in this was to scrutinize everybody sharply who might ask for the fur cloak; for the figure of the stranger, which I had seen but superficially, though with some certainty, after the loss of the cloak, I should recognize amongst a thousand. There were many would-be purchasers for the cloak, the extraordinary beauty of which attracted everybody; but none resembled the stranger in the slightest degree, and nobody was willing to pay such a high price as two hundred sequins for it. What astonished me was that on asking somebody or other if there was not such a cloak in Florence, they all answered "No," and assured me they never had seen so precious and tasteful a piece of work. Evening was drawing near, when at last a young man appeared, who had already been to my place, and who had also offered me a great deal for the cloak. He threw a purse with sequins upon the table, and exclaimed: "Of a truth, Zaleukos, I must have thy cloak, should I turn into a beggar over it!" He immediately began to count his pieces of gold. I was in a dangerous position: I had only exposed the cloak, in order merely to attract the attention of my stranger, and now a young fool came to pay an immense price for it. However, what could I do? I yielded; for on the other hand I was delighted at the idea of being so handsomely recompensed for my nocturnal adventure. The young man put the cloak around him and went away, but on reaching the threshold he returned; whilst unfastening a piece of paper which had been tied to the cloak, and throwing it towards me, he exclaimed: "Here, Zaleukos, hangs something which I dare say does not belong to the cloak." I picked up the piece of paper carelessly, but behold, on it these words were written: "Bring the cloak at the appointed hour to-night to the Ponte Vecchio, four hundred sequins are thine." I stood thunderstruck. Thus I had lost my fortune and completely missed my aim! Yet I did not think long. I picked up the two hundred sequins, jumped after the one who had bought the cloak, and said: "Dear friend, take back your sequins, and give me the cloak; I cannot possibly part with it." He first regarded the matter as a joke; but when he saw that I was in earnest, he became angry at my demand, called me a fool, and finally it came to blows. However, I was fortunate enough to wrench the cloak from him in the scuffle, and was about to run away with it, when the young man called the police to his assistance, and we both appeared before the judge. The latter was much surprised at the accusation, and adjudicated the cloak in favor of my adversary. I offered the young man twenty, fifty, eighty, even a hundred sequins in addition to his two hundred, if he would part with the cloak. What my entreaties could not do, my gold did. He accepted it. I, however, went away with the cloak triumphantly, and had to appear to the whole town of Florence as a madman. I did not care, however, about the opinion of the people; I knew better than they that I profited after all by the bargain. Impatiently I awaited the night. At the same hour as before I went with the cloak under my arm towards the Ponte Vecchio. With the last stroke of twelve the figure appeared out of the darkness, and came towards me. It was unmistakably the man whom I had seen yesterday. "Hast thou the cloak?" he asked me. "Yes, sir," I replied; "but it cost me a hundred sequins ready money." "I know it," replied the other "Look here, here are four hundred." He went with me towards the wide balustrade of the bridge, and counted out the money. There were four hundred; they sparkled magnificently in the moonlight; their glitter rejoiced my heart. Alas, I did not anticipate that this would be its last joy. I put the money into my pocket, and was desirous of thoroughly looking at my kind and unknown stranger; but he wore a mask, through which dark eyes stared at me frightfully. "I thank you, sir, for your kindness," I said to him; "what else do you require of me? I tell you beforehand it must be an honorable transaction." "There is no occasion for alarm," he replied, whilst winding the cloak around his shoulders; "I require your assistance as surgeon, not for one alive, but dead." "What do you mean?" I exclaimed, full of surprise. "I arrived with my sister from abroad." he said, and beckoned me at the same time to follow him. "I lived here with her at the house of a friend. My sister died yesterday suddenly of a disease, and my relatives wish to bury her to-morrow. According to an old custom of our family all are to be buried in the tomb of our ancestors; many, notwithstanding, who died in foreign countries are buried there and embalmed. I do not grudge my relatives her body, but for my father I want at least the head of his daughter, in order that he may see her once more." This custom of severing the heads of beloved relatives appeared to me somewhat awful, yet I did not dare to object to it lest I should offend the stranger. I told him that I was acquainted with the embalming of the dead, and begged him to conduct me to the deceased. Yet I could not help asking him why all this must be done so mysteriously and at night? He answered me that his relatives, who considered his intention horrible, objected to it by daylight; if only the head were severed, then they could say no more about it; although he might have brought me the head, yet a natural feeling had prevented him from severing it himself. In the meantime we had reached a large, splendid house. My companion pointed it out to me as the end of our nocturnal walk. We passed the principal entrance of the house, entered a little door, which the stranger carefully locked behind him, and now ascended in the dark a narrow spiral staircase. It led towards a dimly lighted passage, out of which we entered a room lighted by a lamp fastened to the ceiling. In this room was a bed, on which the corpse lay. The stranger turned aside his face, evidently endeavoring to hide his tears. He pointed towards the bed, telling me to do my business well and quickly, and left the room. I took my instruments, which I as surgeon always carried about with me, and approached the bed. Only the head of the corpse was visible, and it was so beautiful that I experienced involuntarily the deepest sympathy. Dark hair hung down in long plaits, the features were pale, the eyes closed. At first I made an incision into the skin, after the manner of surgeons when amputating a limb. I then took my sharpest knife, and with one stroke cut the throat. But oh, horror! The dead opened her eyes, but immediately closed them again, and with a deep sigh she now seemed to breathe her last. At the same moment a stream of hot blood shot towards me from the wound. I was convinced that the poor creature had been killed by me. That she was dead there was no doubt, for there was no recovery from this wound. I stood for some minutes in painful anguish at what had happened. Had the "red-cloak" deceived me, or had his sister perhaps merely been apparently dead? The latter seemed to me more likely. But I dare not tell the brother of the deceased that perhaps a little less deliberate cut might have awakened her without killing her; therefore I wished to sever the head completely; but once more the dying woman groaned, stretched herself out in painful movements, and died. Fright overpowered me, and shuddering, I hastened out of the room. But outside in the passage it was dark; for the light was out, no trace of my companion was to be seen, and I was obliged, haphazard, to feel my way in the dark along the wall, in order to reach the staircase. I discovered it at last and descended, partly falling and partly gliding. But there was not a soul downstairs. I merely found the door ajar, and breathed freer on reaching the street, for I had felt very strange inside the house. Urged on by terror, I rushed towards my dwelling-place, and buried myself in the cushions of my bed, in order to forget the terrible thing that I had done. But sleep deserted me, and only the morning admonished me again to take courage. It seemed to me probable that the man who had induced me to commit this nefarious deed, as it now appeared to me, might not denounce me. I immediately resolved to set to work in my vaulted room, and if possible to assume an indifferent look. But alas! an additional circumstance, which I only now noticed, increased my anxiety still more. My cap and my girdle, as well as my instruments, were wanting, and I was uncertain as to whether I had left them in the room of the murdered girl, or whether I had lost them in my flight. The former seemed indeed the more likely, and thus I could easily be discovered as the murderer. At the accustomed hour I opened my vaulted room. My neighbor came in, as was his wont every morning, for he was a talkative man. "Well," he said, "what do you say about the terrible affair which has occurred during the night?" I pretended not to know anything. "What, do you not know what is known all over the town? Are you not aware that the loveliest flower in Florence, Bianca, the Governor's daughter, was murdered last night? I saw her only yesterday driving through the streets in so cheerful a manner with her intended one, for to-day the marriage was to have taken place." I felt deeply wounded at each word of my neighbor. Many a time my torment was renewed, for every one of my customers told me of the affair, each one more ghastly than the other, and yet nobody could relate anything more terrible than that which I had seen myself. About mid-day a police-officer entered my shop and requested me to send the people away. "Signor Zaleukos" he said, producing the things which I had missed, "do these things belong to you?" I was thinking as to whether I should not entirely repudiate them, but on seeing through the door, which stood ajar, my landlord and several acquaintances, I determined not to aggravate the affair by telling a lie, and acknowledged myself as the owner of the things. The police-officer asked me to follow him, and led me towards a large building which I soon recognized as the prison. There he showed me into a room meanwhile. My situation was terrible, as I thought of it in my solitude. The idea of having committed a murder, unintentionally, constantly presented itself to my mind. I also could not conceal from myself that the glitter of the gold had captivated my feelings, otherwise I should not have fallen blindly into the trap. Two hours after my arrest I was led out of my cell. I descended several steps until at last I reached a great hall. Around a long table draped in black were seated twelve men, mostly old men. There were benches along the sides of the hall, filled with the most distinguished of Florence. The galleries, which were above, were thickly crowded with spectators. When I had stepped towards the table covered with black cloth, a man with a gloomy and sad countenance rose; it was the Governor. He said to the assembly that he as the father in this affair could not sentence, and that he resigned his place on this occasion to the eldest of the Senators. The eldest of the Senators was an old man at least ninety years of age. He stood in a bent attitude, and his temples were covered with thin white hair, but his eyes were as yet very fiery, and his voice powerful and weighty. He commenced by asking me whether I confessed to the murder. I requested him to allow me to speak, and related undauntedly and with a clear voice what I had done, and what I knew. I noticed that the Governor, during my recital, at one time turned pale, and at another time red. When I had finished, he rose angrily: "What, wretch!" he exclaimed, "dost thou even dare to impute a crime which thou hast committed from greediness to another?" The Senator reprimanded him for his interruption, since he had voluntarily renounced his right; besides it was not clear that I did the deed from greediness, for, according to his own statement, nothing had been stolen from the victim. He even went further. He told the Governor that he must give an account of the early life of his daughter, for then only it would be possible to decide whether I had spoken the truth or not. At the same time he adjourned the court for the day, in order, as he said, to consult the papers of the deceased, which the Governor would give him. I was again taken back to my prison, where I spent a wretched day, always fervently wishing that a link between the deceased and the "red-cloak" might be discovered. Full of hope, I entered the Court of Justice the next day. Several letters were lying upon the table. The old Senator asked me whether they were in my hand-writing. I looked at them and noticed that they must have been written by the same hand as the other two papers which I had received. I communicated this to the Senators, but no attention was paid to it, and they told me that I might have written both, for the signature of the letters was undoubtedly a Z., the first letter of my name. The letters, however, contained threats against the deceased, and warnings against the marriage which she was about to contract. The Governor seemed to have given extraordinary information concerning me, for I was treated with more suspicion and rigor on this day. I referred, to justify myself, to my papers which must be in my room, but was told they had been looked for without success. Thus at the conclusion of this sitting all hope vanished, and on being brought into the Court the third day, judgment was pronounced on me. I was convicted of wilful murder and condemned to death. Things had come to such a pass! Deserted by all that was precious to me upon earth, far away from home, I was to die innocently in the bloom of my life. On the evening of this terrible day which had decided my fate, I was sitting in my lonely cell, my hopes were gone, my thoughts steadfastly fixed upon death, when the door of my prison opened, and in came a man, who for a long time looked at me silently. "Is it thus I find you again, Zaleukos?" he said. I had not recognized him by the dim light of my lamp, but the sound of his voice roused in me old remembrances. It was Valetti, one of those few friends whose acquaintance I made in the city of Paris when I was studying there. He said that he had come to Florence accidentally, where his father, who was a distinguished man, lived. He had heard about my affair, and had come to see me once more, and to hear from my own lips how I could have committed such a crime. I related to him the whole affair. He seemed much surprised at it, and adjured me, as my only friend, to tell him all, in order not to leave the world with a lie behind me. I confirmed my assertions with an oath that I had spoken the truth, and that I was not guilty of anything, except that the glitter of the gold had dazzled me, and that I had not perceived the improbability of the story of the stranger. "Did you not know Bianca?" he asked me. I assured him that I had never seen her. Valetti now related to me that a profound mystery rested on the affair, that the Governor had very much accelerated my condemnation, and now a report was spread that I had known Bianca for a long time, and had murdered her out of revenge for her marriage with some one else. I told him that all this coincided exactly with the "red-cloak," but that I was unable to prove his participation in the affair. Valetti embraced me weeping, and promised me to do all, at least to save my life. I had little hope, though I knew that Valetti a clever man, well versed in the law, and that he would do all in his power to save my life. For two long days I was in uncertainty; at last Valetti appeared. "I bring consolation, though painful. You will live and be free with the loss of one hand." Affected, I thanked my friend for saving my life. He told me that the Governor had been inexorable in having the affair investigated a second time, but that he at last, in order not to appear unjust, had agreed, that if a similar case could be found in the law books of the history of Florence, my punishment should be the same as the one recorded in these books. He and his father had searched in the old books day and night, and at last found a case quite similar to mine. The sentence was: That his left hand be cut off, his property confiscated, and he himself banished for ever. This was my punishment also, and he asked me to prepare for the painful hour which awaited me. I will not describe to you that terrible hour, when I laid my hand upon the block in the public market-place and my own blood shot over me in broad streams. Valetti took me to his house until I had recovered; he then most generously supplied me with money for travelling, for all I had acquired with so much difficulty had fallen a prey to the law. I left Florence for Sicily and embarked on the first ship that I found for Constantinople. My hope was fixed upon the sum which I had entrusted to my friend. I also requested to be allowed to live with him. But how great was my astonishment on being asked why I did not wish to live in my own house. He told me that some unknown man had bought a house in the Greek Quarter in my name, and this very man had also told the neighbors of my early arrival. I immediately proceeded thither accompanied by my friend, and was received by all my old acquaintances joyfully. An old merchant gave me a letter, which the man who had bought the house for me had left behind. I read as follows: "Zaleukos! Two hands are prepared to work incessantly, in order that you may not feel the loss of one of yours. The house which you see and all its contents are yours, and every year you will receive enough to be counted amongst the rich of your people. Forgive him who is unhappier than yourself!" I could guess who had written it, and in answer to my question, the merchant told me it had been a man, whom he took for a Frank, and who had worn a scarlet cloak. I knew enough to understand that the stranger was, after all, not entirely devoid of noble intentions. In my new house I found everything arranged in the best style, also a vaulted room stored with goods, more splendid than I had ever had. Ten years have passed since. I still continue my commercial travels, more from old custom than necessity, yet I have never again seen that country where I became so unfortunate. Every year since, I have received a thousand gold-pieces; and although I rejoice to know that unfortunate man to be noble, yet he cannot relieve me of the sorrow of my soul, for the terrible picture of the murdered Bianca is continually on my mind. PETER SCHLEMIHL BY ADELBERT VON CHAMISSO CHAPTER I. After a prosperous, but to me very wearisome, voyage, we came at last into port. Immediately on landing I got together my few effects; and, squeezing myself through the crowd, went into the nearest and humblest inn which first met my gaze. On asking for a room the waiter looked at me from head to foot, and conducted me to one. I asked for some cold water, and for the correct address of Mr. Thomas John, which was described as being "by the north gate, the first country-house to the right, a large new house of red and white marble, with many pillars." This was enough. As the day was not yet far advanced, I untied my bundle, took out my newly-turned black coat, dressed myself in my best clothes, and, with my letter of recommendation, set out for the man who was to assist me in the attainment of my moderate wishes. After proceeding up the north street, I reached the gate, and saw the marble columns glittering through the trees. Having wiped the dust from my shoes with my pocket-handkerchief, and readjusted my cravat, I rang the bell--offering up at the same time a silent prayer. The door flew open, and the porter sent in my name. I had soon the honor to be invited into the park, where Mr. John was walking with a few friends. I recognized him at once by his corpulency and self-complacent air. He received me very well--just as a rich man receives a poor devil; and turning to me, took my letter. "Oh, from my brother! it is a long time since I heard from him: is he well?--Yonder," he went on,--turning to the company, and pointing to a distant hill--"yonder is the site of the new building." He broke the seal without discontinuing the conversation, which turned upon riches. "The man," he said, "who does not possess at least a million is a poor wretch." "Oh, how true!" I exclaimed, in the fulness of my heart. He seemed pleased at this, and replied with a smile: "Stop here, my dear friend; afterwards I shall, perhaps, have time to tell you what I think of this," pointing to the letter, which he then put into his pocket, and turned round to the company, offering his arm to a young lady: his example was followed by the other gentlemen, each politely escorting a lady; and the whole party proceeded towards a little hill thickly planted with blooming roses. I followed without troubling any one, for none took the least further notice of me. The party was in high spirits--lounging about and jesting--speaking sometimes of trifling matters very seriously, and of serious matters as triflingly--and exercising their wit in particular to great advantage on their absent friends and their affairs. I was too ignorant of what they were talking about to understand much of it, and too anxious and absorbed in my own reflections to occupy myself with the solution of such enigmas as their conversation presented. By this time we had reached the thicket of roses. The lovely Fanny, who seemed to be the queen of the day, was obstinately bent on plucking a rose-branch for herself, and in the attempt pricked her finger with a thorn. The crimson stream, as if flowing from the dark-tinted rose, tinged her fair hand with the purple current. This circumstance set the whole company in commotion; and court-plaster was called for. A quiet, elderly man, tall and meagre-looking, who was one of the company, but whom I had not before observed, immediately put his hand into the tight breast-pocket of his old-fashioned coat of gray sarcenet, pulled out a small letter-case, opened it, and, with a most respectful bow, presented the lady with the wished-for article. She received it without noticing the giver, or thanking him. The wound was bound up, and the party proceeded along the hill towards the back part, from which they enjoyed an extensive view across the green labyrinth of the park to the wide-spreading ocean. The view was truly a magnificent one. A slight speck was observed on the horizon, between the dark flood and the azure sky. "A telescope!" called out Mr. John; but before any of the servants could answer the summons the gray man, with a modest bow, drew his hand from his pocket, and presented a beautiful Dollond's telescope to Mr. John, who, on looking through it, informed the company that the speck in the distance was the ship which had sailed yesterday, and which was detained within sight of the haven by contrary winds. The telescope passed from hand to hand, but was not returned to the owner, whom I gazed at with astonishment, and could not conceive how so large an instrument could have proceeded from so small a pocket. This, however, seemed to excite surprise in no one; and the gray man appeared to create as little interest as myself. Refreshments were now brought forward, consisting of the rarest fruits from all parts of the world, served up in the most costly dishes. Mr. John did the honors with unaffected grace, and addressed me for the second time, saying, "You had better eat; you did not get such things at sea." I acknowledged his politeness with a bow, which, however, he did not perceive, having turned round to speak with some one else. The party would willingly have stopped some time here on the declivity of the hill, to enjoy the extensive prospect before them, had they not been apprehensive of the dampness of the grass. "How delightful it would be," exclaimed some one, "if we had a Turkey carpet to lay down here!" The wish was scarcely expressed when the man in the gray coat put his hand in his pocket, and, with a modest and even humble air, pulled out a rich Turkey carpet, embroidered in gold. The servant received it as a matter of course, and spread it out on the desired spot; and, without any ceremony, the company seated themselves on it. Confounded by what I saw, I gazed again at the man, his pocket, and the carpet, which was more than twenty feet in length and ten in breadth, and rubbed my eyes, not knowing what to think, particularly as no one saw anything extraordinary in the matter. I would gladly have made some inquiries respecting the man, and asked who he was, but knew not to whom I should address myself, for I felt almost more afraid of the servants than of their master. At length I took courage, and stepping up to a young man who seemed of less consequence than the others, and who was more frequently standing by himself, I begged of him, in a low tone, to tell me who the obliging gentleman was in the gray cloak. "That man who looks like a piece of thread just escaped from a tailor's needle?" "Yes; he who is standing alone yonder." "I do not know," was the reply; and to avoid, as it seemed, any further conversation with me, he turned away, and spoke of some commonplace matters with a neighbor. The sun's rays now being stronger, the ladies complained of feeling oppressed by the heat; and the lovely Fanny, turning carelessly to the gray man, to whom I had not yet observed that any one had addressed the most trifling question, asked him if, perhaps, he had not a tent about him. He replied, with a low bow, as if some unmerited honor had been conferred upon him; and, putting his hand in his pocket, drew from it canvas, poles, cord, iron--in short, everything belonging to the most splendid tent for a party of pleasure. The young gentlemen assisted in pitching it; and it covered the whole carpet; but no one seemed to think that there was anything extraordinary in it. I had long secretly felt uneasy--indeed, almost horrified; but how was this feeling increased when, at the next wish expressed, I saw him take from his pocket three horses! Yes, Adelbert, three large beautiful steeds, with saddles and bridles, out of the very pocket whence had already issued a letter-case, a telescope, a carpet twenty feet broad and ten in length, and a pavilion of the same extent, with all its appurtenances! Did I not assure thee that my own eyes had seen all this, thou wouldst certainly disbelieve it. This man, although he appeared so humble and embarrassed in his air and manners, and passed so unheeded, had inspired me with such a feeling of horror by the unearthly paleness of his countenance, from which I could not avert my eyes, that I was unable longer to endure it. I determined, therefore, to steal away from the company, which appeared no difficult matter, from the undistinguished part I acted in it. I resolved to return to the town, and pay another visit to Mr. John the following morning, and, at the same time, make some inquiries of him relative to the extraordinary man in gray, provided I could command sufficient courage. Would to Heaven that such good fortune had awaited me! I had stolen safely down the hill, through the thicket of roses, and now found myself on an open plain; but fearing lest I should be met out of the proper path, crossing the grass, I cast an inquisitive glance around, and started as I beheld the man in the gray cloak advancing towards me. He took off his hat, and made me a lower bow than mortal had ever yet favored me with. It was evident that he wished to address me; and I could not avoid encountering him without seeming rude. I returned his salutation, therefore, and stood bareheaded in the sunshine as if rooted to the ground. I gazed at him with the utmost horror, and felt like a bird fascinated by a serpent. He affected himself to have an air of embarassment. With his eyes on the ground, he bowed several times, drew nearer, and at last, without looking up, addressed me in a low and hesitating voice, almost in the tone of a suppliant: "Will you, sir, excuse my importunity in venturing to intrude upon you in so unusual a manner? I have a request to make--would you most graciously be pleased to allow me--?" "Hold! for Heaven's sake!" I exclaimed; "what can I do for a man who--" I stopped in some confusion, which he seemed to share. After a moment's pause he resumed: "During the short time I have had the pleasure to be in your company, I have--permit me, sir, to say--beheld with unspeakable admiration your most beautiful shadow, and remarked the air of noble indifference with which you, at the same time, turn from the glorious picture at your feet, as if disdaining to vouchsafe a glance at it. Excuse the boldness of my proposal; but perhaps you would have no objection to sell me your shadow?" He stopped, while my head turned round like a mill-wheel. What was I to think of so extraordinary a proposal? To sell my shadow! "He must be mad," thought I; and assuming a tone more in character with the submissiveness of his own, I replied, "My good friend, are you not content with your own shadow? This would be a bargain of a strange nature indeed!" "I have in my pocket," he said, "many things which may possess some value in your eyes: for that inestimable shadow I should deem the highest price too little." A cold shuddering came over me as I recollected the pocket; and I could not conceive what had induced me to style him "GOOD FRIEND," which I took care not to repeat, endeavoring to make up for it by studied politeness. I now resumed the conversation: "But, sir--excuse your humble servant--I am at a loss to comprehend your meaning,--my shadow?--how can I?" "Permit me," he exclaimed, interrupting me, "to gather up the noble image as it lies on the ground, and to take it into my possession. As to the manner of accomplishing it, leave that to me. In return, and as an evidence of my gratitude, I shall leave you to choose among all the treasures I have in my pocket, among which are a variety of enchanting articles, not exactly adapted for you, who, I am sure, would like better to have the wishing-cap of Fortunatus, all made new and sound again, and a lucky purse which also belonged to him." "Fortunatus's purse!" cried I; and, great as was my mental anguish, with that one word he had penetrated the deepest recesses of my soul. A feeling of giddiness came over me, and double ducats glittered before my eyes. "Be pleased, gracious sir, to examine this purse, and make a trial of its contents." He put his hand in his pocket, and drew forth a large strongly stitched bag of stout Cordovan leather, with a couple of strings to match, and presented it to me. I seized it--took out ten gold-pieces, then ten more, and this I repeated again and again. Instantly I held out my hand to him. "Done," said I; "the bargain is made: my shadow for the purse." "Agreed," he answered; and, immediately kneeling down, I beheld him, with extraordinary dexterity, gently loosen my shadow from the grass, lift it up, fold it together, and, at last, put it his pocket. He then rose, bowed once more to me, and directed his steps towards the rose bushes. I fancied I heard him quietly laughing to himself. However, I held the purse fast by the two strings. The earth was basking beneath the brightness of the sun; but I presently lost all consciousness. On recovering my senses, I hastened to quit a place where I hoped there was nothing further to detain me. I first filled my pockets with gold, then fastened the strings of the purse round my neck, and concealed it in my bosom. I passed unnoticed out of the park, gained the high-road, and took the way to the town. As I was thoughtfully approaching the gate, I heard some one behind me exclaiming: "Young man! young man! you have lost your shadow!" I turned, and perceived an old woman calling after me. "Thank you, my good woman," said I; and throwing her a piece of gold for her well-intended information, I stepped under the trees. At the gate, again, it was my fate to hear the sentry inquiring where the gentleman had left his shadow; and immediately I heard a couple of women exclaiming, "Jesu Maria! the poor man has no shadow." All this began to depress me, and I carefully avoided walking in the sun; but this could not everywhere be the case: for in the next broad street I had to cross, and, unfortunately for me, at the very hour in which the boys were coming out of school, a humpbacked lout of a fellow--I see him yet--soon made the discovery that I was without a shadow, and communicated the news, with loud outcries, to a knot of young urchins. The whole swarm proceeded immediately to reconnoitre me, and to pelt me with mud. "People," cried they, "are generally accustomed to take their shadows with them when they walk in the sunshine." In order to drive them away I threw gold by handfuls among them, and sprang into a hackney-coach which some compassionate spectators sent to my rescue. As soon as I found myself alone in the rolling vehicle I began to weep bitterly. I had by this time a misgiving that, in the same degree in which gold in this world prevails over merit and virtue, by so much one's shadow excels gold; and now that I had sacrificed my conscience for riches, and given my shadow in exchange for mere gold, what on earth would become of me? As the coach stopped at the door of my late inn, I felt much perplexed, and not at all disposed to enter so wretched an abode. I called for my things, and received them with an air of contempt, threw down a few gold-pieces, and desired to be conducted to a first-rate hotel. This house had a northern aspect, so that I had nothing to fear from the sun. I dismissed the coachman with gold, asked to be conducted to the best apartment, and locked myself up in it as soon as possible. Imagine, my friend, what I then set about? O my dear Chamisso! even to thee I blush to mention what follows. I drew the ill-fated purse from my bosom; and, in a sort of frenzy that raged like a self-fed fire within me, I took out gold--gold--gold--more and more, till I strewed it on the floor, trampled upon it, and feasting on its very sound and brilliancy, added coins to coins, rolling and revelling on the gorgeous bed, until I sank exhausted. Thus passed away that day and evening; and as my door remained locked, night found me still lying on the gold, where, at last, sleep overpowered me. Then I dreamed of thee, and fancied I stood behind the glass door of thy little room, and saw thee seated at thy table between a skeleton and a bunch of dried plants; before thee lay open the works of Haller, Humboldt, and Linnaeus; on thy sofa a volume of Goethe, and the Enchanted Ring. I stood a long time contemplating thee, and everything in thy apartment; and again turning my gaze upon thee, I perceived that thou wast motionless--thou didst not breathe--thou wast dead. I awoke--it seemed yet early--my watch had stopped. I felt thirsty, faint, and worn out; for since the preceding morning I had not tasted food. I now cast from me, with loathing and disgust, the very gold with which but a short time before I had satiated my foolish heart. Now I knew not where to put it--I dared not leave it lying there. I examined my purse to see if it would hold it,--impossible! Neither of my windows opened on the sea. I had no other resource but, with toil and great fatigue, to drag it to a huge chest which stood in a closet in my room; where I placed it all, with the exception of a handful or two. Then I threw myself, exhausted, into an arm-chair, till the people of the house should be up and stirring. As soon as possible I sent for some refreshment, and desired to see the landlord. I entered into some conversation with this man respecting the arrangement of my future establishment. He recommended for my personal attendant one Bendel, whose honest and intelligent countenance immediately prepossessed me in his favor. It is this individual whose persevering attachment has consoled me in all the miseries of my life, and enabled me to bear up under my wretched lot. I was occupied the whole day in my room with servants in want of a situation, and tradesmen of every description. I decided on my future plans, and purchased various articles of vertu and splendid jewels, in order to get rid of some of my gold; but nothing seemed to diminish the inexhaustible heap. I now reflected on my situation with the utmost uneasiness. I dared not take a single step beyond my own door; and in the evening I had forty wax tapers lighted before I ventured to leave the shade. I reflected with horror on the frightful encounter with the schoolboys; yet I resolved, if I could command sufficient courage, to put the public opinion to a second trial. The nights were now moonlight. Late in the evening I wrapped myself in a large cloak, pulled my hat over my eyes, and, trembling like a criminal, stole out of the house. I did not venture to leave the friendly shadow of the houses until I had reached a distant part of the town; and then I emerged into the broad moonlight, fully prepared to hear my fate from the lips of the passers-by. Spare me, my beloved friend, the painful recital of all that I was doomed to endure. The women often expressed the deepest sympathy for me--a sympathy not less piercing to my soul than the scoffs of the young people, and the proud contempt of the men, particularly of the more corpulent, who threw an ample shadow before them. A fair and beauteous maiden, apparently accompanied by her parents, who gravely kept looking straight before them, chanced to cast a beaming glance on me; but was evidently startled at perceiving that I was without a shadow, and hiding her lovely face in her veil, and holding down her head, passed silently on. This was past all endurance. Tears streamed from my eyes; and with a heart pierced through and through, I once more took refuge in the shade. I leaned on the houses for support, and reached home at a late hour, worn out with fatigue. I passed a sleepless night. My first care the following morning was to devise some means of discovering the man in the gray cloak. Perhaps I may succeed in finding him; and how fortunate it were if he should be as ill satisfied with his bargain as I am with mine! I desired Bendel to be sent for, who seemed to possess some tact and ability. I minutely described to him the individual who possessed a treasure without which life itself was rendered a burden to me. I mentioned the time and place at which I had seen him, named all the persons who were present, and concluded with the following directions: He was to inquire for a Dollond's telescope, a Turkey carpet interwoven with gold, a marquee, and, finally, for some black steeds--the history, without entering into particulars, of all these being singularly connected with the mysterious character who seemed to pass unnoticed by every one, but whose appearance had destroyed the peace and happiness of my life. As I spoke I produced as much gold as I could hold in my two hands, and added jewels and precious stones of still greater value. "Bendel," said I, "this smooths many a path, and renders that easy which seems almost impossible. Be not sparing of it, for I am not so; but go, and rejoice thy master with intelligence on which depend all his hopes." He departed, and returned late and melancholy. None of Mr. John's servants, none of his guests (and Bendel had spoken to them all), had the slightest recollection of the man in the gray cloak. The new telescope was still there, but no one knew how it had come; and the tent and Turkey carpet were still stretched out on the hill. The servants boasted of their master's wealth; but no one seemed to know by what means he had become possessed of these newly acquired luxuries. He was gratified; and it gave him no concern to be ignorant how they had come to him. The black coursers which had been mounted on that day were in the stables of the young gentlemen of the party, who admired them as the munificent present of Mr. John. Such was the information I gained from Bendel's detailed account; but, in spite of this unsatisfactory result, his zeal and prudence deserved and received my commendation. In a gloomy mood, I made him a sign to withdraw. "I have, sir," he continued, "laid before you all the information in my power relative to the subject of the most importance to you. I have now a message to deliver which I received early this morning from a person at the gate, as I was proceeding to execute the commission in which I have so unfortunately failed. The man's words were precisely these: 'Tell your master, Peter Schlemihl, he will not see me here again. I am going to cross the sea; a favorable wind now calls all the passengers on board; but in a year and a day I shall have the honor of paying him a visit; when, in all probability, I shall have a proposal to make to him of a very agreeable nature. Commend me to him most respectfully, with many thanks.' I inquired his name; but he said you would remember him." "What sort of a person was he?" cried I, in great emotion; and Bendel described the man in the gray coat feature by feature, word for word; in short, the very individual in search of whom he had been sent. "How unfortunate!" cried I bitterly; "it was himself." Scales, as it were, fell from Bendel's eyes. "Yes, it was he," cried he, "undoubtedly it was he; and fool, madman, that I was, I did not recognize him--I did not, and I have betrayed my master!" He then broke out into a torrent of self-reproach; and his distress really excited my compassion. I endeavored to console him, repeatedly assuring him that I entertained no doubt of his fidelity; and despatched him immediately to the wharf, to discover, if possible, some trace of the extraordinary being. But on that very morning many vessels which had been detained in port by contrary winds had set sail, all bound to different parts of the globe; and the gray man had disappeared like a shadow. CHAPTER II. Of what use were wings to a man fast bound in chains of iron? They would but increase the horror of his despair. Like the dragon guarding his treasure, I remained cut off from all human intercourse, and starving amidst my very gold, for it gave me no pleasure: I anathematized it as the source of all my wretchedness. Sole depository of my fearful secret, I trembled before the meanest of my attendants, whom, at the same time, I envied; for he possessed a shadow, and could venture to go out in the day-time, while I shut myself up in my room day and night, and indulged in all the bitterness of grief. One individual, however, was daily pining away before my eyes--my faithful Bendel, who was the victim of silent self-reproach, tormenting himself with the idea that he had betrayed the confidence reposed in him by a good master, in failing to recognize the individual in quest of whom he had been sent, and with whom he had been led to believe that my melancholy fate was closely connected. Still, I had nothing to accuse him with, as I recognized in the occurrence the mysterious character of the unknown. In order to leave no means untried, I one day despatched Bendel with a costly ring to the most celebrated artist in the town, desiring him to wait upon me. He came; and, dismissing the attendants, I secured the door, placing myself opposite to him, and, after extolling his art, with a heavy heart came to the point, first enjoining the strictest secrecy. "For a person," said I, "who most unfortunately has lost his shadow, could you paint a false one?" "Do you speak of the natural shadow?" "Precisely so." "But," he asked, "by what awkward negligence can a man have lost his shadow?" "How it occurred," I answered, "is of no consequence; but it was in this manner"--(and here I uttered an unblushing falsehood)--"he was travelling in Russia last winter, and one bitterly cold day it froze so intensely, that his shadow remained so fixed to the ground, that it was found impossible to remove it." "The false shadow that I might paint," said the artist, "would be liable to be lost on the slightest movement, particularly in a person who, from your account, cares so little about his shadow. A person without a shadow should keep out of the sun, that is the only safe and rational plan." He arose and took his leave, casting so penetrating a look at me that I shrank from it. I sank back in my chair, and hid my face in my hands. In this attitude Bendel found me, and was about to withdraw silently and respectfully on seeing me in such a state of grief: looking up, overwhelmed with my sorrows, I felt that I must communicate them to him. "Bendel," I exclaimed, "Bendel, thou the only being who seest and respectest my grief too much to inquire into its cause--thou who seemest silently and sincerely to sympathize with me--come and share my confidence. The extent of my wealth I have not withheld from thee, neither will I conceal from thee the extent of my grief. Bendel! forsake me not. Bendel, you see me rich, free, beneficent; you fancy all the world in my power; yet you must have observed that I shun it, and avoid all human intercourse. You think, Bendel, that the world and I are at variance; and you yourself, perhaps, will abandon me, when I acquaint you with this fearful secret. Bendel, I am rich, free, generous; but, O God, I have NO SHADOW! "No shadow!" exclaimed the faithful young man, tears starting from his eyes. "Alas! that I am born to serve a master without a shadow!" He was silent, and again I hid my face in my hands. "Bendel," at last I tremblingly resumed, "you have now my confidence; you may betray me--go--bear witness against me!" He seemed to be agitated with conflicting feelings; at last he threw himself at my feet and seized my hand, which he bathed with his tears. "No," he exclaimed; "whatever the world may say, I neither can nor will forsake my excellent master because he has lost his shadow. I will rather do what is right than what may seem prudent. I will remain with you--I will shade you with my own shadow--I will assist you when I can--and when I cannot, I will weep with you." I fell upon his neck, astonished at sentiments so unusual; for it was very evident that he was not prompted by the love of money. My mode of life and my fate now became somewhat different. It is incredible with what provident foresight Bendel contrived to conceal my deficiency. Everywhere he was before me, and with me, providing against every contingency, and in cases of unlooked-for danger, flying to shield me with his own shadow, for he was taller and stouter than myself. Thus I once more ventured among mankind, and began to take a part in worldly affairs. I was compelled, indeed, to affect certain peculiarities and whims; but in a rich man they seem only appropriate; and so long as the truth was kept concealed I enjoyed all the honor and respect which gold could procure. I now looked forward with more composure to the promised visit of the mysterious unknown at the expiration of the year and a day. I was very sensible that I could not venture to remain long in a place where I had once been seen without a shadow, and where I might easily be betrayed; and perhaps, too, I recollected my first introduction to Mr. John, and this was by no means a pleasing reminiscence. However, I wished just to make a trial here, that I might with greater ease and security visit some other place. But my vanity for some time withheld me, for it is in this quality of our race that the anchor takes the firmest hold. Even the lovely Fanny, whom I again met in several places, without her seeming to recollect that she had ever seen me before, bestowed some notice on me; for wit and understanding were mine in abundance now. When I spoke, I was listened to; and I was at a loss to know how I had so easily acquired the art of commanding attention, and giving the tone to the conversation. The impression which I perceived I had made upon this fair one completely turned my brain; and this was just what she wished. After that, I pursued her with infinite pains through every obstacle. My vanity was only intent on exciting hers to make a conquest of me; but although the intoxication disturbed my head, it failed to make the least impression on my heart. But why detail to you the oft-repeated story which I have so often heard from yourself? However, in the old and well-known drama in which I played so worn-out a part, a catastrophe occurred of quite a peculiar nature, in a manner equally unexpected to her, to me, and to everybody. One beautiful evening I had, according to my usual custom, assembled a party in a garden, and was walking arm-in-arm with Fanny at a little distance from the rest of the company, and pouring into her ear the usual well-turned phrases, while she was demurely gazing on vacancy, and now and then gently returning the pressure of my hand. The moon suddenly emerged from behind a cloud at our back. Fanny perceived only her own shadow before us. She started, looked at me with terror, and then again on the ground, in search of my shadow. All that was passing in her mind was so strangely depicted in her countenance, that I should have burst into a loud fit of laughter had I not suddenly felt my blood run cold within me. I suffered her to fall from my arm in a fainting-fit; shot with the rapidity of an arrow through the astonished guests, reached the gate, threw myself into the first conveyance I met with, and returned to the town, where this time, unfortunately, I had left the wary Bendel. He was alarmed on seeing me: one word explained all. Post-horses were immediately procured. I took with me none of my servants, one cunning knave only excepted, called Rascal, who had by his adroitness become very serviceable to me, and who at present knew nothing of what had occurred. I travelled thirty leagues that night; having left Bendel behind to discharge my servants, pay my debts, and bring me all that was necessary. When he came up with me next day, I threw myself into his arms, vowing to avoid such follies and to be more careful for the future. We pursued our journey uninterruptedly over the frontiers and mountains; and it was not until I had placed this lofty barrier between myself and the before-mentioned unlucky town that I was persuaded to recruit myself after my fatigues in a neighboring and little-frequented watering-place. I must now pass rapidly over one period of my history, on which how gladly would I dwell, could I conjure up your lively powers of delineation! But the vivid hues which are at your command, and which alone can give life and animation to the picture, have left no trace within me; and were I now to endeavor to recall the joys, the griefs, the pure and enchanting emotions, which once held such powerful dominion in my breast, it would be like striking a rock which yields no longer the living spring, and whose spirit has fled for ever. With what an altered aspect do those bygone days now present themselves to my gaze! In this watering-place I acted an heroic character, badly studied; and being a novice on such a stage, I forgot my part before a pair of lovely blue eyes. All possible means were used by the infatuated parents to conclude the bargain; and deception put an end to these usual artifices. And that is all--all. The powerful emotions which once swelled my bosom seem now in the retrospect to be poor and insipid, nay, even terrible to me. Alas, Minna! as I wept for thee the day I lost thee, so do I now weep that I can no longer retrace thine image in my soul. Am I, then, so far advanced into the vale of years? O fatal effects of maturity! would that I could feel one throb, one emotion of former days of enchantment--alas, not one! a solitary being, tossed on the wild ocean of life--it is long since I drained thine enchanted cup to the dregs! But to return to my narrative. I had sent Bendel to the little town with plenty of money to procure me a suitable habitation. He spent my gold profusely; and as he expressed himself rather reservedly concerning his distinguished master (for I did not wish to be named), the good people began to form rather extraordinary conjectures. As soon as my house was ready for my reception, Bendel returned to conduct me to it. We set out on our journey. About a league from the town, on a sunny plain, we were stopped by a crowd of people, arrayed in holiday attire for some festival. The carriage stopped. Music, bells, cannons, were heard; and loud acclamations rang through the air. Before the carriage now appeared in white dresses a chorus of maidens, all of extraordinary beauty; but one of them shone in resplendent loveliness, and eclipsed the rest as the sun eclipses the stars of night. She advanced from the midst of her companions, and, with a lofty yet winning air, blushingly knelt before me, presenting on a silken cushion a wreath, composed of laurel branches, the olive, and the rose, saying something respecting majesty, love, honor, etc., which I could not comprehend; but the sweet and silvery magic of her tones intoxicated my senses and my whole soul: it seemed as if some heavenly apparition were hovering over me. The chorus now began to sing the praises of a good sovereign and the happiness of his subjects. All this, dear Chamisso, took place in the sun: she was kneeling two steps from me, and I, without a shadow, could not dart through the air, nor fall on my knees before the angelic being. Oh, what would I not now have given for a shadow! To conceal my shame, agony, and despair, I buried myself in the recesses of the carriage. Bendel at last thought of an expedient; he jumped out of the carriage. I called him back, and gave him out of the casket I had by me a rich diamond coronet, which had been intended for the lovely Fanny. He stepped forward, and spoke in the name of his master, who, he said, was overwhelmed by so many demonstrations of respect, which he really could not accept as an honor--there must be some error; nevertheless he begged to express his thanks for the goodwill of the worthy townspeople. In the meantime Bendel had taken the wreath from the cushion, and laid the brilliant crown in its place. He then respectfully raised the lovely girl from the ground; and, at one sign, the clergy, magistrates, and all the deputations withdrew. The crowd separated to allow the horses to pass, and we pursued our way to the town at full gallop, through arches ornamented with flowers and branches of laurel. Salvos of artillery again were heard. The carriage stopped at my gate; I hastened through the crowd which curiosity had attracted to witness my arrival. Enthusiastic shouts resounded under my windows, from whence I showered gold amidst the people; and in the evening the whole town was illuminated. Still all remained a mystery to me, and I could not imagine for whom I had been taken. I sent Rascal out to make inquiry; and he soon obtained intelligence that the good King of Prussia was travelling through the country under the name of some count; that my aide-de-camp had been recognized, and that he had divulged the secret; that on acquiring the certainty that I would enter their town, their joy had known no bounds: however, as they perceived I was determined on preserving the strictest incognito, they felt how wrong they had been in too importunately seeking to withdraw the veil; but I had received them so condescendingly and so graciously, that they were sure I would forgive them. The whole affair was such capital amusement to the unprincipled Rascal, that he did his best to confirm the good people in their belief, while affecting to reprove them. He gave me a very comical account of the matter; and, seeing that I was amused by it, actually endeavored to make a merit of his impudence. Shall I own the truth? My vanity was flattered by having been mistaken for our revered sovereign. I ordered a banquet to be got ready for the following evening, under the trees before my house, and invited the whole town. The mysterious power of my purse, Bendel's exertions, and Rascal's ready invention made the shortness of the time seem as nothing. It was really astonishing how magnificently and beautifully everything was arranged in these few hours. Splendor and abundance vied with each other, and the lights were so carefully arranged that I felt quite safe: the zeal of my servants met every exigency and merited all praise. Evening drew on, the guests arrived, and were presented to me. The word MAJESTY was now dropped; but, with the deepest respect and humility, I was addressed as the COUNT. What could I do? I accepted the title, and from that moment I was known as Count Peter. In the midst of all this festivity my soul pined for one individual. She came late--she who was the empress of the scene, and wore the emblem of sovereignty on her brow. She modestly accompanied her parents, and seemed unconscious of her transcendent beauty. The Ranger of the Forests, his wife, and daughter were presented to me. I was at no loss to make myself agreeable to the parents; but before the daughter I stood like a well-scolded schoolboy, incapable of speaking a single word. At length I hesitatingly entreated her to honor my banquet by presiding at it--an office for which her rare endowments pointed her out as admirably fitted. With a blush and an expressive glance she entreated to be excused; but, in still greater confusion than herself, I respectfully begged her to accept the homage of the first and most devoted of her subjects, and one glance of the count was the same as a command to the guests, who all vied with each other in acting up to the spirit of the noble host. In her person, majesty, innocence, and grace, in union with beauty, presided over this joyous banquet. Minna's happy parents were elated by the honors conferred upon their child. As for me, I abandoned myself to all the intoxication of delight: I sent for all the jewels, pearls, and precious stones still left to me--the produce of my fatal wealth--and, filling two vases, I placed them on the table, in the name of the queen of the banquet, to be divided among her companions and the remainder of the ladies. I ordered gold, in the meantime, to be showered down without ceasing among the happy multitude. Next morning Bendel told me in confidence that the suspicions he had long entertained of Rascal's honesty were now reduced to a certainty; he had yesterday embezzled many bags of gold. "Never mind," said I; "let him enjoy his paltry booty. _I_ like to spend it; why should not he? Yesterday he, and all the newly-engaged servants whom you had hired, served me honorably, and cheerfully assisted me to enjoy the banquet." No more was said on the subject. Rascal remained at the head of my domestics. Bendel was my friend and confidant; he had by this time become accustomed to look upon my wealth as inexhaustible, without seeking to inquire into its source. He entered into all my schemes, and effectually assisted me in devising methods of spending my money. Of the pale, sneaking scoundrel--the unknown--Bendel only knew thus much, that he alone had power to release me from the curse which weighed so heavily on me, and yet that I stood in awe of him on whom all my hopes rested. Besides, I felt convinced that he had the means of discovering ME under any circumstances, while he himself remained concealed. I therefore abandoned my fruitless inquiries, and patiently awaited the appointed day. The magnificence of my banquet, and my deportment on the occasion, had but strengthened the credulous townspeople in their previous belief. It appeared soon after, from accounts in the newspapers, that the whole history of the King of Prussia's fictitious journey originated in mere idle report. But a king I was, and a king I must remain by all means; and one of the richest and most royal, although people were at a loss to know where my territories lay. The world has never had reason to lament the scarcity of monarchs, particularly in these days; and the good people, who had never yet seen a king, now fancied me to be first one, and then another, with equal success; and in the meanwhile I remained as before, Count Peter. Among the visitors at this watering-place a merchant made his appearance, one who had become a bankrupt in order to enrich himself. He enjoyed the general good opinion; for he projected a shadow of respectable size, though of somewhat faint hue. This man wished to show off in this place by means of his wealth, and sought to rival me. My purse soon enabled me to leave the poor devil far behind. To save his credit he became bankrupt again, and fled beyond the mountains; and thus I was rid of him. Many a one in this place was reduced to beggary and ruin through my means. In the midst of the really princely magnificence and profusion, which carried all before me, my own style of living was very simple and retired. I had made it a point to observe the strictest precaution; and, with the exception of Bendel, no one was permitted, on any pretence whatever, to enter my private apartment. As long as the sun shone I remained shut up with him; and the Count was then said to be deeply occupied in his closet. The numerous couriers, whom I kept in constant attendance about matters of no importance, were supposed to be the bearers of my despatches. I only received company in the evening under the trees of my garden, or in my saloons, after Bendel's assurance of their being carefully and brilliantly lit up. My walks, in which the Argus-eyed Bendel was constantly on the watch for me, extended only to the garden of the forest-ranger, to enjoy the society of one who was dear to me as my own existence. Oh, my Chamisso! I trust thou hast not forgotten what love is! I must here leave much to thine imagination. Minna was in truth an amiable and excellent maiden: her whole soul was wrapped up in me, and in her lowly thoughts of herself she could not imagine how she had deserved a single thought from me. She returned love for love with all the full and youthful fervor of an innocent heart; her love was a true woman's love, with all the devotion and total absence of selfishness which is found only in woman; she lived but in me, her whole soul being bound up in mine, regardless what her own fate might be. Yet I, alas, during those hours of wretchedness--hours I would even now gladly recall--how often have I wept on Bendel's bosom, when after the first mad whirlwind of passion I reflected, with the keenest self-upbraidings, that I, a shadowless man, had, with cruel selfishness, practised a wicked deception, and stolen away the pure and angelic heart of the innocent Minna! At one moment I resolved to confess all to her; then that I would fly for ever; then I broke out into a flood of bitter tears, and consulted Bendel as to the means of meeting her again in the forester's garden. At times I flattered myself with great hopes from the near approaching visit of the unknown; then wept again, because I saw clearly on reflection that they would end in disappointment. I had made a calculation of the day fixed on by the fearful being for our interview; for he had said in a year and a day, and I depended on his word. The parents were worthy old people, devoted to their only child; and our mutual affection was a circumstance so overwhelming that they knew not how to act. They had never dreamed for a moment that the COUNT could bestow a thought on their daughter; but such was the case--he loved and was beloved. The pride of the mother might not have led her to consider such an alliance quite impossible, but so extravagant an idea had never entered the contemplation of the sounder judgment of the old man. Both were satisfied of the sincerity of my love, and could but put up prayers to Heaven for the happiness of their child. A letter which I received from Minna about that time has just fallen into my hands. Yes, these are the characters traced by her own hand. I will transcribe the letter: "I am indeed a weak, foolish girl to fancy that the friend I so tenderly love could give an instant's pain to his poor Minna! Oh no! thou art so good, so inexpressibly good! But do not misunderstand me. I will accept no sacrifice at thy hands--none whatever. Oh heavens! I should hate myself! No; thou hast made me happy, thou hast taught me to love thee. "Go, then--let me not forget my destiny--Count Peter belongs not to me, but to the whole world; and oh! what pride for thy Minna to hear thy deeds proclaimed, and blessings invoked on thy idolized head! Ah! when I think of this, I could chide thee that thou shouldst for one instant forget thy high destiny for the sake of a simple maiden! Go, then; otherwise the reflection will pierce me. How blest I have been rendered by thy love! Perhaps, also, I have planted some flowers in the path of thy life, as I twined them in the wreath which I presented to thee. "Go, then--fear not to leave me--you are too deeply seated in my heart--I shall die inexpressibly happy in thy love." Conceive how these words pierced my soul, Chamisso! I declared to her that I was not what I seemed--that, although a rich, I was an unspeakably miserable man--that a curse was on me, which must remain a secret, although the only one between us--yet that I was not without a hope of its being removed--that this poisoned every hour of my life--that I should plunge her with me into the abyss--she, the light and joy, the very soul of my existence. Then she wept because I was unhappy. Oh! Minna was all love and tenderness. To save me one tear she would gladly have sacrificed her life. Yet she was far from comprehending the full meaning of my words. She still looked upon me as some proscribed prince or illustrious exile; and her vivid imagination had invested her lover with every lofty attribute. One day I said to her, "Minna, the last day in next month will decide my fate, and perhaps change it for the better; if not, I would sooner die than render you miserable." She laid her head on my shoulder to conceal her tears. "Should thy fate be changed," she said, "I only wish to know that thou art happy; if thy condition is an unhappy one, I will share it with thee, and assist thee to support it." "Minna, Minna!" I exclaimed, "recall those rash words--those mad words which have escaped thy lips! Didst thou know the misery and curse--didst thou know who--what--thy lover ... Seest thou not, my Minna, this convulsive shuddering which thrills my whole frame, and that there is a secret in my breast which you cannot penetrate?" She sank sobbing at my feet, and renewed her vows and entreaties. Her father now entered, and I declared to him my intention to solicit the hand of his daughter on the first day of the month after the ensuing one. I fixed that time, I told him, because circumstances might probably occur in the interval materially to influence my future destiny; but my love for his daughter was unchangeable. The good old man started at hearing such words from the mouth of Count Peter. He fell upon my neck, and rose again in the utmost confusion for having forgotten himself. Then he began to doubt, to ponder, and to scrutinize; and spoke of dowry, security, and future provision for his beloved child. I thanked him for having reminded me of all this, and told him it was my wish to remain in a country where I seemed to be beloved, and to lead a life free from anxiety. I then commissioned him to purchase the finest estate in the neighborhood in the name of his daughter--for a father was the best person to act for his daughter in such a case--and to refer for payment to me. This occasioned him a good deal of trouble, as a stranger had everywhere anticipated him; but at last he made a purchase for about L150,000. I confess this was but an innocent artifice to get rid of him, as I had frequently done before; for it must be confessed that he was somewhat tedious. The good mother was rather deaf, and not jealous, like her husband, of the honor of conversing with the Count. The happy party pressed me to remain with them longer this evening. I dared not--I had not a moment to lose. I saw the rising moon streaking the horizon--my hour was come. Next evening I went again to the forester's garden. I had wrapped myself closely up in my cloak, slouched my hat over my eyes, and advanced towards Minna. As she raised her head and looked at me, she started involuntarily. The apparition of that dreadful night in which I had been seen without a shadow was now standing distinctly before me--it was she herself. Had she recognized me? She was silent and thoughtful. I felt an oppressive load at my heart. I rose from my seat. She laid her head on my shoulder, still silent and in tears. I went away. I now found her frequently weeping. I became more and more melancholy. Her parents were beyond expression happy. The eventful day approached, threatening and heavy, like a thunder-cloud. The evening preceding arrived. I could scarcely breathe. I had carefully filled a large chest with gold, and sat down to await the appointed time--the twelfth hour--it struck. Now I remained with my eyes fixed on the hand of the clock, counting the seconds--the minutes--which struck me to the heart like daggers. I started at every sound--at last daylight appeared. The leaden hours passed on--morning--evening--night came. Hope was fast fading away as the hand advanced. It struck eleven--no one appeared--the last minutes--the first and last stroke of the twelfth hour died away. I sank back in my bed in an agony of weeping. In the morning I should, shadowless as I was, claim the hand of my beloved Minna. A heavy sleep towards daylight closed my eyes. CHAPTER III. It was yet early, when I was suddenly awoke by voices in hot dispute in my ante-chamber. I listened. Bendel was forbidding Rascal to enter my room, who swore he would receive no orders from his equals, and insisted on forcing his way. The faithful Bendel reminded him that if such words reached his master's ears, he would turn him out of an excellent place. Rascal threatened to strike him if he persisted in refusing his entrance. By this time, having half-dressed myself, I angrily threw open the door, and addressing myself to Rascal, inquired what he meant by such disgraceful conduct. He drew back a couple of steps, and coolly answered: "Count Peter, may I beg most respectfully that you will favor me with a sight of your shadow? The sun is now shining brightly in the court below." I stood as if struck by a thunderbolt, and for some time was unable to speak. At last I asked him how a servant could dare to behave so towards his master. He interrupted me by saying, quite coolly, "A servant may be a very honorable man, and unwilling to serve a shadowless master--I request my dismissal." I felt that I must adopt a softer tone, and replied, "But, Rascal, my good fellow, who can have put such strange ideas into your head? How can you imagine--" He again interrupted me in the same tone-- "People say you have no shadow. In short, let me see your shadow, or give me my dismissal." Bendel, pale and trembling, but more collected than myself, made a sign to me. I had recourse to the all-powerful influence of gold. But even gold had lost its power--Rascal threw it at my feet: "From a shadowless man," he said, "I will take nothing." Turning his back upon me, and putting on his hat, he then slowly left the room, whistling a tune. I stood, with Bendel, as if petrified, gazing after him. With a deep sigh and a heavy heart I now prepared to keep my engagement, and to appear in the forester's garden like a criminal before his judge. I entered by the shady arbor, which had received the name of Count Peter's arbor, where we had appointed to meet. The mother advanced with a cheerful air; Minna sat fair and beautiful as the early snow of autumn reposing on the departing flowers, soon to be dissolved and lost in the cold stream. The ranger, with a written paper in his hand, was walking up and down in an agitated manner, struggling to suppress his feelings--his usually unmoved countenance being one moment flushed and the next perfectly pale. He came forward as I entered, and, in a faltering voice, requested a private conversation with me. The path by which he requested me to follow him led to an open spot in the garden, where the sun was shining. I sat down. A long silence ensued, which even the good woman herself did not venture to break. The ranger, in an agitated manner, paced up and down with unequal steps. At last he stood still; and glancing over the paper he held in his hand, he said, addressing me with a penetrating look, "Count Peter, do you know one Peter Schlemihl?" I was silent. "A man," he continued, "of excellent character and extraordinary endowments." He paused for an answer. "And supposing I myself were that very man?" "You!" he exclaimed passionately; "he has lost his shadow!" "Oh, my suspicion is true!" cried Minna; "I have long known it--he has no shadow!" And she threw herself into her mother's arms, who, convulsively clasping her to her bosom, reproached her for having so long, to her hurt, kept such a secret. But, like the fabled Arethusa, her tears, as from a fountain, flowed more abundantly, and her sobs increased at my approach. "And so," said the ranger fiercely, "you have not scrupled, with unparalleled shamelessness, to deceive both her and me; and you pretended to love her, forsooth!--her whom you have reduced to the state in which you now see her. See how she weeps!--Oh, shocking, shocking!" By this time I had lost all presence of mind; and I answered, confusedly: "After all, it is but a shadow, a mere shadow, which a man can do very well without; and really it is not worth the while to make all this noise about such a trifle." Feeling the groundlessness of what I was saying, I ceased, and no one condescended to reply. At last I added: "What is lost to-day may be found to-morrow." "Be pleased, sir," continued the ranger, in great wrath--"be pleased to explain how you have lost your shadow." Here again an excuse was ready: "A boor of a fellow," said I, "one day trod so rudely on my shadow that he tore a large hole in it. I sent it to be repaired--for gold can do wonders--and yesterday I expected it home again." "Very well," answered the ranger. "You are a suitor my daughter's hand, and so are others. As a father, I am bound to provide for her. I will give you three days to seek your shadow. Return to me in the course of that time with a well-fitted shadow, and you shall receive a hearty welcome; otherwise, on the fourth day--remember, on the fourth day--my daughter becomes the wife of another." I now attempted to say one word to Minna; but, sobbing more violently, she clung still closer to her mother, who made a sign for me to withdraw. I obeyed; and now the world seemed shut out from me for ever. Having escaped from the affectionate care of Bendel, I now wandered wildly through the neighboring woods and meadows. Drops of anguish fell from my brow, deep groans burst from my bosom--frenzied despair raged within me. I knew not how long this had lasted, when I felt myself seized by the sleeve on a sunny heath. I stopped, and looking up, beheld the gray-coated man, who appeared to have run himself out of breath in pursuing me. He immediately began: "I had," said he, "appointed this day; but your impatience anticipated it. All, however, may yet be right. Take my advice--redeem your shadow, which is at your command, and return immediately to the ranger's garden, where you will be well received, and all the past will seem a mere joke. As for Rascal--who has betrayed you in order to pay his addresses to Minna--leave him to me; he is just a fit subject for me." I stood like one in a dream. "This day?" I considered again. He was right--I had made a mistake of a day. I felt in my bosom for the purse. He perceived my intention, and drew back. "No, Count Peter; the purse is in good hands--pray keep it." I gazed at him with looks of astonishment and inquiry. "I only beg a trifle as a token of remembrance. Be so good as to sign this memorandum." On the parchment, which he held out to me, were these words: "By virtue of this present, to which I have appended my signature, I hereby bequeath my soul to the holder, after its natural separation from my body." I gazed in mute astonishment alternately at the paper and the gray unknown. In the meantime he had dipped a new pen in a drop of blood which was issuing from a scratch in my hand just made by a thorn. He presented it to me. "Who are you?" at last I exclaimed. "What can it signify?" he answered: "do you not perceive who I am? A poor devil--a sort of scholar and philosopher, who obtains but poor thanks from his friends for his admirable arts, and whose only amusement on earth consists in his small experiments. But just sign this; to the right, exactly underneath--Peter Schlemihl." I shook my head, and replied: "Excuse me, sir; I cannot sign that." "Cannot!" he exclaimed; "and why not?" "Because it appears to me a hazardous thing to exchange my soul for my shadow." "Hazardous!" he exclaimed, bursting into a loud laugh. "And, pray, may I be allowed to inquire what sort of a thing your soul is?--have you ever seen it?--and what do you mean to do with it after your death? You ought to think yourself fortunate in meeting with a customer who, during your life, in exchange for this infinitely minute quantity, this galvanic principle, this polarized agency, or whatever other foolish name you may give it, is willing to bestow on you something substantial--in a word, your own identical shadow, by virtue of which you will obtain your beloved Minna, and arrive at the accomplishment of all your wishes; or do you prefer giving up the poor young girl to the power of that contemptible scoundrel Rascal? Nay, you shall behold her with your own eyes. Come here; I will lend you an invisible cap (he drew something out of his pocket), and we will enter the ranger's garden unseen." I must confess that I felt excessively ashamed to be thus laughed at by the gray stranger. I detested him from the very bottom of my soul; and I really believe this personal antipathy, more than principle or previously formed opinion, restrained me from purchasing my shadow, much as I stood in need of it, at such an expense. Besides, the thought was insupportable of making this proposed visit in his society. To behold this hateful sneak, this mocking fiend, place himself between me and my beloved, between our torn and bleeding hearts, was too revolting an idea to be entertained for a moment. I considered the past as irrevocable, my own misery as inevitable; and turning to the gray man, I said: "I have exchanged my shadow for this very extraordinary purse, and I have sufficiently repented it. For Heaven's sake, let the transaction be declared null and void!" He shook his head, and his countenance assumed an expression of the most sinister cast. I continued: "I will make no exchange whatever, even for the sake of my shadow, nor will I sign the paper. It follows, also, that the incognito visit you propose to me would afford you far more entertainment than it could possibly give me. Accept my excuses, therefore; and, since it must be so, let us part." "I am sorry, Mr. Schlemihl, that you thus obstinately persist in rejecting my friendly offer. Perhaps, another time, I may be more fortunate. Farewell! May we shortly meet again! But, a propos, allow me to show you that I do not undervalue my purchase, but preserve it carefully." So saying, he drew my shadow out of his pocket; and shaking it cleverly out of its folds, he stretched it out at his feet in the sun--so that he stood between two obedient shadows, his own and mine, which was compelled to follow and comply with his every movement. On again beholding my poor shadow after so long a separation, and seeing it degraded to so vile a bondage at the very time that I was so unspeakably in want of it, my heart was ready to burst, and I wept bitterly. The detested wretch stood exulting over his prey, and unblushingly renewed his proposal. "One stroke of your pen, and the unhappy Minna is rescued from the clutches of the villain Rascal, and transferred to the arms of the high-born Count Peter--merely a stroke of your pen!" My tears broke out with renewed violence; but I turned away from him, and made a sign for him to be gone. Bendel, whose deep solicitude had induced him to come in search of me, arrived at this very moment. The good and faithful creature, on seeing me weeping, and that a shadow (evidently mine) was in the power of the mysterious unknown, determined to rescue it by force, should that be necessary; and disdaining to use any finesse, he desired him directly, and without any disputing, to restore my property. Instead of a reply, the gray man turned his back on the worthy fellow, and was making off. But Bendel raised his buck-thorn stick; and following close upon him, after repeated commands, but in vain, to restore the shadow, he made him feel the whole force of his powerful arm. The gray man, as if accustomed to such treatment, held down his head, slouched his shoulders, and, with soft and noiseless steps, pursued his way over the heath, carrying with him my shadow, and also my faithful servant. For a long time I heard hollow sounds ringing through the waste, until at last they died away in the distance, and I was again left to solitude and misery. Alone on the wild heath, I disburdened my heart of an insupportable load by given free vent to my tears. But I saw no bounds, no relief, to my surpassing wretchedness; and I drank in the fresh poison which the mysterious stranger had poured into my wounds with a furious avidity. As I retraced in my mind the loved image of my Minna, and depicted her sweet countenance all pale and in tears, such as I had beheld her in my late disgrace, the bold and sarcastic visage of Rascal would ever and anon thrust itself between us. I hid my face, and fled rapidly over the plains; but the horrible vision unrelentingly pursued me, till at last I sank breathless on the ground, and bedewed it with a fresh torrent of tears--and all this for a shadow!--a shadow which one stroke of the pen would repurchase. I pondered on the singular proposal, and on my hesitation to comply with it. My mind was confused--I had lost the power of judging or comprehending. The day was waning apace. I satisfied the cravings of hunger with a few wild fruits, and quenched my thirst at a neighboring stream. Night came on; I threw myself down under a tree, and was awoke by the damp morning air from an uneasy sleep, in which I had fancied myself struggling in the agonies of death. Bendel had certainly lost all trace of me, and I was glad of it. I did not wish to return among my fellow-creatures--I shunned them as the hunted deer flies before its pursuers. Thus I passed three melancholy days. I found myself on the morning of the fourth on a sandy plain, basking in the rays of the sun, and sitting on a fragment of rock; for it was sweet to enjoy the genial warmth of which I had so long been deprived. Despair still preyed on my heart. Suddenly a slight sound startled me; I looked round, prepared to fly, but saw no one. On the sunlit sand before me flitted the shadow of a man not unlike my own; and wandering about alone, it seemed to have lost its master. This sight powerfully excited me. "Shadow!" thought I, "art thou in search of thy master? in me thou shall find him." And I sprang forward to seize it, fancying that could I succeed in treading so exactly in its traces as to step in its footmarks, it would attach itself to me, and in time become accustomed to me, and follow all my movements. The shadow, as I moved, took to flight, and I commenced a hot chase after the airy fugitive, solely excited by the hope of being delivered from my present dreadful situation; the bare idea inspired me with fresh strength and vigor. The shadow now fled towards a distant wood, among whose shades I must necessarily have lost it. Seeing this, my heart beat wild with fright, my ardor increased and lent wings to my speed. I was evidently gaining on the shadow--I came nearer and nearer--I was within reach of it, when it suddenly stopped and turned towards me. Like a lion darting on its prey, I made a powerful spring and fell unexpectedly upon a hard substance. Then followed, from an invisible hand, the most terrible blows in the ribs that anyone ever received. The effect of my terror made me endeavor convulsively to strike and grasp at the unseen object before me. The rapidity of my motions brought me to the ground, where I lay stretched out with a man under me, whom I held tight, and who now became visible. The whole affair was now explained. The man had undoubtedly possessed the bird's nest which communicates its charm of invisibility to its possessor, though not equally so to his shadow; and this nest he had now thrown away. I looked all round, and soon discovered the shadow of this invisible nest. I sprang towards it, and was fortunate enough to seize the precious booty, and immediately became invisible and shadowless. The moment the man regained his feet he looked all round over the wide sunny plain to discover his fortunate vanquisher, but could see neither him nor his shadow, the latter seeming particularly to be the object of his search: for previous to our encounter he had not had leisure to observe that I was shadowless, and he could not be aware of it. Becoming convinced that all traces of me were lost, he began to tear his hair, and give himself up to all the frenzy of despair. In the meantime, this newly acquired treasure communicated to me both the ability and the desire to mix again among mankind. I was at no loss for a pretext to vindicate this unjust robbery--or, rather, so deadened had I become, I felt no need of a pretext; and in order to dissipate every idea of the kind, I hastened on, regardless of the unhappy man, whose fearful lamentations long resounded in my ears. Such, at the time, were my impressions of all the circumstances of this affair. I now ardently desired to return to the ranger's garden, in order to ascertain in person the truth of the information communicated by the odious unknown; but I knew not where I was, until, ascending an eminence to take a survey of the surrounding country, I perceived, from its summit, the little town and the gardens almost at my feet. My heart beat violently, and tears of a nature very different from those I had lately shed filled my eyes. I should, then, once more behold her! Anxiety now hastened my steps. Unseen, I met some peasants coming from the town; they were talking of me, of Rascal, and of the ranger. I would not stay to listen to their conversation, but proceeded on. My bosom thrilled with expectation as I entered the garden. At this moment I heard something like a hollow laugh which caused me involuntarily to shudder. I cast a rapid glance around, but could see no one. I passed on; presently I fancied I heard the sound of footsteps close to me, but no one was within sight. My ears must have deceived me. It was early; no one was in Count Peter's bower--the gardens were deserted. I traversed all the well-known paths, and penetrated even to the dwelling-house itself. The same rustling sound became now more and more audible. With anguished feelings I sat down on a seat placed in the sunny space before the door, and actually felt some invisible fiend take a place by me, and heard him utter a sarcastic laugh. The key was turned in the door, which was opened. The forest-master appeared with a paper in his hand. Suddenly my head was, as it were, enveloped in a mist. I looked up, and, oh horror! the gray-coated man was at my side, peering in my face with a satanic grin. He had extended the mist-cap he wore over my head. His shadow and my own were lying together at his feet in perfect amity. He kept twirling in his hand the well-known parchment with an air of indifference; and while the ranger, absorbed in thought, and intent upon his paper, paced up and down the arbor, my tormentor confidentially leaned towards me, and whispered: "So, Mr. Schlemihl, you have at length accepted my invitation; and here we sit, two heads under one hood, as the saying is. Well, well, all in good time. But now you can return me my bird's nest--you have no further occasion for it; and I am sure you are too honorable a man to withhold it from me. No need of thanks, I assure you; I had infinite pleasure in lending it to you." He took it out of my unresisting hand, put it into his pocket, and then broke into so loud a laugh at my expense, that the forest-master turned round, startled at the sound. I was petrified. "You must acknowledge," he continued, "that in our position a hood is much more convenient. It serves to conceal not only a man, but his shadow, or as many shadows as he chooses to carry. I, for instance, to-day bring two, you perceive." He laughed again. "Take notice, Schlemihl, that what a man refuses to do with a good grace in the first instance, he is always in the end compelled to do. I am still of opinion that you ought to redeem your shadow and claim your bride (for it is yet time); and as to Rascal, he shall dangle at a rope's end--no difficult matter, so long as we can find a bit. As a mark of friendship I will give you my cap into the bargain." The mother now came out, and the following conversation took place: "What is Minna doing?"--"She is weeping."--"Silly child! what good can that do?"--"None, certainly; but it is so soon to bestow her hand on another. O husband, you are too harsh to your poor child."--"No, wife; you view things in a wrong light. When she finds herself the wife of a wealthy and honorable man, her tears will soon cease; she will waken out of a dream, as it were, happy and grateful to Heaven and to her parents, as you will see."--"Heaven grant it may be so!" replied the wife. "She has, indeed, now considerable property; but after the noise occasioned by her unlucky affair with that adventurer, do you imagine that she is likely soon to meet with so advantageous a match as Mr. Rascal? Do you know the extent of Mr. Rascal's influence and wealth? Why, he has purchased with ready money, in this country, six millions of landed property, free from all encumbrances. I have had all the documents in my hands. It was he who outbid me everywhere when I was about to make a desirable purchase; and, besides, he has bills on Mr. Thomas John's house to the amount of three millions and a half."--"He must have been a prodigious thief!"--"How foolishly you talk! he wisely saved where others squandered their property."--"A mere livery-servant!"--"Nonsense! he has at all events an unexceptionable shadow."--"True, but..." While this conversation was passing, the gray-coated man looked at me with a satirical smile. The door opened, and Minna entered, leaning on the arm of her female attendant, silent tears flowing down her fair but pallid face. She seated herself in the chair which had been placed for her under the lime trees, and her father took a stool by her side. He gently raised her hand; and as her tears flowed afresh, he addressed her in the most affectionate manner: "My own dear, good child--my Minna--will act reasonably, and not afflict her poor old father, who only wishes to make her happy. My dearest child, this blow has shaken you--dreadfully, I know it; but you have been saved, as by a miracle, from a miserable fate, my Minna. You loved the unworthy villain most tenderly before his treachery was discovered: I feel all this, Minna; and far be it from me to reproach you for it--in fact, I myself loved him so long as I considered him to be a person of rank: you now see yourself how differently it has turned out. Every dog has a shadow; and the idea of my child having been on the eve of uniting herself to a man who... but I am sure you will think no more of him. A suitor has just appeared for you in the person of a man who does not fear the sun--an honorable man--no prince indeed, but a man worth ten millions of golden ducats sterling--a sum nearly ten times larger than your fortune consists of--a man, too, who will make my dear child happy--nay, do not oppose me--be my own good, dutiful child--allow your loving father to provide for you, and to dry up these tears. Promise to bestow your hand on Mr. Rascal. Speak my child: will you not?" Minna could scarcely summon strength to reply that she had now no longer any hopes or desires on earth, and that she was entirely at her father's disposal. Rascal was therefore immediately sent for, and entered the room with his usual forwardness; but Minna in the meantime had swooned away. My detested companion looked at me indignantly, and whispered: "Can you endure this? Have you no blood in your veins?" He instantly pricked my finger, which bled. "Yes, positively," he exclaimed, "you have some blood left!--come, sign." The parchment and pen were in my hand!... CHAPTER IV. I submit myself to thy judgment, my dear Chamisso; I do not seek to bias it. I have long been a rigid censor of myself, and nourished at my heart the worm of remorse. This critical moment of my life is ever present to my soul, and I dare only cast a hesitating glance at it, with a deep sense of humiliation and grief. Ah, my dear friend, he who once permits himself thoughtlessly to deviate but one step from the right road will imperceptibly find himself involved in various intricate paths, all leading him farther and farther astray. In vain he beholds the guiding-stars of heaven shining before him. No choice is left him--he must descend the precipice, and offer himself up a sacrifice to his fate. After the false step which I had rashly made, and which entailed a curse upon me, I had, in the wantonness of passion, entangled one in my fate who had staked all her happiness upon me. What was left for me to do in a case where I had brought another into misery, but to make a desperate leap in the dark to save her?--the last, the only means of rescue presented itself. Think not so meanly of me, Chamisso, as to imagine that I would have shrunk from any sacrifice on my part. In such a case it would have been but a poor ransom. No, Chamisso; but my whole soul was filled with unconquerable hatred to the cringing knave and his crooked ways. I might be doing him injustice; but I shuddered at the bare idea of entering into any fresh compact with him. But here a circumstance took place which entirely changed the face of things.... I know not whether to ascribe it to excitement of mind, exhaustion of physical strength (for during the last few days I had scarcely tasted anything), or the antipathy I felt to the society of my fiendish companion; but just as I was about to sign the fatal paper, I fell into a deep swoon, and remained for a long time as if dead. The first sounds which greeted my ears on recovering my consciousness were those of cursing and imprecation; I opened my eyes--it was dusk; my hateful companion was overwhelming me with reproaches. "Is not this behaving like an old woman? Come, rise up, and finish quickly what you were going to do; or perhaps you have changed your determination, and prefer to lie groaning there?" I raised myself with difficulty from the ground and gazed around me without speaking a word. It was late in the evening, and I heard strains of festive music proceeding from the ranger's brilliantly illuminated house; groups of company were lounging about the gardens; two persons approached, and seating themselves on the bench I had lately occupied, began to converse on the subject of the marriage which had taken place that morning between the wealthy Mr. Rascal and Minna. All was then over. I tore off the cap which rendered me invisible; and my companion having disappeared, I plunged in silence into the thickest gloom of the grove, rapidly passed Count Peter's bower towards the entrance-gate; but my tormentor still haunted me, and loaded me with reproaches. "And is this all the gratitude I am to expect from you, Mr. Schlemihl--you, whom I have been watching all the weary day, until you should recover from your nervous attack? What a fool's part I have been enacting! It is of no use flying from me, Mr. Perverse--we are inseparable--you have my gold, I have your shadow; this exchange deprives us both of peace. Did you ever hear of a man's shadow leaving him?--yours follows me until you receive it again into favor, and thus free me from it. Disgust and weariness sooner or later will compel you to do what you should have done gladly at first. In vain you strive with fate!" He continued unceasingly in the same tone, uttering constant sarcasms about the gold and the shadow, till I was completely bewildered. To fly from him was impossible. I had pursued my way through the empty streets towards my own house, which I could scarcely recognize--the windows were broken to pieces, no light was visible, the doors were shut, and the bustle of domestics had ceased. My companion burst into a loud laugh. "Yes, yes," said he, "you see the state of things: however, you will find your friend Bendel at home; he was sent back the other day so fatigued, that I assure you he has never left the house since. He will have a fine story to tell! So I wish you a very good night--may we shortly meet again!" I had repeatedly rung the bell; at last a light appeared; and Bendel inquired from within who was there. The poor fellow could scarcely contain himself at the sound of my voice. The door flew open, and we were locked in each other's arms. I found him sadly changed; he was looking ill and feeble. I, too, was altered; my hair had become quite gray. He conducted me through the desolate apartments to an inner room, which had escaped the general wreck. After partaking of some refreshments, we seated ourselves; and, with fresh lamentations, he began to tell me that the gray, withered old man whom he had met with my shadow had insensibly led him such a zig-zag race, that he had lost all traces of me, and at last sank down exhausted with fatigue; that, unable to find me, he had returned home, when, shortly after, the mob, at Rascal's instigation, assembled violently before the house, broke the windows, and by all sorts of excesses completely satiated their fury. Thus had they treated their benefactor. My servants had fled in all directions. The police had banished me from the town as a suspicious character, and granted me an interval of twenty-four hours to leave the territory. Bendel added many particulars as to the information I had already obtained respecting Rascal's wealth and marriage. This villain, it seems--who was the author of all the measures taken against me--became possessed of my secret nearly from the beginning, and, tempted by the love of money, had supplied himself with a key to my chest, and from that time had been laying the foundation of his present wealth. Bendel related all this with many tears, and wept for joy that I was once more safely restored to him, after all his fears and anxieties for me. In me, however, such a state of things only awoke despair. My dreadful fate now stared me in the face in all its gigantic and unchangeable horror. The source of tears was exhausted within me; no groans escaped my breast; but with cool indifference I bared my unprotected head to the blast. "Bendel," said I, "you know my fate; this heavy visitation is a punishment for my early sins: but as for thee, my innocent friend, I can no longer permit thee to share my destiny. I will depart this very night--saddle me a horse--I will set out alone. Remain here, Bendel--I insist upon it: there must be some chests of gold still left in the house--take them, they are thine. I shall be a restless and solitary wanderer on the face of the earth; but should better days arise, and fortune once more smile propitiously on me, then I will not forget thy steady fidelity; for in hours of deep distress thy faithful bosom has been the depository of my sorrows." With a bursting heart, the worthy Bendel prepared to obey this last command of his master; for I was deaf to all his arguments and blind to his tears. My horse was brought--I pressed my weeping friend to my bosom--threw myself into the saddle, and, under the friendly shades of night, quitted this sepulchre of my existence, indifferent which road my horse should take; for now on this side the grave I had neither wishes, hopes, nor fears. After a short time I was joined by a traveller on foot, who, after walking for a while by the side of my horse, observed that as we both seemed to be travelling the same road, he should beg my permission to lay his cloak on the horse's back behind me, to which I silently assented. He thanked me with easy politeness for this trifling favor, praised my horse, and then took occasion to extol the happiness and the power of the rich, and fell, I scarcely know how, into a sort of conversation with himself, in which I merely acted the part of listener. He unfolded his views of human life and of the world, and, touching on metaphysics, demanded an answer from that cloudy science to the question of questions--the answer that should solve all mysteries. He deduced one problem from another in a very lucid manner, and then proceeded to their solution. You may remember, my dear friend, that after having run through the school-philosophy, I became sensible of my unfitness for metaphysical speculations, and therefore totally abstained from engaging in them. Since then I have acquiesced in some things, and abandoned all hope of comprehending others; trusting, as you advised me, to my own plain sense and the voice of conscience to direct, and, if possible, maintain me in the right path. Now this skilful rhetorician seemed to me to expend great skill in rearing a firmly-constructed edifice, towering aloft on its own self-supported basis, but resting on, and upheld by, some internal principle of necessity. I regretted in it the total absence of what I desired to find; and thus it seemed a mere work of art, serving only by its elegance and exquisite finish to captivate the eye. Nevertheless, I listened with pleasure to this eloquently gifted man, who diverted my attention from my own sorrows to the speaker; and he would have secured my entire acquiescence if he had appealed to my heart as well as to my judgment. In the meantime the hours had passed away, and morning had already dawned imperceptibly in the horizon; looking up, I shuddered as I beheld in the east all those splendid hues that announce the rising sun. At this hour, when all natural shadows are seen in their full proportions, not a fence or shelter of any kind could I descry in this open country, and I was not alone! I cast a glance at my companion, and shuddered again--it was the man in the gray coat himself! He laughed at my surprise, and said, without giving me time to speak: "You see, according to the fashion of this world, mutual convenience binds us together for a time; there is plenty of time to think of parting. The road here along the mountain, which perhaps has escaped your notice, is the only one that you can prudently take; into the valley you dare not descend--the path over the mountain would but reconduct you to the town which you have left--my road, too, lies this way. I perceive you change color at the rising sun--I have no objections to let you have the loan of your shadow during our journey, and in return you may not be indisposed to tolerate my society. You have now no Bendel; but I will act for him. I regret that you are not over-fond of me; but that need not prevent you from accepting my poor services. The devil is not so black as he is painted. Yesterday you provoked me, I own; but now that is all forgotten, and you must confess I have this day succeeded in beguiling the wearisomeness of your journey. Come, take your shadow, and make trial of it." The sun had risen, and we were meeting with passengers; so I reluctantly consented. With a smile, he immediately let my shadow glide down to the ground; and I beheld it take its place by that of my horse, and gayly trot along with me. My feelings were anything but pleasant. I rode through groups of country people, who respectfully made way for the well-mounted stranger. Thus I proceeded, occasionally stealing a side-long glance with a beating heart from my horse at the shadow once my own, but now, alas, accepted as a loan from a stranger, or rather a fiend. He moved on carelessly at my side, whistling a song. He being on foot, and I on horseback, the temptation to hazard a silly project occurred to me; so, suddenly turning my bridle, I set spurs to my horse, and at full gallop struck into a by-path; but my shadow, on the sudden movement of my horse, glided away, and stood on the road quietly awaiting the approach of its legal owner. I was obliged to return abashed towards the gray man; but he very coolly finished his song, and with a laugh set my shadow to rights again, reminding me that it was at my option to have it irrevocably fixed to me, by purchasing it on just and equitable terms. "I hold you," said he, "by the shadow; and you seek in vain to get rid of me. A rich man like you requires a shadow, unquestionably; and you are to blame for not having seen this sooner." I now continued my journey on the same road; every convenience and even luxury of life was mine; I moved about in peace and freedom, for I possessed a shadow, though a borrowed one; and all the respect due to wealth was paid to me. But a deadly disease preyed on my heart. My extraordinary companion, who gave himself out to be the humble attendant of the richest individual in the world, was remarkable for his dexterity; in short, his singular address and promptitude admirably fitted him to be the very beau ideal of a rich man's lacquey. But he never stirred from my side, and tormented me with constant assurances that a day would most certainly come when, if it were only to get rid of him, I should gladly comply with his terms, and redeem my shadow. Thus he became as irksome as he was hateful to me. I really stood in awe of him--I had placed myself in his power. Since he had effected my return to the pleasures of the world, which I had resolved to shun, he had the perfect mastery of me. His eloquence was irresistible, and at times I almost thought he was in the right. A shadow is indeed necessary to a man of fortune; and if I chose to maintain the position in which he had placed me, there was only one means of doing so. But on one point I was immovable: since I had sacrificed my love for Minna, and thereby blighted the happiness of my whole life, I would not now, for all the shadows in the universe, be induced to sign away my soul to this being--I knew not how it might end. One day we were sitting by the entrance of a cavern much visited by strangers who ascended the mountain; the rushing noise of a subterranean torrent resounded from the fathomless abyss, the depths of which exceeded all calculation. He was, according to his favorite custom, employing all the powers of his lavish fancy, and all the charm of the most brilliant coloring, to depict to me what I might effect in the world by virtue of my purse, when once I had recovered my shadow. With my elbows resting on my knees, I kept my face concealed in my hands, and listened to the false fiend, my heart torn between the temptation and my determined opposition to it. Such indecision I could no longer endure, and resolved on one decisive effort. "You seem to forget," said I, "that I tolerate your presence only on certain conditions, and that I am to retain perfect freedom of action." "You have but to command; I depart," was all his reply. The threat was familiar to me; I was silent. He then began to fold up my shadow. I turned pale, but allowed him to continue. A long silence ensued, which he was the first to break. "You cannot endure me, Mr. Schlemihl--you hate me--I am aware of it--but why?--is it, perhaps, because you attacked me on the open plain, in order to rob me of my invisible bird's nest? or is it because you thievishly endeavored to seduce away the shadow with which I had entrusted you--my own property--confiding implicitly in your honor? I, for my part, have no dislike to you. It is perfectly natural that you should avail yourself of every means, presented either, by cunning or force, to promote your own interests. That your principles also should be of the strictest sort, and your intentions of the most honorable description,--these are fancies with which I have nothing to do; I do not pretend to such strictness myself. Each of us is free, I to act, and you to think, as seems best. Did I ever seize you by the throat, to tear out of your body that valuable soul I so ardently wish to possess? Did I ever set my servant to attack you, to get back my purse, or attempt to run off with it from you?" I had not a word to reply. "Well, well," he exclaimed, "you detest me, and I know it; but I bear you no malice on that account. We must part--that is clear; also I must say that you begin to be very tiresome to me. Once more let me advise you to free yourself entirely from my troublesome presence by the purchase of your shadow." I held out the purse to him. "No, Mr. Schlemihl; not at that price." With a deep sigh, I said, "Be it so, then; let us part, I entreat; cross my path no more. There is surely room enough in the world for us both." Laughing, he replied: "I go; but just allow me to inform you how you may at any time recall me whenever you have a mind to see your most humble servant: you have only to shake your purse, the sound of the gold will bring me to you in an instant. In this world every one consults his own advantage; but you see I have thought of yours, and clearly confer upon you a new power. Oh this purse! it would still prove a powerful bond between us, had the moth begun to devour your shadow. But enough: you hold me by my gold, and may command your servant at any distance. You know that I can be very serviceable to my friends, and that the rich are my peculiar care--this you have observed. As to your shadow, allow me to say, you can only redeem it on one condition." Recollections of former days came over me; and I hastily asked him if he had obtained Mr. Thomas John's signature. He smiled, and said: "It was by no means necessary from so excellent a friend." "Where is he? for God's sake tell me; I insist upon knowing." With some hesitation, he put his hand into his pocket, and drew out the altered and pallid form of Mr. John by the hair of his head, whose livid lips uttered the awful words, "Justo judicio Dei judicatus sum; justo judicio Dei condemnatus sum"--"I am judged and condemned by the just judgment of God." I was horror-struck; and instantly throwing the jingling purse into the abyss, I exclaimed, "Wretch! in the name of Heaven, I conjure you to be gone!--away from my sight!--never appear before me again!" With a dark expression on his countenance, he rose, and immediately vanished behind the huge rocks which surrounded the place. CHAPTER V. I was now left equally without gold and without shadow; but a heavy load was taken from my breast, and I felt cheerful. Had not my Minna been irrecoverably lost to me, or even had I been perfectly free from self-reproach on her account, I felt that happiness might yet have been mine. At present I was lost in doubt as to my future course. I examined my pockets, and found I had a few gold-pieces still left, which I counted with feelings of great satisfaction. I had left my horse at the inn, and was ashamed to return, or at all events I must wait till the sun had set, which at present was high in the heavens. I laid myself down under a shady tree and fell into a peaceful sleep. Lovely forms floated in airy measures before me, and filled up my delightful dreams. Minna, with a garland of flowers entwined in her hair, was bending over me with a smile of good-will; also the worthy Bendel was crowned with flowers, and hastened to meet me with friendly greetings. Many other forms seemed to rise up confusedly in the distance: thyself among the number, Chamisso. Perfect radiance beamed around them, but none had a shadow; and what was more surprising, there was no appearance of unhappiness on this account. Nothing was to be seen or heard but flowers and music; and love and joy, and groves of never-fading palms, seemed the natives of that happy clime. In vain I tried to detain and comprehend the lovely but fleeting forms. I was conscious, also, of being in a dream, and was anxious that nothing should rouse me from it; and when I did awake, I kept my eyes closed, in order if possible to continue the illusion. At last I opened my eyes. The sun was now visible in the east; I must have slept the whole night: I looked upon this as a warning not to return to the inn. What I had left there I was content to lose, without much regret; and resigning myself to Providence, I decided on taking a by-road that led through the wooded declivity of the mountain. I never once cast a glance behind me; nor did it ever occur to me to return, as I might have done, to Bendel, whom I had left in affluence. I reflected on the new character I was now going to assume in the world. My present garb was very humble--consisting of an old black coat I formerly had worn at Berlin, and which by some chance was the first I put my hand on before setting out on this journey, a travelling-cap, and an old pair of boots. I cut down a knotted stick in memory of the spot, and commenced my pilgrimage. In the forest I met an aged peasant, who gave me a friendly greeting, and with whom I entered into conversation, requesting, as a traveller desirous of information, some particulars relative to the road, the country, and its inhabitants, the productions of the mountain, etc. He replied to my various inquiries with readiness and intelligence. At last we reached the bed of a mountain-torrent, which had laid waste a considerable tract of the forest; I inwardly shuddered at the idea of the open sunshine. I suffered the peasant to go before me. In the middle of the very place which I dreaded so much, he suddenly stopped, and turned back to give me an account of this inundation; but instantly perceiving that I had no shadow, he broke off abruptly, and exclaimed: "How is this?--you have no shadow!" "Alas, alas!" said I, "in a long and serious illness I had the misfortune to lose my hair, my nails, and my shadow. Look, good father; although my hair has grown again, it is quite white; and at my age my nails are still very short; and my poor shadow seems to have left me, never to return." "Ah!" said the old man, shaking his head; "no shadow! that was indeed a terrible illness, sir." But he did not resume his narrative; and at the very first cross-road we came to left me without uttering a syllable. Fresh tears flowed from my eyes, and my cheerfulness had fled. With a heavy heart I travelled on, avoiding all society. I plunged into the deepest shades of the forest; and often, to avoid a sunny tract of country, I waited for hours till every human being had left it, and I could pass it unobserved. In the evenings I took shelter in the villages. I bent my steps to a mine in the mountains, where I hoped to meet with work underground; for besides that my present situation compelled me to provide for my own support, I felt that incessant and laborious occupation alone could divert my mind from dwelling on painful subjects. A few rainy days assisted me materially on my journey; but it was to the no small detriment of my boots, the soles of which were better suited to Count Peter than to the poor foot-traveller. I was soon barefoot, and a new purchase must be made. The following morning I commenced an earnest search in a market-place, where a fair was being held; and I saw in one of the booths new and second-hand boots set out for sale. I was a long time selecting and bargaining; I wished much to have a new pair, but was frightened at the extravagant price; and so was obliged to content myself with a second-hand pair, still pretty good and strong, which the beautiful fair-haired youth who kept the booth handed over to me with a cheerful smile, wishing me a prosperous journey. I went on, and left the place immediately by the northern gate. I was so lost in my own thoughts, that I walked along scarcely knowing how or where. I was calculating the chances of my reaching the mine by the evening, and considering how I should introduce myself. I had not gone two hundred steps, when I perceived I was not in the right road. I looked round, and found myself in a wild-looking forest of ancient firs, where apparently the stroke of the axe had never been heard. A few steps more brought me amid huge rocks covered with moss and saxifragous plants, between which whole fields of snow and ice were extended. The air was intensely cold. I looked round, and the forest had disappeared behind me; a few steps more, and there was the stillness of death itself. The icy plain on which I stood stretched to an immeasurable distance, and a thick cloud rested upon it; the sun was of a red blood-color at the verge of the horizon: the cold was insupportable. I could not imagine what had happened to me. The benumbing frost made me quicken my pace. I heard a distant sound of waters; and at one step more I stood on the icy shore of some ocean. Innumerable droves of sea-dogs rushed past me and plunged into the waves. I continued my way along this coast, and again met with rocks, plains, birch and fir forests, and yet only a few minutes had elapsed. It was now intensely hot. I looked around, and suddenly found myself between some fertile rice-fields and mulberry trees; I sat down under their shade, and found by my watch that it was just one quarter of an hour since I had left the village market. I fancied it was a dream; but no, I was indeed awake, as I felt by the experiment I made of biting my tongue. I closed my eyes in order to collect my scattered thoughts. Presently I heard unintelligible words uttered in a nasal tone; and I beheld two Chinese, whose Asiatic physiognomies were not to be mistaken, even had their costume not betrayed their origin. They were addressing me in the language and with the salutations of their country. I rose and drew back a couple of steps. They had disappeared; the landscape was entirely changed; the rice-fields had given place to trees and woods. I examined some of the trees and plants around me, and ascertained such of them as I was acquainted with to be productions of the southern part of Asia. I made one step towards a particular tree, and again all was changed. I now moved on like a recruit at drill, taking slow and measured steps, gazing with astonished eyes at the wonderful variety of regions, plains, meadows, mountains, steppes, and sandy deserts, which passed in succession before me. I had now no doubt that I had seven-leagued boots on my feet. I fell on my knees in silent gratitude, shedding tears of thankfulness; for I now saw clearly what was to be my future condition. Shut out by early sins from all human society, I was offered amends for the privation by Nature herself, which I had ever loved. The earth was granted me as a rich garden; and the knowledge of her operations was to be the study and object of my life. This was not a mere resolution. I have since endeavored, with anxious and unabated industry, faithfully to imitate the finished and brilliant model then presented to me; and my vanity has received a check when led to compare the picture with the original. I rose immediately, and took a hasty survey of this new field, where I hoped afterwards to reap a rich harvest. I stood on the heights of Thibet; and the sun I had lately beheld in the east was now sinking in the west. I traversed Asia from east to west, and thence passed into Africa, which I curiously examined, at repeated visits, in all directions. As I gazed on the ancient pyramids and temples of Egypt, I descried, in the sandy deserts near Thebes of the hundred gates, the caves where Christian hermits dwelt of old. My determination was instantly taken, that here should be my future dwelling. I chose one of the most secluded, but roomy, comfortable, and inaccessible to the jackals. I stepped over from the pillars of Hercules to Europe; and having taken a survey of its northern and southern countries, I passed by the north of Asia, on the polar glaciers, to Greenland and America, visiting both parts of this continent; and the winter, which was already at its height in the south, drove me quickly back from Cape Horn to the north. I waited till daylight had risen in the east of Asia, and then, after a short rest, continued my pilgrimage. I followed in both the Americas the vast chain of the Andes, once considered the loftiest on our globe. I stepped carefully and slowly from one summit to another, sometimes over snowy heights, sometimes over flaming volcanoes, often breathless from fatigue. At last I reached Elias's mountain, and sprang over Behring's Straits into Asia; I followed the western coast in its various windings, carefully observing which of the neighboring isles was accessible to me. From the peninsula of Malacca my boots carried me to Sumatra, Java, Bali, and Lombok. I made many attempts--often with danger, and always unsuccessfully--to force my way over the numerous little islands and rocks with which this sea is studded, wishing to find a northwest passage to Borneo and other islands of the Archipelago. At last I sat down at the extreme point of Lombok, my eyes turned towards the southeast, lamenting that I had so soon reached the limits allotted to me, and bewailing my fate as a captive in his grated cell. Thus was I shut out from that remarkable country, New Holland, and the islands of the southern ocean, so essentially necessary to a knowledge of the earth, and which would have best assisted me in the study of the animal and vegetable kingdoms. And thus, at the very outset, I beheld all my labors condemned to be limited to mere fragments. Ah! Chamisso, what is the activity of man? Frequently in the most rigorous winters of the southern hemisphere I have rashly thrown myself on a fragment of drifting ice between Cape Horn and Van Diemen's Land, in the hope of effecting a passage to New Holland, reckless of the cold and the vast ocean, reckless of my fate, even should this savage land prove my grave. But all in vain--I never reached New Holland. Each time, when defeated in my attempt, I returned to Lombok; and seated at its extreme point, my eyes directed to the southeast, I gave way afresh to lamentations that my range of investigation was so limited. At last I tore myself from the spot, and, heartily grieved at my disappointment, returned to the interior of Asia. Setting out at morning dawn, I traversed it from east to west, and at night reached the cave in Thebes which I had previously selected for my dwelling-place, and had visited yesterday afternoon. After a short repose, as soon as daylight had visited Europe, it was my first care to provide myself with the articles of which I stood most in need. First of all a drag to act on my boots; for I had experienced the inconvenience of these whenever I wished to shorten my steps and examine surrounding objects more fully. A pair of slippers to go over the boots served the purpose effectually; and from that time I carried two pairs about me, because I frequently cast them off from my feet in my botanical investigations, without having time to pick them up, when threatened by the approach of lions, men, or hyenas. My excellent watch, owing to the short duration of my movements, was also on these occasions an admirable chronometer. I wanted, besides, a sextant, a few philosophical instruments, and some books. To purchase these things, I made several unwilling journeys to London and Paris, choosing a time when I could be hid by the favoring clouds. As all my ill-gotten gold was exhausted, I carried over from Africa some ivory, which is there so plentiful, in payment of my purchases--taking care, however; to pick out the smallest teeth, in order not to overburden myself. I had thus soon provided myself with all that I wanted, and now entered on a new mode of life as a student--wandering over the globe--measuring the height of the mountains, and the temperature of the air and of the springs--observing the manners and habits of animals--investigating plants and flowers. From the equator to the pole, and from the new world to the old, I was constantly engaged in repeating and comparing my experiments. My usual food consisted of the eggs of the African ostrich or northern sea-birds, with a few fruits, especially those of the palm and the banana of the tropics. The tobacco-plant consoled me when I was depressed; and the affection of my spaniel was a compensation for the loss of human sympathy and society. When I returned from my excursions, loaded with fresh treasures, to my cave in Thebes, which he guarded during my absence, he ever sprang joyfully forward to greet me, and made me feel that I was indeed not alone on the earth. An adventure soon occurred which brought me once more among my fellow-creatures. One day, as I was gathering lichens and algae on the northern coast, with the drag on my boots, a bear suddenly made his appearance, and was stealing towards me round the corner of a rock. After throwing away my slippers, I attempted to step across to an island, by means of a rock, projecting from the waves in the intermediate space, that served as a stepping-stone. I reached the rock safely with one foot, but instantly fell into the sea with the other, one of my slippers having inadvertently remained on. The cold was intense; and I escaped this imminent peril at the risk of my life. On coming ashore, I hastened to the Libyan sands to dry myself in the sun; but the heat affected my head so much, that, in a fit of illness, I staggered back to the north. In vain I sought relief by change of place--hurrying from east to west, and from west to east--now in climes of the south, now in those of the north; sometimes I rushed into daylight, sometimes into the shades of night. I know not how long this lasted. A burning fever raged in my veins; with extreme anguish I felt my senses leaving me. Suddenly, by an unlucky accident, I trod upon some one's foot, whom I had hurt, and received a blow in return which laid me senseless. On recovering, I found myself lying comfortably in a good bed, which, with many other beds, stood in a spacious and handsome apartment. Some one was watching by me; people seemed to be walking from one bed to another; they came beside me, and spoke of me as NUMBER TWELVE. On the wall, at the foot of my bed--it was no dream, for I distinctly read it--on a black-marble tablet was inscribed my name, in large letters of gold: PETER SCHLEMIHL. Underneath were two rows of letters in smaller characters, which I was too feeble to connect together, and closed my eyes again. I now heard something read aloud, in which I distinctly noted the words, "Peter Schlemihl," but could not collect the full meaning. I saw a man of benevolent aspect, and a very beautiful female dressed in black, standing near my bed; their countenances were not unknown to me, but in my weak state I could not remember who they were. Some time elapsed, and I began to regain my strength. I was called Number Twelve, and, from my long beard, was supposed to be a Jew, but was not the less carefully nursed on that account. No one seemed to perceive that I was destitute of a shadow. My boots, I was assured, together with everything found on me when I was brought here, were in safe keeping, and would be given up to me on my restoration to health. This place was called the SCHLEMIHLIUM: the daily recitation I had heard was an exhortation to pray for Peter Schlemihl as the founder and benefactor of this institution. The benevolent-looking man whom I had seen by my bedside was Bendel; the beautiful lady in black was Minna. I had been enjoying the advantages of the Schlemihlium without being recognized; and I learned, further, that I was in Bendel's native town, where he had employed a part of my once unhallowed gold in founding an hospital in my name, under his superintendence, and that its unfortunate inmates daily pronounced blessings on me. Minna had become a widow: an unhappy lawsuit had deprived Rascal of his life, and Minna of the greater part of her property. Her parents were no more; and here she dwelt in widowed piety, wholly devoting herself to works of mercy. One day, as she stood by the side of Number Twelve's bed with Bendel, he said to her, "Noble lady, why expose yourself so frequently to this unhealthy atmosphere? Has fate dealt so harshly with you as to render you desirous of death?" "By no means, Mr. Bendel," she replied; "since I have awoke from my long dream, all has gone well with me. I now neither wish for death nor fear it, and think on the future and on the past with equal serenity. Do you not also feel an inward satisfaction in thus paying a pious tribute of gratitude and love to your old master and friend?" "Thanks be to God, I do, noble lady," said he. "Ah, how wonderfully has everything fallen out! How thoughtlessly have we sipped joys and sorrows from the full cup now drained to the last drop; and we might fancy the past a mere prelude to the real scene for which we now wait armed by experience. How different has been the reality! Yet let us not regret the past, but rather rejoice that we have not lived in vain. As respects our old friend also, I have a firm hope that it is now better with him than formerly." "I trust so, too," answered Minna; and so saying, she passed by me, and they departed. This conversation made a deep impression on me; and I hesitated whether I should discover myself or depart unknown. At last I decided; and, asking for pen and paper, wrote as follows: "Matters are indeed better with your old friend than formerly. He has repented; and his repentance has led to forgiveness." I now attempted to rise, for I felt myself stronger. The keys of a little chest near my bed were given me; and in it I found all my effects. I put on my clothes; fastened my botanical case round me--wherein, with delight, I found my northern lichens all safe--put on my boots, and, leaving my note on the table, left the gates, and was speedily far advanced on the road to Thebes. Passing along the Syrian coast, which was the same road I had taken on last leaving home, I beheld my poor Figaro running to meet me. The faithful animal, after vainly waiting at home for his master's return, had probably followed his traces. I stood still, and called him. He sprang towards me with leaps and barks, and a thousand demonstrations of unaffected delight. I took him in my arms--for he was unable to follow me--and carried him home. There I found everything exactly in the order in which I had left it; and returned by degrees, as my increasing strength allowed me, to my old occupations and usual mode of life, from which I was kept back a whole year by my fall into the Polar Ocean. And this, dear Chamisso, is the life I am still leading. My boots are not yet worn out, as I had been led to fear would be the case from that very learned work of Tieckius--De Rebus Gestis Pollicilli. Their energies remain unimpaired; and although mine are gradually failing me, I enjoy the consolation of having spent them in pursuing incessantly one object, and that not fruitlessly. So far as my boots would carry me, I have observed and studied our globe and its conformation, its mountains and temperature, the atmosphere in its various changes, the influences of the magnetic power; in fact, I have studied all living creation--and more especially the kingdom of plants--more profoundly than any one of our race. I have arranged all the facts in proper order, to the best of my ability, in different works. The consequences deducible from these facts, and my views respecting them, I have hastily recorded in some essays and dissertations. I have settled the geography of the interior of Africa and the Arctic regions, of the interior of Asia and of its eastern coast. My Historia Stirpium Plantarum Utriusque Orbis is an extensive fragment of a Flora universalis terrae and a part of my Systema Naturae. Besides increasing the number of our known species by more than a third, I have also contributed somewhat to the natural system of plants and to a knowledge of their geography. I am now deeply engaged on my Fauna, and shall take care to have my manuscripts sent to the University of Berlin before my decease. I have selected thee, my dear Chamisso, to be the guardian of my wonderful history, thinking that, when I have left this world, it may afford valuable instruction to the living. As for thee, Chamisso, if thou wouldst live amongst thy fellow-creatures, learn to value thy shadow more than gold; if thou wouldst only live to thyself and thy nobler part--in this thou needest no counsel. 
33789	----	1. Page scan source: http://books.google.com/books?id=VsALAAAAIAAJ&pg=PP5&dq=Collection+of+G erman+Authors.+Vol.+27. 2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe]. COLLECTION OF GERMAN AUTHORS. VOL. 27. * * * * * BARBAROSSA AND OTHER TALES BY P. HEYSE. IN ONE VOLUME. BARBAROSSA AND OTHER TALES BY PAUL HEYSE. FROM THE GERMAN BY L. C. S. _Authorized Edition._ LEIPZIG 1874 BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ. LONDON: SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, LOW & SEARLE. CROWN BUILDINGS, 188, FLEET STREET. PARIS: C. REINWALD & Cie, 15, RUE DES SAINTS PÈRES. CONTENTS. BARBAROSSA THE EMBROIDERESS OF TREVISO LOTTKA THE LOST SON THE FAIR KATE GEOFFROY AND GARCINDE BARBAROSSA. BARBAROSSA. I had only intended to spend one day up in the mountains, and this one day grew into two weeks, which I found pass more rapidly in that high-perched ruinous nest on the confines of the Albano and Sabine range--the name I will not give--than was often the case in the whirl of great cities. What I actually did with myself during the sweet long days I hardly know how to tell. But in Rome a mighty hunger after solitude had fallen on me. I could satisfy it here to the full. It was early spring-time, the leaves of the chestnut trees shone in luxuriant freshness; the ravines were filled by the song of birds, and the murmur of brooks; and as of late a large body of banditti who had rendered this wild district insecure, had been in part captured, and in part driven into the Abruzzi, it ensued that a lonely wanderer might without any apprehension climb the remotest crags, and there give himself up undisturbed to profoundest meditations. From the first I declined all intercourse with the German artists, a good number of whom had taken possession of both miserable inns the village possessed, and as to the desire of every now and then hearing one's own voice, which impels hermits to converse with their domestic animals, I could gratify it quite sufficiently within my own walls. For as it happened I lodged with the apothecary, and he had the utmost indulgence for my very defective Italian. True he indemnified himself for his outlay in patience by not unfrequently taking advantage of mine, for as soon as the first shyness had worn off, he showered a whole cornucopia of his own verses on me, confessing that despite his fifty and five years he was still unable entirely to shake off this childish malady. "What would you have?" he pleaded, "when at evening I step to my window and see the moon coming up behind the rocks, and the fire-flies on the wing about my little garden,--why I must be a brute if it does not set me off poetising." And indeed he was anything but a brute this good Signor Angelo, whom owing to a natural tonsure--a rim of black hair still circling his smooth bald head--his friends were wont to nickname Fra Angelico. He had never indeed left his native place more than twice in his life, nor on either occasion gone further than Rome. But then Rome is the world, he would say. He who has seen Rome, has seen everything. And forthwith he proceeded to speak of everything, partly according to the very miscellaneous and chaotic knowledge he owed to a few books accidentally picked up, partly from the audacity of unbridled poetical fancy. Of all the worthies who according to old Italian custom were wont to gather at evening in his apothecary's shop: priest, schoolmaster, surgeon, tax-gatherer, and a few unofficial well-to-do proprietors, whose faces beamed with the profits of their rich olive and vine yards,--of all these notabilities not one ventured to contradict Fra Angelico, not at least, when previous to one of his longer harangues, he polished his large silver spectacles on his coat-sleeve and began, "_Ecco signori miei_, the matter stands thus." But all the same he was the best and most harmless creature in the world, and the most amiable landlord one could desire, provided one had no wish beyond a hard bed, and two ricketty arm-chairs! He was certainly fond of me, although, or perhaps _because_ he had not the faintest idea that I was a brother poet. I was discreet enough to confine myself to playing the part of a grateful public, and it was not until after the four-and-twentieth sonnet that I would gently lay my hand on his arm and say, "Bravo, Signor Angelo! But I fear this is too much of a good thing. Your poetry, is you know, potent, and flies to the head. To-morrow you shall fill me up a new flask from your Hippocrene." Whereupon with the most good-humoured look imaginable he would close his volume and say, "What avail if I read you to sleep, night after night a whole year through? I should still not have come to an end! Here we have another Peru!" And tapping on his bald forehead he would sigh, offer a pinch of snuff, and wish me a good night. The majority of these poems were of course devoted to love, and when the little man recited them with sparkling eyes and all the pathos common to his nation, it was easy to forget his five and fifty years. Nevertheless, he lived a bachelor's life, with one old maid-servant and a boy who helped him with his salves and potions, and it seemed strange that with all his love for the beautiful and his comfortable means, he should never have married, nor even now in his sunny autumn seem inclined to make up for lost time. One evening, when we sat smoking together over the good home-grown wine, and I jokingly asked him why he took his monkish nickname so much in earnest, and whether none of the pretty girls that daily passed his shop had contrived to touch his heart, he suddenly looked up at me with a strange expression, and said, "Pretty girls? Well, I daresay they are not so far from it either, and marriage may be better than is reported. But I am too old for a young man, and too young for an old one, or rather let me say too much of a poet. The older the bird, the harder to catch. And then you see, my friend, I was once devoted to a girl who did not care for me--one I tell you the like of whom will never be seen again. So now I am too proud, or whatever it may be called, to be flattered even if some common-place creature--of whom there are twelve to the dozen--were to fancy me. I prefer to dream myself happy in my verses, and to shape myself a perfect beauty out of a hundred incomplete ones, like the Grecian painter--was his name Apelles?--who took for his Venus the eyes of one neighbour, the nose of another, and thus got the best together bit by bit. But as for her who really did unite all perfections, and was so beautiful that you would not believe me if I tried to describe her, she paid dear for her beauty, and many know the story as correctly as I do, though if you were to ask any of the older people in the place about Erminia, they would all bear me out that she was a wonder of the world, and that during the twenty years that have passed by since then, nothing has ever happened that made such an impression as her fate and all connected with it. Come now, I will tell it you, as you already know the sonnets to her--I allude to the sixty-seven that I keep in the blue portfolio, of which you said that they really had much of Petrarch's manner; they all date from the time when the wound was still fresh; and when once, you have heard the story you can hear them over again. It is only so that you will thoroughly understand them." After which, with a sigh that sounded to me rather comic than tragic, he snuffed the candle, leant back in the arm-chair behind his counter, half-closed his eyes, and buried his hands in the side-pockets of his worn-out paletot. It was about nine o'clock in the evening. The Piazza before the house was still as death, one heard only the prattling of the brook, and the heavy breathing of the apprentice asleep in the next room. Then after a long pause he began with his usual exordium. "_Ecco amico mio_, the matter stands thus. Somewhere about the year '30--you are too young to remember so far back--this said Erminia lived here in the village with a mother and sister who are also dead and buried long ago. If when you leave this door, you turn to the right up the little street leading to the old ruin on the summit of our hill, you will come to a small house, or rather hovel, roofless now except for two worm-eaten beams, and even then it was not much better protected from sun and rain; only that the great fig-tree that is withered now, used at that time to spread its broad thick-leaved branches over it just at the season when shade was most needed. In those bare stone walls that had formerly served as a shelter to wild creatures, Erminia lived. Her father had been dead for years, her mother had no idea of management, so that the family had come down wofully, and were glad enough to be allowed to nestle down in those ruins. There were, indeed, many who would have been glad to support the widow for her husband's sake. But you know how the proverb runs: 'Sacco rotto non tien miglio. Pover uomo non va a consiglio.'[1] It was all in vain. The girls who were thoroughly well-behaved, might work their fingers to the bone, spinning and lace-making, and the neighbours might do their part as well as they could, the old woman drank everything up, and if she was not raging like a fury, she would lie on the hearth and sleep, and leave her daughters to find food and clothing for all. I do believe if their next neighbour, the fig-tree, had not done its part so gallantly, that Erminia and her sister Maddalena would both have died of hunger, for they were too proud to beg. Raiment, indeed, the tree could not afford them, since we no longer live in Paradise. Consequently everybody was astonished to see the poor things come to church so neatly dressed, the more that there was not a word to be said against them. True the younger of the two, Maddalena was thoroughly safe from temptation, for she was as ugly as sin, a short, unkempt, club-footed creature, with long arms and short legs, having a gait much like that of a toad, and frightening the children in the street if she came upon them unexpectedly. "But she knew quite well how unsightly she was, and for the most part kept at home, doing, however, no harm to anyone, which is not often the case with such afflicted creatures, who are generally envious and spiteful by way of revenging themselves for their misfortune. She, on the contrary, seemed to look upon it as in the order of things that her mother, after bringing into the world one child so boundlessly beautiful as Erminia, should have had nothing but nature's refuse left for a second. Instead of looking askance at her elder sister, and wishing to poison her, she made so perfect an idol of her, that none of the young men about were more in love with Erminia than the poor fright Maddalena. And indeed Erminia was one that to see was to love. I for my part had seen all the statues in Rome, Muses, Venuses, Minervas, no small master-pieces, but such triumphs of art as the world cannot equal. And yet, between ourselves, utter failures compared to what nature had done. Look you, friend,"--and so saying the little man jumped up and raised his arm--"she was so tall, about a head taller than I am, but so beautifully formed; her little head so gracefully set on her magnificent bust, that no one found out how tall she was. And then her face, chiselled as it were, with large eyes richly eyelashed, and an expression proud and sweet both; a mouth red as a strawberry, or rather the inside of a white fig, and her brow crowned with thick blue-black curly hair, which she bound up behind into such a heavy nest of ringlets that it needed as stately a throat as hers to bear their burden. And then when she moved, walked, raised her arms to steady the basket she carried on her head, with her taper fingers turned, as it were, out of ivory; and her little feet in their coarse wooden shoes--_amico mio_, if I had not been a poet, that girl would have made me one. As for the others who had not a drop of poet blood in their veins, at least she made them mad, which is half-way to the Temple of Apollo. There was not a young fellow in the place who would not have had his left hand cut off, if only he might have worn her ring on the right. But she would listen to none of them, which was the more surprising when you considered the poverty she lived in, and that of the offers made to her, the very worst would at least have saved her, her mother, and her sister from any further distress. Of myself I will not speak. Madly in love as I was, I had still sense enough left to see that I was not worthy of her, and after I had in some degree got over the pain of my rejection, I told her that I would at least be her friend at all times, and she gave me her hand, and thanked me with such a smile. Sir, at that moment I was more crazy than ever! But there was another that everybody thought would outbid us all, and although we might have grudged her to him, still we should not have had a word to say against her choice. This was the son of the landlord of the _Croce d'oro_, a handsome fellow, rolling in money, and about two-and-twenty, a couple of inches taller than Erminia; generally called Barbarossa, or merely _Il Rosso_, on account of his having with light curly hair, a fine red beard of his own; but his real name was Domenico Serone. He paid his court to Erminia in such a way that nothing else was talked of, went on like one distracted, while she dismissed him just as she had done the rest of us, without positive disdain. She only gave him to understand that he might spare himself any further trouble, that she could not marry him, for a good girl like her would not awaken any false hopes. Many thought that her own country-people were not distinguished enough for her, that it must be some foreigner, a milord, or a Russian, and that her mind was set on distant lands and fabulous adventures. But no, sir, that too was a bad shot. I myself knew a rich English count, or marquis, or whatever he might be, who told me that he had thrown a couple of thousand pounds or so into her apron, and implored her on his knees to accompany him to England. But she just shook off the bank-notes as though they had been dead leaves, and threatened if he ever spoke another word to her, to strike him across the face, even if it were on the public market-place. And so we went on exhausting ourselves in conjectures as to what her motives could be; whether she had made a vow to die unmarried; and I even once summoned up courage to ask her--such was the friendly footing we stood on--whether she had a hatred to men in general. Not so, she quietly replied, but as yet she had not found one whom she could love. In this way two years passed, she still with the same calm face, Red-beard looking more and more gloomy, and it was plain to see how consumed he was by the fire within, for the handsome youth went creeping about like a ghost. "One day, however, a stranger came here, a Swedish captain, who had left the service because his promotion had been unfairly delayed, and who, since then, having means of his own, had travelled by land and by sea half over the world, shooting elephants and tigers, crocodiles and sea-serpents, and carrying about with him half-a-dozen most beautiful guns and rifles, and a great Newfoundland dog, who had more than once saved his life. If I remember rightly this stranger's name was _Sture_, or something of the sort, but I myself called him Sor Gustavo, and the village-folk just 'the Captain.' He took up his quarters here because he liked my little garden, had the very room you now occupy, and he and I were soon as thick as thieves. He was not a man of many words, nor indeed would he listen to my verses, for he cared only for one poet, Lord Byron, whose adventures he had set himself to emulate. Well, and he was quite up to the task. He was as brave as a lion, with more money than he knew what to do with, and as for the women, they ran after him go where he would, for he was wonderfully stately in his bearing and figure, and yet had so good-humoured an expression that they all thought it would be easy to play the part of Omphale to this Hercules. In Rome he seemed to have been pretty wild, at least so this one and the other pretended to know; he himself never touched on his love-affairs, and here in our village, he never appeared to care whether there was any other race in the world than that of men. With these he went about continually; would sit--if he were not prowling along the ravines with his rifle--whole afternoons at the café, playing billiards to perfection, and when he had won everybody's money, he would order a barrel of the best wine, and insist upon everybody partaking. So all began as with one mouth to sing his praises, and to rejoice that such a travelled gentleman should have taken such a craze for our little spot above all others, that he even talked of buying a vineyard, and of yearly spending a couple of months among us. "Domenico Serone was the only one who kept aloof from our captain, would get up as soon as ever he saw him enter the cafe, and pass him by in the street as a thief does the gallows. No one wondered though at this, for to see himself eclipsed by a foreigner--he who was accustomed to be cock of the walk--must naturally have mortified him. It never even occurred to me that Erminia might have something to do with it. I had been present when Signor Gustavo met the fair creature for the first time. 'Now look here, _amico mio_,' I had said, 'never--if only you will honestly admit it, never have you seen anything like her in either of the Indies, Turkey, or Golconda.' But he after a mere glance, without a look of surprise, merely said, 'Hum!' biting his blonde moustache so hard, you heard the crunching of the hair. 'Not amiss, Sor Angelo, not amiss indeed.' '_Possareddio_,' said I to myself, 'this is the only man who can look without blinking at the sun.' It crossed me that I would engage Erminia in conversation, that he might see more of her, and be punished for his cold-blooded 'not amiss,' by falling over head and ears into love. But she, usually so calm and unembarrassed when she met any one, turned strangely red, and hurried away, so that I thought at once, 'Hollo! at length her hour has struck,' but I said not a word, and the meeting went out of my head. "But about a week later, I stood before my shop-door in the twilight deciphering a letter I had just received, in which a friend in Rome told me he had read aloud my sonnets at a meeting of a poetical society--the 'Arcadia'--and that amidst general approval I had been elected honorary member, which so surprised and pleased me, that for the moment I was not aware of what was going on about me, till I heard _Il Rosso's_ voice so loud and threatening that it woke me out of all my cogitations. Looking up I saw him standing by the fountain not ten yards from my door, pale as a corpse, and quite unlike the smart fellow he used to be, and not far from where he was,--the pitcher that she had intended to fill left standing on the edge of the fountain, and her left hand pressing her side,--stood Erminia, and as it happened no one else was in sight. I wondered what both could be about, as they had avoided each other for months past. But _Il Rosso_ did not keep me long in suspense. 'Hear me, Erminia,' he said, as though he were reading out a sentence of death to some convicted criminal in the hearing of all the world: 'It is lucky that we have met here. True we have no longer any dealings with each other, but as I once loved you, even though you trampled my love under your feet, I would still warn you. Take heed to yourself, Erminia, and be careful what you do. I know one who has sworn your death if any stranger ever carries off what you have refused to your own people; and if we are not good enough to make you an honourable wife, we are at least men enough to help a lost girl out of the world; and so tell your fine gentleman to look out against accidents, for the bullets we cast hereabouts can hit as well as those of Swedish lead; and so God be with you, Erminia. I have nothing further to say.' "He pressed his hat on his brows, threw a glance around, and went off with a quick step. The girl said not a word, and as for me I was so bewildered by his passionate outburst, that not till she had lifted her pitcher to her head, and was preparing to leave, did I regain the power of speech. 'Erminia,' I said, going close up to her, 'who does he mean by the stranger?' 'He is a fool,' she replied without looking at me, but blushing deeply. 'I hope so indeed,' said I, 'for if there were any meaning in his words I should be sorry for you, Erminia.' 'I want no one's pity,' was her curt reply; and then she went off without so much as good night, and from the defiance of her manner I first discovered that she was really implicated. And being sincerely her well-wisher I hurried after her, so as to walk on by her side. 'You know me to be your friend,' said I, 'if you will not believe Domenico, believe me Erminia, it will be your ruin if you have anything to do with the captain. He is a fine fellow, but he will not marry you, Erminia, for all that; indeed, he cannot, for he is a Lutheran, but, in addition, he would not wish it. Therefore, even if Il Rosso did not make good his threat, nothing but mischief could come of the affair,' and so on, according as my friendship for the girl inspired me. She, meanwhile, walked straight on in silence without once raising her eyes. So at length I left her with a faint hope of having made some impression on her mind. The great dog came to meet me at the door of my house, which told me that his master was returned from shooting. I went up to his room at once, and found him with his English rifle in his hand, having taken it to pieces to clean, and a couple of dead birds before him. 'You have lost something, Sor Gustavo,' said I, 'there on the market place your secrets have been discussed so loudly, that all the gossips in the village are acquainted with them.' And I went on to tell him of Redbeard's threats, adding that he did not know our people if he supposed they were not in earnest, and that if he really had triumphed and won Erminia's coy heart, he ought for both their sakes to be on his guard and break it off, and get out of the scrape the best way he could. And being once fairly started I could not refrain from taking Domenico's part, and declaring that all friendship would be at an end between us if he made Erminia unhappy. There were plenty of others who would be no great loss. But to see the Pearl of the whole Sabina trampled in the mire was what I could not endure, and so I told him to his face that if I discovered him going after Erminia, I could no longer be his host, and that he might look out for some other quarters. To all this he answered nothing further than what Erminia had once told me, 'You are not over wise, Fra Angelico,' and continued polishing up the locks and barrel of his rifle, and puffing the blue smoke of his cigar through his fair moustachios. At last I left him even more disgusted with his cunning cold-bloodedness than with the affair itself, and I did not see him till the noon of the next day, when he entered my room with a letter in his hand which he told me necessitated his immediate departure, and as it was too late for the mail, he requested me to lend him my little vehicle. There was nothing I was more glad to do, not indeed that I laid much stress upon the letter, but rather believed that it was my own eloquence that had induced him to leave us, and to break off that luckless love-affair in good time. And so I let him have my apprentice, as I myself had no time to drive him to Rome, and we parted the best of friends. "It was his intention, he told me, to travel to Greece in order to visit Lord Byron's grave, and he promised to write to me as soon as he got there. The rogue! He thought as little of Greece as I of a journey to the moon. But what would you have? A mighty spell was on him, and held him down with a hundred meshes in the Evil One's net, so that he could look me, his best friend, in the face and tell me so confounded a lie as this! "That evening I went to bed with the consciousness of having done my duty, and saved two human lives. Nay I was even planning a lyric on the subject, which would have been by no means one of my worst, though a convincing proof that poets are no prophets. For would you believe it, on the following afternoon my lad returned home with the vehicle, and the first thing he did after taking the horse to the stable and feeding him, was to ask me if Signor Gustavo had told me they were to take a stranger with them, for that about two miles from the village, where the evergreen oak stands near the old tomb, this stranger had beckoned to them, and then jumped so quickly into the conveyance, that he, Carlino, never got a good look at his features. But in spite of that alacrity, and of the manly attire,--which by the way belonged to Signor Gustavo's wardrobe,--he was ready to take his oath that this stranger was no other than Erminia. "I will not detain you by describing the effect this discovery had on me. I bound the youth down most solemnly to hold his peace about it. But what could that avail! The very next day there was not an old woman who entered my shop for a penny-worth of anything who did not inform me that Erminia had gone off to Rome with the captain, and had sent a message to her mother to the effect that she should not indeed return, but would never forget that she was her daughter. And, moreover, she had left behind for her sister Maddalena whom she must have taken into her confidence, all her clothes and other effects, and a bag of money--probably from the Captain--so that their mother might want for nothing. "That this news should work upon the young village-folk like valerian upon cats, you, my friend, will easily believe. Had we been in the old times of Greeks and Trojans, Domenico would easily have assembled an army to pursue and recover his lost Helen. But in spite of all that was said and shrieked, spite of fury and curses, nothing came of it, and soon it seemed as though these braggadocios were ashamed of even uttering the name of the girl who had refused them all to go off at last with a heretic and barbarian. There were only two who could not forget her. I was one, and it was in vain I sought consolation from the muses. The other was Domenico Il Rosso, in whose eyes anybody with an insight into human nature might easily have read that he was brooding over desperate deeds. "And too surely before a month had elapsed since Erminia's flight all my fears were realised. I remember the day as tho' it were yesterday: it was on a Thursday--and the heat was such that the flies on the wall were giddy, and at noon no Christian soul ventured out. I had closed my shop-door, and all the shutters, and lay between sleeping and waking in this very chair where I now sit. There was nothing to be heard but the sleepy drip-drop of the fountain, and the rustling of dry herbs on the counter, over which my tame canary-bird was hopping to-and-fro. Suddenly I fancied I heard some one knock at the shop-door, and call my name, and annoyed at being disturbed, I rubbed my eyes awake, and prepared to see whether any one had really been taken suddenly ill. The knocking was repeated, louder and quicker, as if in urgent haste, and I had my hand on the door-handle when I heard a dreadful scream, 'Jesus, Maria, have mercy on me!' I tore open the door, and saw a woman sink on the threshold, from whose breast there gushed such a stream of blood, that while I stooped to raise her I was reddened from top to toe. Three steps off with a face like ashes stood Domenico, with eyes wide-opened as though his crime had killed him too. 'Domenico,' I cried, 'what hast thou done? Cursed be thy hand which has wrought this horrible deed.' 'Amen,' he replied, 'it was her fate. Now let him come.' And so saying he turned round--for some horror-stricken faces began to appear at the windows--and slowly traversed the sun-lit piazza till he reached the gateway, where he disappeared like a spectre. "Meanwhile I held the poor gasping frame in my arms, almost swooning myself from grief and terror. I called to my maid-servant, the neighbours rushed out, and so we carried her in, and laid her on a bed. But I saw too plainly that there was nothing to be done, and so I sent the lad off as fast as he could go to fetch a priest. I scarcely hoped though that she would live long enough to see him, so bending down I asked her if she had anything to communicate. She husbanded her last breath to ask me how her mother was. 'Just the same as for a month past,' I replied. Then her dying breast heaved a deep sigh, and she gasped out: 'Then he deceived me!' 'Who?' said I. She felt for her pocket, and drew out a letter, the tenor of which was that if she wished to find her mother still alive she must set out without delay, for that the illness was a mortal one. This letter bore the priest's signature, but was not in his handwriting. I made out from the few words that she with difficulty whispered, that a youth from our village had secretly delivered it to her the evening before. How he had found out her lodging in Rome she had no idea, for she was living most privately, and not in the same house as her lover, who had been to see her as usual in the evening, and on reading the letter had forbidden her to go home, saying that it was only a plot to allure her to destruction, and she herself had taken that view of it, and promised him not to go. But in the morning when she was alone, a fear came over her that it might after all turn out to be true, and if so, her mother would die and would curse her own child on her death-bed. So she took a carriage, and promised the driver a double fare if he would take her in half the usual time. She got out, however, at the foot of the hill, wishing to reach her mother's house alone and unobserved. But as soon as she neared the first houses she had a sense of some one following her, and for protection she ran rather than walked towards my door, when suddenly Domenico appeared behind her, and called out, without however looking at her: 'What, Erminia, do we see you here again? That is well, it was time you should come to your senses!' 'What have you to do with my senses?' she replied; 'you have no hold upon me for good or bad.' 'Indeed!' said he, drawing closer and closer, 'all the same one does not like the disgrace to attach to our village of having no young man worthy of such a jewel. Probably you have now found out that your foreigner was but a poor make-believe, like the rest, and that you would do better to remain at home.' And she. 'What I think of _him_ is my affair. Why do you always come after me? You knew long ago what I think of you.' Then seizing her arm he said in a hoarse voice, 'For the last time, Erminia, I give you warning. Renounce him, or both you and he will have to rue it. I cannot prevent your loving him, but that he should rob you of honour and happiness, that as sure as GOD lives I _will_ prevent and that shortly. Do you understand me?' Then she stood still, looked him full in the face, and said, 'You and no one else wrote that letter.' And he, without answering, went on as before. 'Will you give him up and remain here?' Then when she continued silent, and shook her head resolutely, he three times repeated the same question. 'Will you, Erminia, give him up and remain here?' And when she pretended not even to be aware that any one was speaking to her, but quickened her steps fearing that he might do her some violence in the deserted piazza, she suddenly felt his hand grasp her arm as in a vice, heard the words, 'To hell, then, with your Lutheran,' and in the same moment fell down mortally wounded close to my door. "And now she had no wish, she said, but that her lover should forgive her for leaving him against his will; she expiated it dearly enough. He had meant to make her his wife, and take her to his own home. Instead of that she must go down into the grave, and who could say whether the Virgin Mary would intercede for her; and whether she should ever pass out of the pains of purgatory into the Heavenly Paradise! "That was the last sentence that crossed her lips, then her head sank back, and she was dead!" When the little man had got so far, he stretched himself back in his arm-chair, and closed his eyes with a deep sigh. After some minutes so spent he sprang up, walked several times to and fro in his dark shop, and seemed to make a strong effort to recover his self-control. At length he stood still beside me, laid his hand on my shoulder, and said, "What after all is human life, _amico mio!_ A fleeting nothing! grass that is green in the field to-day, and to-morrow dry and withered. Hay, that the insatiable monster death crams his maw with! _Basta!_ There is no waking the dead! She was a wonder of the world while she lived, she was wondrous still when her fair silent form was no longer warmed by a drop of life-blood, and her soul no more susceptible of joy or of sorrow. There she lay in the room yonder, and until she was buried I never left her night or day. When sleep overcame me, I still held a corner of her dress in my hand, and thought myself highly favoured in that at least in death I was nearer to her than any other. But by the second night another came. The door opened, and the captain stole in on tip-toe, as though he might still run a risk of disturbing her sleep. We did not exchange a word, only I began to weep like a child when he so mutely, and with such a look of despair in his eyes, approached the bier. Then he sat down beside her and gazed steadily upon her face. I went out, I could not endure his presence any more than if I myself had been her murderer. "The next day when the funeral took place and the whole village was gathered in the church-yard, even before the priest had blessed the coffin, there rose a murmur and a stir among the dense crowd. And the captain, whom no one knew to be in the place, was seen striding through the people with a look on his face that terrified them all. He took his station close beside the grave, and threw two handsfull of earth on the coffin. Then he knelt down, and every one else was on his homeward way while he remained prostrate on the newly-made grave, as though he would force himself through the earth, and make his bed there. I was obliged to drag him away into my house, where for some days he remained as though in a trance, and I could hardly get him to take a spoonful of soup or a drop of wine. Four days passed before he seemed to come to himself at all, but even then he continued silent, and it was only in bidding me farewell, before he went off again in my little conveyance, that he begged me to oblige him by buying for him the house with the vineyard that he had once before looked at. In eight days he said he should return, and then make his home with us for life. "I did not dare to remonstrate, although I could not approve the plan--partly because, of Domenico, of whom it was known that he had fled to the mountains, and joined a party of banditti, and partly because I had always been fond of the Swede; and could have wished that he should not by living near this grave keep the wound in his heart for ever bleeding. But, however, I knew well that he must have his own way, let Heaven or Hell oppose him, and so I laid myself out to render him any service that I could, for her sake who had been dear to me too, and to whom even beyond the grave I could still prove my good-will by befriending her beloved. "And in a week's time he actually came and took possession of the house which stood about a mile from the village in a tolerably large vineyard, not far from the ravine where the chestnuts are; a lovely, solitary spot for a man at least who had no fear, good weapons at hand, and a faithful dog for companion. But the latter was not the only living creature that joined him. Erminia's sister Maddalena insisted on doing so, that she might wash and cook for him, and keep his house while he was on his rambles. Nothing could have suited him better, though people in general shunned her. But he knew that her dead sister had bequeathed her own love and fidelity towards him to this poor creature. And so the singular pair lived on in their solitude, and never seemed to concern themselves about the rest of the world. "I went to see him a few days after his arrival. The house had once belonged to a Roman noble, and was still in tolerable condition, though the old furniture was covered with dust and cobwebs which Maddalena never disturbed. She had been used to worse in her mother's ruinous hovel under the roof of the fig-tree. But in the neglected garden she had somewhat bestirred herself, and planted a few beds with vegetables, and the locks of all the doors had been repaired and new bolts added. 'She insisted upon it,' said the captain; 'she is continually dreaming of an attack upon us.' 'Dreams are not always mere moonshine,' returned I, but he paid no attention. He went before me up the stone steps, and opened the door of the familiar salon, the balcony of which looked on the garden. This was the only room that he inhabited; he had made a bed out of an old divan, and cleaned the rubbish out of the corners singlehanded, but he could not stop up the countless holes in the walls through which bats and squirrels went in and out. My first glance fell on a stand against the wall, from which his beautiful fire-arms shone out, and as I was always fond of them I fell to examining these master-pieces one by one. 'Just turn round Angelo,' he said; 'there is something in the room that will interest you more.' It was a life-size picture of Erminia, and so strikingly like, that it gave me, as it were, a blow on the heart. During their early days in Rome, a first-rate painter and friend of his had begun this wondrous picture, and finished it with the exception of one hand and part of the dress. The head, which looked over the shoulder with an indescribable expression of proud bliss--actually beaming with love and beauty--was highly finished, and as I said, one fancied one saw the exquisite creature breathe. I could not speak a word, but I stood a full half-hour motionless before it, from time to time wiping away the tears which obscured the picture. It was then he told me for the first time, that on the very day when she left him he had received a letter from an old uncle, his only remaining relative, on whose consent to his marriage he had laid great stress. Then he tried to tell me something about those happy weeks in Rome, but his voice suddenly gave way, and he went into the next room. I could not venture to follow him, and as he did not return I concluded I was not wished for any longer, and quietly crept down the steps accompanied only by the great dog, who looked into my face as much as to say that he knew all about his master's grief. "I now resolved to wait until he should seek me out, but I might have waited long! However, I sometimes saw Maddalena in the market or one of the shops, and twice I spoke to her, asked for Signor Gustavo, and heard that he was well, and if not out shooting was always reading books, and allowed no one to enter, not even the priest, who had felt it his duty to enquire for the mourner. In our village, where everyone had been so enraged against him, the tide turned gradually in his favour. People remembered the merry evenings over the wine-barrel, and his courteous and sociable ways, and in time the women who had been the most violent were quite conquered by his solitary sorrow. Many a one, I suspect, would not have required much pressing to lend him her company in that lonely villa, if he had only held up a finger. But month after month passed by, and all went on in the old way. "One night towards the end of August I had a headache, having drunk more wine than usual, and the mosquitoes were more unconscionable than ever: so that I sat up in bed, and began to think whether I had not better strike a light and write some verses. All of a sudden through the stillness of night I heard two shots, then again others, and from the direction in which they came I judged that they must be somewhere near the captain's villa. '_Corpo della Madonna!_' thought I, 'what can he be about! Is he shooting bats or owls?' But they did not sound like the English rifle of Signor Gustavo, and they succeeded each other too rapidly and irregularly to be fired by any one man, and all at once I jumped horrified out of bed, for I no longer had any doubt about it,--what I had long silently feared had happened: Il Rosso and his banditti had fallen upon the lonely man, and they were fighting there in the vineyard for life and death. I got on my clothes, snatched a pair of old pistols from the wall, wakened up my apprentice, and told him to run through the streets, and call out 'help! murder!' as loud as ever he could. I myself knocked up a couple of neighbours, and encouraged all who were already roused to follow me. When we came down from the village we were a party of ten or twelve, each armed with rifle or pistol. And to be sure the firing did come from the vineyard, and we to whom the moon fortunately served instead of lanterns, scrambled over hedge and ditch towards the house, where we saw firing going on from the windows. That comforted me somewhat. He had withdrawn then into his fortress, and those rascals had to content themselves with firing into the room at him at random. I was just about to explain my plan of operations to our party,--how we were to form four divisions, surround the enemy, and attack him in the rear; but some out-post must have observed us, for there was a shrill whistle, and at the same moment the attack came to an end, and here and there where the moon shone on the open space between the rocks and the wood, we saw the band scatter, some of them so lame that we might have captured them if that had been our aim--over and above defending the captain--to take Il Rosso, our own fellow-citizen, prisoner. But we wished to spare his father the pain of that, and thanked God that we had come just in time, for at our loud call we saw Signor Gustavo step out on the balcony into the bright moonlight, and wave a white handkerchief to us. But when we saw the handkerchief nearer, it proved by no means pure white, but had large spots of blood, from a bullet having grazed his temple. It was nothing of any consequence, and did not prevent the captain sitting out of doors with me the next morning when all the rest had gone to their homes. Only Maddalena in her passionate way, besotted with the man in spite of her sister's story, could not be tranquillised, and went on searching for one healing herb after the other, and he had to apply them all to prevent her becoming quite frantic. The good creature, whose sleep was like a cat's, was aware of footsteps creeping about the house even before the dog heard them; and she ran up to wake her master. On the first bandit who placed a ladder against the balcony, she bestowed such a blow on the head with the barrel of a gun, that he fell backwards, and the ladder with him. And so there she was at hand to load one rifle after the other, and indeed every now and then she herself took a shot through the window, and swore with might and main that she had sent a ball through the coat of the murderous villain Il Rosso himself, and that he gave a great start but went on firing. As for the room, it had a ruinous aspect, not a pane was whole, the plaster had fallen in great sheets from the ceiling, and Erminia's picture had been struck in two places, but fortunately only the dress and the frame were injured. When the day began to break, the Captain and the dog too did get a few hours sleep, but Maddalena would not hear of it, although for the present the cut-throats had been scared away. "I spent the next day at the villa, and kept imploring my friend to leave the district. Indeed all the reasonable people from the village who came to see the battle-field gave the same advice. He most obstinately refused to do so. It was only on the following day when the Roman Prefect of Police came over to keep up appearances, and draw up a protocol, by way of doing something, that he let himself be turned from his foolhardy resolve. 'I most earnestly advise you,' said the official, a monsignore N----, 'as soon as possible to leave the mountains, and indeed the country itself. A youth who witnessed the attack of the bandits--if indeed he were not one of them--has told me that more than one bullet has been cast for you; that Il Rosso has sworn upon the host that he will pay you off. Were I to remain here I could only protect you so long as you kept by my side. But if you took again to your lonely wanderings through the ravines you might expect out of every bush a shot that would consign you to another world.' "And so at last he made up his mind to leave, and that at once, in the carriage of the Prefect of Police. When I pressed his hand at parting, 'Now then, Signor Gustavo,' said I, 'this will certainly be the last time we two ever meet on earth.' 'Who knows?' he replied. 'After all I am half a countryman of yours, and have no other home.' Then he gave me some directions with regard to Maddalena. She was not to leave the villa, nor did the captain think of selling it. If he failed to return within a certain number of years, she was to consider the house and garden her own property, and meanwhile to appropriate their profits. To the priest he gave in token of gratitude for the assistance rendered him by the villagers, a considerable sum for the poor. On me he bestowed a small picture of Lord Byron, which he had always carried about with him. The portrait of Erminia he had rolled up in a tin cylinder, and that and his fire-arms were all that he took away with him. So we parted, and as I believed, never to meet again, and Maddalena, who insisted upon going with him, and clung like a wild cat to the carriage, had to be forcibly dragged off and locked into the house till it had rolled far away. "However that very night, so soon as they left off watching her, she vanished, and for days ran up and down the streets of Rome like a maniac, looking in vain for her master. At last she returned, and hobbled about the villa alone, but she let everything go to waste; the grapes might rot on the vines, and the fruit on the trees, rather than she take the trouble of gathering them and carrying them to market. She had always been idle, indeed, as a toad--a creature she resembled in appearance too--and it was only when it concerned the captain that she could work and bestir herself like three people in one. "Of him, however, we heard nothing more; of his mortal foe Barbarossa we heard far too much. Since that night he and his band had lingered about our neighbourhood, and he seemed to have conceived a hatred against his countrymen, because they had gathered to the assistance of the foreigner. But for the company of papal gendarmes who were sent us as a permanent support from Rome, I do believe he would have fallen upon his own native village and taken a bloody revenge. "Accordingly no one who had been present on the occasion, ever ventured himself a rifle-shot from the last houses without taking his fire-arms with him, and such as had to go into the mountains always begged for two gendarmes as escort. Those were sad times, _amico mio_, and I even lost my pleasure in rhyming, for I knew that he had a special spite against me. Twice there were great expeditions undertaken against the bandits, but not much came of them, for they had their scouts posted everywhere; they knew every crag and cranny of the mountains as intimately as the devil does his own den, and they were merely driven for awhile a little further back into the Sabina. "However when in the winter old Serone, Domenico's father, died from grief on his son's account, we had an interval of peace. Il Rosso, whom of course the fact reached, may perhaps have felt some remorse, for by nature, as I have said, he was not bad-hearted, only his unfortunate love had hardened and frenzied him. It really seemed as though he meant to keep quiet during his year of mourning, and until midsummer we heard no more of banditti. Whether they were at work further south, or how they kept themselves alive during this holiday, God knows. But when we took it for granted that our deliverance from them was final we reckoned without our host. Our neighbourhood began all of a sudden to be haunted again. My neighbour, Pizzicarlo, who had been one of us that night at the villa, was captured by these villains while riding his donkey to Nerni, dragged off into their haunts, and only released on payment of a considerable ransom. And so with others, whom they sadly maltreated. This could not go on. The gendarmes obtained reinforcements, the razzia into the mountains began anew, but not with much better success. At that time Barbarossa seemed to be everywhere and nowhere, terrible as a basilisk, and slippery as an eel, and far and wide mothers quieted their screaming children by saying: _Zitto_, Barbarossa is coming! But other stories were told too, more to his credit; how he behaved to the poor and defenceless like a knight in a legend, intent mainly on righting the defective justice of the world, though every now and then robbing the egregiously wealthy just to supply his own needs. As I have before said, he was to be pitied, and if he had not run up so heavy a score that the law could not possibly wink at it, perhaps an amnesty would yet have changed him back into a peaceable honest citizen. "Under these circumstances we lived wretchedly enough, much like shipwrecked sailors on a plank, with a shoal of sharks around. Thirteen months had now passed since the captain's departure, and no one spoke of him, at least no one said any good of him, fearing to be overheard by somebody who might repeat it to Barbarossa. Imagine, therefore, my horror one afternoon. I had just opened a bottle of castor oil, and was thinking of nothing worse, when Signor Gustavo his own very self entered my room as though nothing had happened. '_Corpo della Madonna!_' I cried, 'What wind has blown you here? Are you so weary of life that you determine to make your villa your mausoleum?' Then he told me that he had not been able to endure either the East or West. Nowhere had he found any flavour in the wine, everywhere the women were tedious, and since he had fired at men, the chase of lions and hyenas had become insipid. And always too he had been pursued by the feeling that he had, like a contemptible coward, left the field to his foe, instead of waiting to measure his strength against him. And a short time back, when staying at some German Spa, he read a newspaper account of the Sabine mountains being again ravaged by banditti, and of Papal carabinieri having for months pursued the vagabonds, who seemed as inexterminable as toadstools after rain: why then he had found the monotonous elegant world in which he was living, simply intolerable, and taking an extra post, he had travelled day and night without halting, crossed the Alps, and got here. And now here he was again settled in the vineyard. Maddalena had been actually wild with joy, and he himself felt more at home than he had done for a year and a day. 'And what then was he going to do here?' asked I in horror and amazement. 'Oh!' said he, 'I shall have no lack of occupation; I shall join the patrol of gendarmes that are constantly on the mountains, and so as a volunteer and dilettante face my man. When I come to consider it, it was I who hung this mill-stone about your necks, and so it is only fair that I should try to help you off with it. Good-day, Angelo, pay me a visit in my mausoleum.' "And away he went: he had grown so strangely restless--quite unlike his former self--that he could not stay long in any one place. What I felt about the whole affair, I leave you to imagine. Meanwhile it had never been my wont to play the coward, and indeed here it behoved me to take the initiative, on account of my old acquaintance with Signor Gustavo. So I boldly visited him in the villa, and found everything just as though he had never left it. Maddalena hobbling about as before, and busy enough now, gathering the grapes with her long arms; the dog, who had grown old and blind of one eye; and in the salon the marks of the bullets still visible, but the holes in Erminia's portrait had been carefully repaired. When I went in, the captain was walking up and down, smoking and reading, but on seeing me he laid aside his book--as usual verses by his English poet--and heartily shook my hand. He had spent the whole night between the rocks and woods, lying out to stalk his game, and only slept a little in the morning. At midnight he was going out again with three stout fellows who did honour to the Pope's uniform. If I liked I might go with him. "I declined with thanks on this occasion, and did not remain long, for his manner, half fierce and half reckless--as though he were playing a game of chance--gave me an uncomfortable feeling. On my way home, I laid a kind of wager as it were with myself--that if seven days passed without his coming to a bad end, I would print my sonnets to Erminia at my own expense; if otherwise I would leave them in manuscript. And an end did indeed come, but whether it could be called good or bad, God knows, and so to the present day I am in doubt whether I won the wager or not. "It was he himself who circumstantially related to me the way things fell out, so that you can receive my narrative as though you had it from his own lips. He began to wonder much, he said, that Barbarossa did not confront him, for his return was nothing else than a direct and open challenge. Twice when on his rounds with the gendarmes, he had stumbled upon suspicious-looking characters, but they had not held their ground--dived out of sight like frogs when the stork appears. He fancied they did this with the intention of drawing him on further into the mountains in order to attack him with less risk. So he was glad when an expedition on a large scale into the Sabina was planned, although not for the next night, but the next but one, for the soldiers were determined to get their fill of sleep first, so as to be all the fresher. "But the captain could not remain so long inactive, and as he had no companions--his usual escort preferring a good night to an aimless ramble--he loaded his double-barrelled gun, called his dog, who seemed disinclined to follow him, and left his vineyard just as the moon rose. "Fool-hardy as he was, he yet guarded himself against any unnecessary exposure. He wore a dark coat, and dark trowsers which he pushed into his high boots, and also a grey hat, one of those called, you know, _Comecipare_, in which attire, so long as he kept in the shadow of the oaks and chestnuts, it would have been hard even in the day-time to distinguish him from the trunk of a tree. "Now it so happened that the night was still and beautiful, and he told me he had never so much enjoyed the gloomy forest, and had never had Erminia's form and face so vividly present and near to him as they then seemed. The dog silently and wearily crept on after him, and he himself was lost in dreams, having never hoped that on this occasion he should meet with his enemy, but being led on and on merely for the sake of exercise, and by the exquisite coolness of the night. "He had he thought wandered thus--creeping and climbing alternately--for more than an hour, when the dog suddenly stood still and growled. Instantly the captain's hand was on his gun, but before he could look round, two shots were fired close to him, and he felt that he had received a wound in the leg. At the same moment he saw a fellow stand out from behind a great ilex and level a pistol, but he was beforehand with him, and took such good aim that he shot off the lock of the pistol and two fingers of the hand that held it; whereupon the villain took flight, and ran along the steep path with such speed that neither the dog--who to be sure was no longer so agile as he had been--nor the second barrel of the English gun reached him. The captain had paid dear for his night walk. The wound in his leg bled so much that the bandage he improvised with pocket and neck-handkerchief was of little use. So having re-loaded both barrels, he set out homewards, but contrived to lose his way, the moonlight confusing him, and it was only after much fruitless wandering about that he saw the roof of his villa shining above the vineyards, and he was then so exhausted with loss of blood and fatigue, that he sank down on a stone, and was obliged to rest awhile before he could rise and drag himself over the last hundred yards. "But one there was past rising, and that was the dog. The second shot had wounded him more seriously than the first his master, and having limped after him thus far without a whine of complaint, his strength was spent, and he moaned away his faithful life. The captain told me he felt his blood run cold when he saw his old ally feebly wag his tail and then stretch out his four legs stiffly. He himself was hardly able to stand, yet he could not find it in his heart to leave his dead comrade there in the open plain where vultures would soon have found him out next morning. He wished to give him the honourable burial he had so well earned, in the vineyard at home, and so he took him up, supporting the weight with the stock of the gun--that gun itself being heavy enough for him in his present condition--and with tottering steps he reached the vineyard, and found the iron gate as usual locked from within. He opened it by a trick known only to him and Maddalena. But he was surprised that the sound of his steps should not have roused the wakeful creature: thought she had perhaps been drinking some strong wine which he had just had from the village, and as he passed the door of her room did not care to disturb her. The dog he laid down in the kitchen, and covered with an old straw mat, then he tottered up the steps that led to the upper room, feeling as if he should hardly live to reach his couch, and re-bandage his burning wound. "But when he opened the door of the salon, he stood motionless on the threshold, turned to stone by what he saw. The moon was shining full upon the balcony and through the windows, and lit up the stand of fire-arms in the corner. In the middle of the room, his back to the light, erect and stiff as a marble pillar, arms crossed, and contemplating the picture of Erminia, stood Domenico Serone, Il Rosso. He no longer deserved this nick-name, however, for he had cut off his beard, and his long wild hair looked ashy grey against the old yellow straw hat that so shadowed his face nothing was to be seen but the white of his eyes. But Signor Gustavo knew him at a glance. "They looked full at each other for a moment, those two deadly foes, Domenico, however, without changing his position, while the captain leant upon his gun, and called up his last remnant of strength to play the man, spite of his wound. "'You are come at last then,' said Il Rosso, and his voice trembled. 'I have waited for you here, since I did not find you at home. You know that I have sworn to reckon with you, and the time is fully come. Tomorrow night you are going to make a great sally and surprise my band. Bravo! Set to! Only what you and I have to settle could be better done, I thought, by ourselves. Let your gun alone,' for the captain was about to stand on his guard. 'If I had chosen, you would have drawn your last breath long before this. Do you suppose I did not hear you outside when you were opening the iron gate, and had I wished for your blood I had but to shed it then and there. I own I was very near doing so. But I was not able. _She_ would not suffer it,' and he hurriedly pointed to the picture. 'If you have still the heart to love your life you may thank _her_ for it.' "'Domenico,' said the captain, 'let there be an end to this. You are in my house, and I cannot tolerate your playing the master here, and acting as if I was at your mercy. I will have no gift from him who plotted to deprive me of the dearest thing I had on earth. You had no right to the girl, none--that she herself assured me. And as nevertheless you murdered her, and are now seeking after my life, why you are nothing better than a wild beast, and whoever renders you harmless does a good work. It is pure mercy on my part not to avail myself of my advantage, and shoot you down before you can lift your gun from the floor. But I feel sorry for you. I can understand how one might lose one's reason for that girl's sake, and not recover it after her death. Therefore I offer you honourable terms. Take up your gun. When I have counted three--one or both of us will have ceased to live.' "Domenico never stirred. 'Do as you will,' he said, 'I shall not fire. If I were to kill you, what better should I be? I am a miserable man. I have murdered the fairest woman in the world, like a wild beast that I was; you do well to call me one. I thought I should be happier if I got you too out of the world. I was a fool. If you were to meet her again up yonder, rage and jealousy at not being able to part you any more, would devour my heart till I went down to hell damned beyond redemption. No, make an end of me as you said. See, I stand quite still. This gun,' he pushed it away from him with his foot, 'I will not touch. Fire, captain, and with my last breath I will forgive you. For by God's holy blood the life I have led was purgatory, and now it would be hell itself since I have seen _her_ again, and _you_ whom she loved.' While so speaking, his strength seemed to fail him, he fell on his knees before the picture, and hid his face in his hands, his whole body, as it were, convulsed. "At last the conflict ended. He sobbed aloud, wailed and writhed like one mortally wounded, then trying to rise he groaned out, 'My God! My God! She is dead! Lord have pity upon her murderer!' and down he fell again as in a swoon and pressed his sobbing lips against the cold flags, and seemed to have utterly forgotten that any one stood by and saw it all. "And meanwhile there was the picture on the wall standing silent and stately, and in its bloom of bliss and youth looking down upon the poor sinner. "'Domenico,' said the captain, gently drawing near, binding over him, and laying a hand on his shoulder, 'neither of us can call her back, and what we have to do is to get through our remnant of life. If you will take my advice you will leave this country and cross the seas. There is war going on in Africa, and the French need brave men. Your crime--I forgive it, and there is One who weighs with other scales than we do, who sees your heart and knows how you repent and suffer. If I can help you in any way to get off, and fling your past behind you, tell me. You shall find a brother in me.' "Il Rosso had meanwhile risen, and was now standing with face averted from the picture, gazing hopelessly into the night. At these last words of his rival he vehemently shook his head. 'It is over,' he replied. 'You and I are quits. The rest is my affair. You and I shall never meet again, that I swear to you by her shadow. But leave this house in which I can no longer protect you. With the others it is an affair of your money and your fire-arms, they hanker after them. If they hear that it was in my power to give you up to them, and that I have not done so, they will never forgive me, and there are some of them who still carry about the tokens of that first tussle we had. Take care of yourself, and good night to you. Yon have seen the last of me.' "He bent down, picked up his gun, and with one last look at the picture that in serene beauty shone out in the moonlight, glided from the room. "The captain heard him go slowly down the stairs, step by step, and when outside, open the iron gate and lock it again. Then the night was once more still as death. He required some time to collect himself. He felt, he said, as though he had been thrown down from a high tower and had reached the ground without broken limbs indeed, but unable to move from sheer giddiness. For awhile he lay half fainting on his couch, but the streak of blood on the moonlit floor reminded him of his wound. He roused himself to call Maddalena to bring him water and help him with his bandage. But no one answered, call as he would. So at last he tottered down the stairs and entered her room. There in a corner he saw the poor creature lying huddled up, bound hand and foot, and with a gag in her mouth. When he had unloosed her she fell half dead at his feet, and only recovered when he had sprinkled her well with water, and poured a little wine down her throat, and then crying and laughing, she began to kiss his hands and his coat. But there was no getting a single rational word from her; her fright when Il Rosso surprised her, and then her agony when she heard her master return and go up the steps at the top of which his enemy was awaiting him--these upset her poor mind completely, and during the remainder of her life, the years followed each other without her being conscious of any alternation except of heat and cold, hunger and repletion. "I took the captain to my house, and nursed him for a week until his wound had pretty well healed. The sortie against the banditti had to take place of course without him, but nothing more decisive was effected than the procuring us peace for about a couple of years. The only prisoner taken was a small boy whose father was one of the bandits, and who himself had sometimes joined them. Nothing could be made of him, so he was let go again. However one fact he did have to tell us: on the morning after the night in which Il Rosso had that reckoning with his enemy, a quarrel arose, and some of the party accused Domenico of being a traitor. At last knives were drawn, and before the cooler-headed could interfere, Domenico lay dead on the bare rock, the knife in his breast, almost on the very spot where he had met Erminia. "As for Signor Gustavo he went to Naples, and thence sailed to Greece. Later I heard from an artist that he had been drowned there, swimming in the open sea. Possibly the wound in the leg was imperfectly healed, or it may have left some weakness behind it, for once he could, as he told me, have swum a match against that great Lord himself. But as to what became of the picture of Erminia, which the artist well remembered to have seen, I could learn nothing. I would gladly have given half my substance if only I could have got possession of it. "And now, _amico mio_, you know the history of Barbarossa and Erminia." END OF BARBAROSSA. THE EMBROIDERESS OF TREVISO. THE EMBROIDERESS OF TREVISO. It was our third day of rain, and the wood and garden walks around the country house we were staying at, were turned into water-courses. On the first and second day, the party of guests had made it a point of honour to be as inexhaustible in good humour as the sky in clouds, and within the large five-windowed saloon, with the oleanders blooming before it, jests rained, laughter rippled, and witty repartees flashed uninterruptedly as the drops pattered on the terrace outside. On this third day, however, even the most genial in our ark became dimly conscious that the deluge might prove more persistent than their good spirits. True no one ventured to break the vow of enduring this visitation in common,--made the day before yesterday,--by slinking off to his room and sulking there on his own resources. But general conversation, games, spontaneous play of intelligence and wit, had somewhat failed since the professor who passed for a great meteorologist, had confessed that instead of the change to fair which he had promised, his glass actually showed a fresh fall of the mercury. He had procured a second barometer, and was now seriously investigating the causes of this discrepancy between two prophets. His wife meanwhile was silently painting in body colours on grey paper her sixth water-lily; at a second table, Frau Helena was setting up her men for a seventh trial of skill at chess, while Frau Anna sat in a corner beside her baby's cradle, fanning away the flies from it, while trying to guess the conundrums and charades in the old almanac open on her knee. The young doctor with whom Frau Helena was playing chess, saw in this interval of silence an opening for doing justice to a rustic anecdote, but suddenly broke off, remembering that he had told it the day before. The husband of Frau Anna, mindful of the elder Shandy's sagacious dictum, that all manner of mental distresses and perplexities are best endured when the body is in a horizontal position, had stretched himself out full length on an old leather sofa, and blew the smoke of his damped cigar up in slow blue circles to the ceiling. In the midst of these more or less successful efforts to adapt oneself to one's fate, the off-hand cheery way in which a middle-aged man with arms locked behind, continued slowly pacing up and down the room, naturally arrested attention. Sometimes he would stand for an instant beside the chess-table, or look over the shoulder of the painter, or gently wave his hand in passing over the little brow of the sleeping child, but all this he seemed to do unconsciously, as if absorbed in some train of thought quite unconnected with the rainy Present, and fixed either on a sunny Past, or sunny Future. "What can you be about, dear Erminus?" enquired Frau Eugenie, who had just returned from a housewifely excursion into the kitchen and store-closet. "Here we all are pulling faces in keeping with this horrible wet, and on yours there is actual fine weather, nay even a kind of sunshine, as though you had secretly got betrothed, or had written the last page of a book, or felt a toothache of four-and-twenty hours subsiding. Come now, confess at once what this means, or we shall suspect that it is nothing but most unholy exultation over us who do not--like you--come to the country for the exact purpose of shutting ourselves up in a room with books." "I can satisfy you on that point, my good friend," answered, with a laugh, the one thus addressed. "This time there is no malice in the case, although I am enjoying myself; and your other hypotheses are, thank God, equally groundless, nay, one of them actually impossible; since I could hardly show a cheerful face if, after so long a freedom, I had pledged myself to submit once more to petticoat government. No, that which keeps up my equanimity, spite of our condition, is neither more nor less than a pretty story on which I accidentally lighted yesterday as I was looking over my old papers, and which now haunts me in the same way a favourite melody will sometimes dwell upon the ear, and constantly repeat itself." "A story and a pretty one too!" said the artist. "Then you must instantly let us have it as a matter of course. Have we not agreed to a community of goods of all kinds so long as the rain lasts, and would you keep a pretty story all to yourself? That would be a pretty story indeed!" "Perhaps, however, it might not please you," replied Erminus, standing still beside her and twisting the long stalk of a water-lily into a loop. "I at least care so little for many stories that have a great run now-a-days, that I came long ago to the conclusion that mine was an old-fashioned taste, and that I did not advance with the age. But in my character of historian, I can console myself for this. We are not entirely dependent upon the latest novelty. And perhaps the sources I apply to for _history_, have spoiled my relish for stories as they are now-a-days written and admired. The difference between the wood-cut style of an old city-chronicle, and the photographic, stereoscopic, stippled minuteness and finish of a modern novel, is altogether too wide. In the one, all is raw material, blocks seldom sufficiently hewn, joints gaping, subjects so shaken together that only an expert or genuine amateur can pick out what answers his purpose. In our artificial modern days on the contrary, all is so smooth and polished, so conscious and premeditated, so reduced to mere form and style, that the subject often utterly vanishes, the _what_ is forgotten in the _how_, and owing to the very psychological finesse of the narrator we come to be almost indifferent to the human beings on whom he practises. I for my part still occupy so obsolete a stand-point, that in every story the chief interest for me lies in the story itself. One man may tell it better than another, but for that I hardly care. If an incident that has really happened or been evoked by imagination makes an impression on me in the rough and incomplete version of an old chronicle, I would rather not have it tricked out with any gewgaws of style, but trust to my own fancy to supply omissions. But you moderns," and here he threw a sarcastic glance at the chess-player and the smoker, "you are never satisfied till you have bestowed all conceivable ornamentation and decoration on any and every story whatsoever, even though it should be most fair when naked as God made it." "Each age has its own style of attire, and _nolens volens_, we have to conform to fashion," said the recumbent figure on the sofa without disturbing itself further. "And each age acts and relates its own stories," interpolated the chess-player. "So long as the right of the strongest prevailed, stories were decidedly material in their interest, from Achilles down to the noble knight of La Mancha. Since life has become more spiritual, and its incidents more internal, they can no longer be outwardly expressed by a few coarse strokes, as was the case with a middle-aged dagger-and-sword-romance. Mere outline with some light and shade no longer suffices; we want the whole range of colour, the most delicate gradations of tint, and all the charms of chiaroscuro, and as we ourselves have become in a great measure men of sentiment, the sentiment an author manifests either for or against his characters is no longer indifferent to us." "Oh I know," returned Erminus, "little flesh, much soul, that is the motto of the present day. But I happen to be just a man of the unsentimental middle ages, though not in the romantic sense, and therefore I had better keep my story to myself, for its structure is by no means adapted to the attire of the present day, and while the poets now present might turn up their nose at its very decidedly old-fashioned form, I should fear to shock the ladies by its incidents, though I for my part consider it perfectly moral." "Since you yourself are quite sufficiently moral for us," said Frau Eugenie, "this assurance will induce us to listen to your story without a scruple." "Especially since there is no un-confirmed young lady present," added Frau Helena. "With the exception of the little innocent here in the cradle," observed Frau Anna, "but she apparently intends to shut her eyes to it." "As to that point then I may feel safe in venturing," said Erminus. "But now a sudden fear comes over me that this favourite of mine that pleased me so much in private, may show itself awkward and unattractive if I introduce it into such a fastidious circle. And my old chronicler from whom I copied these few unpretending pages merely for my own pleasure, was, I own, no poet like Boccacio and his companions, though in this story he came pretty near them." "Do not let us waste more time on the preface," said the professor. "The worst that can happen to your story, is a poet's looking on it as merely raw material, and, if it rains for another fortnight, making a tragedy or a comedy out of it which may remain as a blot on the stage." "So be it, then!" sighed Erminus, thus fairly driven into a corner, and off he went to fetch his tale. Before long he returned, a portfolio under his arm, from which he drew a manuscript volume. "The manuscript is twenty years old," he said, taking his seat in the window, and spreading it out on his knee. "I chanced at that time to be gathering materials for a history of the Lombard towns, and had come to Treviso, where I hoped to find both in the Civic Records and in the cloister-library treasures, which, alas! did not fall to my share. It was only at the Dominicans at San Niccolo that I stumbled on a remarkable chronicle, dating about the end of the 14th century, which I would gladly have bought from the good fathers. But all that I could attain to, was leave to copy out in their cool refectory, under the eyes of a brother Antonio, whatever I thought useful for my purpose. These sheets bear traces of the fragrant ruby-coloured cloister wine with which I now and then washed down the dust of the chronicle, till after many and many dry records, I lit upon the history of the fair Giovanna, which like a spring of water in an arid steppe, suddenly refreshed me more than any wine could do. "At this time," (the chronicle refers to the first quarter of the fourteenth century) "a bitter feud existed between the town of Treviso and the neighbouring one of Vicenza, originating apparently in trivial public matters, but fed by secret jealousy, even as the unseen wind fans a feeble spark into flame. The inhabitants of Vicenza called the Venetians to their aid, and were thus enabled by a rapid man[oe]uvre to take possession, first of the castle of San Salvatore di Collatto, and next to conquer the very town of Treviso itself, and it was only after inflicting on it the utmost humiliation, and imposing a considerable tribute, that they consented to withdraw, encumbered with booty and hostages. As soon as these occurrences transpired--and the rumour spread as far as Milan--no one was more enraged than a noble youth belonging to our heavily-visited city, one Attilio Buonfigli by name, (son of the most distinguished of Treviso's citizens, and nephew to the Gonfaloniere Marco Buonfigli,) who had from early childhood been brought up as a page in the house of the noble Matteo Visconti, had at this time reached the age of twenty-five, and was thoroughly instructed and practised in all knightly arts. As soon as he learnt the misfortune that had befallen his beloved native town, he took an oath never to sleep except in his coat of mail, until he had revenged the insult; and accordingly he obtained leave of absence from his lord, and rode with some friends of his, all clad in armour, out of the gates of Milan. And since, young as he was, he had already made himself a proud name in the feuds of the Visconti, no sooner was his purpose known than adventurous youths from all sides flocked to swear fealty to him as to their Condottiere, against whatever foe he might choose to lead them. "As soon, therefore, as he had secured a sufficiently large body of men to encounter the Venetians unaided, he sent secret messages to Treviso, to inform his father and uncle of his plans, and of the day when he purposed entering the gates of Vicenza to demand compensation for the wrongs endured. They were to hold themselves in readiness to support him, and with the help of God to place their feet on the necks of their enemies. "And thus indeed it came to pass, and was all so judiciously and zealously carried out, that the men of Treviso succeeded in surprising the retreating troops on their homeward way to Venice and depriving them of their booty and hostages; while young Attilio, on the same day in a hot encounter on the small river Bacchiloni, proved himself victorious over the men of Vicenza. There was one thing only to trouble the joy of our good city. The youthful victor had received a deep wound in the throat from the sword of a Vicentine, and for some days his life hung on a slender thread. His own father, as well as his noble mother, nursed him in the conquered town's chief mansion, which belonged to its most leading citizen, Signor Tullio Scarpa, whose eldest son, named Lorenzaccio, had always been one of the bitterest foes of Treviso, so much so indeed, that while the wounded hero remained an inmate of the paternal abode, he never crossed its threshold. This only led to Attilio--although a foe to her city--being regarded with greater tenderness by the young Emilia, the only sister of Lorenzaccio; so that his father and mother became aware of her partiality, and began to found thereon a hope that through the union of the two leading families of both towns, the long-existing bad blood and mutual jealousy might be transformed into friendship and good will. And while his wound was healing, in a confidential hour Attilio was induced by his dear mother to entertain the idea, seeing that he had nothing to urge against it, as his own heart was perfectly free, and the young Vicentine a comely maiden. In secret, however, he felt a repugnance to take to wife a daughter of that city: even after their betrothal he held himself aloof from the girl, and would gladly have broken off altogether, but that he feared to sow the germs of fresh hate amidst the up-springing crop of peace. In this manner six or seven weeks passed by, and the leech declared that the wounded man would no longer be running any risk by mounting his horse and bearing shield and lance, even though he had better for a further season avoid the pressure of his steel haubergeon. Accordingly it was decided that he should set out for Treviso, whither, in the course of a few weeks, the bride with her parents was to follow, the rescued city being resolved to celebrate the marriage of their noble son and deliverer with all possible splendour. Meanwhile the good citizens had not lost the time spent by him on a sick bed, for they had prepared for their loved young hero, whose name was on every lip, an entry more triumphal than had ever yet been accorded to any prince. "Amidst other offerings which the city meant to bestow upon him was a banner, which his own uncle was to make over to him in the name of the whole Council; a perfect marvel both as to material and skilful work. The pole of ten feet was of polished oak, ornamented by bosses of silver, the handle was set with rubies, and the point was gilt, so that when the sun shone it was dazzling to look upon. From this pole hung a heavy pennon of silver brocade, on which was represented a golden griffin--the crest of the Buonfigli crowned with the mural crown of Treviso--strangling a red serpent, whose coils were so natural, and covered with such fine gold scales, that you seemed to see a living snake writhing before your eyes. Above this was a Latin inscription in flaming letters, which ran 'Fear not, for I will deliver thee.' "This wondrous achievement of a skilful needle had, during the six weeks that Attilio was laid low by his wound, proceeded from the hands of one maiden only, whose talent for executing such work in gold, silver, and silken thread, was renowned far and near. This maiden was named Gianna--that is, Giovanna--the Blonde, for her hair was exactly like bright spun gold, so that she had actually worked a church banner for the Blessed Virgin, in the chapel of San Sebastiano, with nothing but her own tresses. She had cut them off in her excessive grief when her betrothed, who was, called Sebastian, a brave and handsome youth of the district, had died of small-pox a few weeks before their marriage. At that time she was eighteen years old, and the object of so many secret wishes and so much open wooing, that she had often to hear people prophecy that before her hair had grown again her bridegroom would have a successor--agreeably to the proverb, Long hair, short care. To speeches like these she would answer neither yea or nay, but calmly look down upon her work like a being whose ear and mind were closed against the idle sayings of this world. And in point of fact she falsified all these prophecies, for she continued to live as if by her votive offering of her hair to the Madonna she had vowed herself to perpetual maidenhood, and never meant that any man should uncoil the plaits which she again wound round her head, or twine their soft gold about his fingers. Many thought that she would go into a convent, because she preferred working church vestments and altar cloths, and kept aloof from all public amusements. But she even contradicted this opinion, and seemed to grow more cheerful as time went on, though still more ready to listen than to speak; and after the early death of her parents she removed to a small house in a turret on the city walls, which had a wide view over the peaceful meadows that are watered by the streams Piavesella and Rottiniga. There with an old deaf woman, her nurse, she lived above comment or censure, during a space of ten years, and no one entered her home except a neighbour now and then, or one of the noble ladies of the city who came to order some piece of work. Often, too, one of the spiritual fathers of the town might be seen to raise the knocker of her door. On these occasions she would call her nurse into the chamber while she received her visitors, and thus she contrived to keep malice at bay. Although it was only on Saints' Days that she allowed her needle to rest, and although she went but little out of doors, she kept her beauty so unimpaired, that if she ever took a Sunday walk in the cool of the evening on the walls, or in the neighbouring woods, accompanied by her old servant, everyone who saw her large black eyes look out calmly from between their fair lashes stood as it were transfixed, to gaze after her; and even strangers and distinguished noblemen who did not know her nature, and would not credit the reports concerning her, made her many overtures, hoping to lead her to renounce her single state. But she gave the same answer to each and all of them, namely, that the life she led was dear and familiar to her, and that she had no intention of changing it for any other. "Thus she had already attained her thirty-second year when the feud between the two neighbouring towns broke out, and as she was a loyal daughter of Treviso, she so bitterly felt all the misery and humiliation that had befallen it, that its deliverance by the valiant arm of a young fellow-citizen on whom her eyes had never rested, impressed her as a supernatural portent, and the deliverer himself as an angel with a flaming sword. Never had she more gladly undertaken a task, or executed it with more skill and industry, than she did this banner which the city meant to offer its triumphant son on his entry; and when the festal day came, and everybody in Treviso who was not on a sick-bed, sought themselves out a spot on market-place or street, at gate or window, nay even on the very house-tops, from whence to shower down flowers and congratulations on Attilio Buonfigli, even the fair Gianna could no longer endure her narrow dwelling, though indeed she might from the turret window have seen the procession from Vicenza well enough. She procured herself a seat on a gaily decorated tribune near the town hall, that she might see the hero quite closely, and she dressed herself in her best attire, a bodice of silver tissue trimmed with blue velvet, and a skirt of fine light blue woollen material, her hair being according to the fashion of the time, richly intertwined with ribands, so that even an hour before the entry, there was a rush in the streets, and many exclamations of amazement when she, thus arrayed, was seen to take her place by the side of a female friend. But before long the eyes of the crowd were diverted from her, and fixed impatiently on the street up which the hero was to ride. Part of the town council had ridden at least a mile beyond the gates to meet and honourably welcome him and his parents. His uncle, the Gonfaloniere, remained standing with the rest on the steps of the town hall, which was covered with costly red cloth, from whence a broad stripe of the same led across the market-place to the door of the cathedral, a manner of preparing the way hitherto reserved for consecrated and anointed personages only. "But who is able to describe the truly marvellous and unutterably solemn impression made on all, when at length Attilio, in advance of his escort, came riding up the street on his crimson-caparisoned bay charger, he himself in plain attire, a steel coat of mail thrown over a tabard; for the rest unarmed, with the exception of the sword that hung from his girdle, his head adorned merely by its dark brown curls. His chin and cheeks were shaded by a light beard, through which on the left side the broad red scar of his wound was visible. And although his management of his fiery charger proved his strength, a slight pallor still lingered on his cheeks, over which every now and then a modest blush flitted when he looked around him and saw on all sides white heads bend reverently before his triumphal youth, or mothers hold up their children the better to see the deliverer of their native city. But what crowned the whole was the shower of flowers falling so thickly from window and roof upon the hero, that his form was at times actually lost to view beneath a many-coloured veil; and his good horse, accustomed in battle to quite different missiles, pricked his ears, shook his mane, and mingled his shrill neighing with the shouts of triumph and the clamour of bells. "As soon as the whole procession had gathered in front of the town hall, Attilio leapt from the saddle and hastened up the steps to kneel before his noble uncle, to receive from him the banner, and to kiss the hand that bestowed so high an honour. But as he rose from his knees and prepared to descend the steps and tread the way to the cathedral, he started as though from some sudden pain of body or mind, and required three minutes at least to regain consciousness of where he was, and of the many thousand eyes riveted upon him. The fact was he had seen on the tribune to his right, a face that, like a vision of paradise, seemed to ravish him away from earth; and when the large black eyes looked fixedly at him from under their blonde lashes with an indescribable expression, half sweet, half melancholy, the blood suddenly rushed to his heart, he grew pale as though an arrow had smitten him in the breast, and had he not been holding the banner, against the pole of which he was able to lean, he must a second time--but this time involuntarily--have fallen upon his knees. Those who stood nearest to him and noticed his faintness, attributed it to his wound, and to the fatigue of so long a ride upon a hot day, no one divining the real cause; and at last Attilio collected himself, and forcing his eyes away from the enchanting face before him, trod the path to the cathedral without once turning round his head to where the women sat. "All the people now streamed after him, and the tribunes emptied themselves rapidly. The last who rose--and then only at the suggestion of her neighbour--was Gianna the Blonde, who as if lapped in dreams, or like one who gazes after the track of a falling star in the sky, followed the young man with her eyes, till the deep shadow of the cathedral portal swallowed up his lofty form. Her friend prepared to follow the rest and be present at the high mass, but Gianna pleaded indisposition, said she had sat too long in the sun, and with bent head took her solitary way to her own home. One of the flowers with which the streets were strewn, she picked up to carry back as a memorial; it was a red carnation trodden down by a horse's hoof. This flower she placed in a glass of water, and secretly settled with herself what it should be held to betoken if it were to revive. "Her old nurse who had been gazing at the procession through one of the port-holes of the city-gates, overflowed with praises and admiration of Attilio, of the modest way in which he had looked about him, he, an immortal hero at such an early age! dwelling on all the honour and fame he was sure to win in the future, making the name of his native town great amongst all the cities of Italy, perhaps indeed greater than even Florence or Rome! Then she fell to speaking of his betrothed, whom all ladies must needs envy, and to wondering whether she was worthy of him, and not by chance like her brother Signor Lorenzaccio, who stood in the worst repute with the inhabitants of Treviso, the women more especially. To all these remarks the fair Gianna replied nothing, or at least very little, and much to the old woman's surprise, sat herself down to her embroidery frame as though it were a common working-day, only raising her eyes from time to time to look at the flower in the glass. When afternoon came, and with it the rest of the amusements, racing, dancing, and beautiful fireworks, she still remained quietly seated, while the servant went out to enjoy the general hilarity. It was indeed only late in the evening that she returned, tired to death and covered with dust, but still with plenty to tell, and full of tender pity for her mistress, who had lost so much by her sad headache. The fair Gianna listened with a calm countenance, not joyous indeed, yet not sad, as though she had no part in what was going on. Meanwhile she had added a large piece to the stole she was working, and apparently had never moved from her chair. But the carnation in the glass was now in full bloom. "By this time night had come, and after the women had got through their silent supper, old Catalina, whose sexagenarian limbs had toiled hard during the day, betook herself to her bed in the kitchen. Her mistress remained up, looking at the rising of the moon above the broad plain, and the flow of the Rottiniga; and now instead of the festal sounds from the city, which had gradually died down, a nightingale who had her nest under the window, began to sing so sweet and amorous a strain, that tears came to the eyes of the solitary maiden as she listened. She felt her heart so heavy and oppressed that she rose, put out her light, and threw a dark cloak over her shoulders. Then she went down the steep and narrow stair, opened the house-door, and stepped into the empty street just to take a few steps in the cool night air, and quiet her beating pulses. But lost in her own thoughts as she was, she forgot to draw her hood about her head, so that although the moon did not shine into the street, she was easily to be recognized by any passer-by. And now, through a chance which, like all else that is earthly, obeyed a higher will, she encountered the very one her thoughts--like moths about a candle--had been fluttering round the whole day through. "It was no other than Attilio, who had long ago been weary of all the honour done him, and who more exhausted by the revel and riot of the feast, than by the tumult of a battle-field, had made a pretext of his wound to slip away from the banquet, and alone and unrecognized, visit the old haunts where he had played as a boy. But still stronger was his impulse and longing to try whether he might not chance again to meet those eyes the glance of which was still glowing in his heart. He had by well-put questions elicited from a burgher that the blonde beauty was the clever artist who had worked the banner presented to him, and he had determined on the following day, under plea of thanking her, to pay a visit to her house. And now, just as he was sadly reflecting on all that had happened and was yet to happen, the half-veiled figure advanced as though she were awaiting him. Both were rendered speechless by this sudden meeting. But Attilio was the first to collect himself. 'I know you well, Madonna,' said he, with a chivalrous obeisance as he stepped nearer to her. 'You are Gianna the Fair.' 'And I know you too, Attilio,' replied the beauteous one. 'Who is there in Treviso that does _not_ know you?' And thereupon both were silent, and both availed themselves of the shade of the gloomy street, to gaze at each other more closely than they had done yet, and to the young man it seemed that her beauty shone in the twilight a thousand times more gloriously than in the full day, and she for her part thought his eyes had quite another lustre while speaking to her now, than in the morning, when he only mutely contemplated her from afar. 'Forgive me, Madonna,' resumed the youth, 'for roaming through this street by night like a house-breaker. My purpose was to visit you in the morning to thank you for the great pains and the wondrous skill you have expended on the embroidery of my banner. If not disagreeable to you, suffer me, since you are alone, to reconduct you to your house. Truly I would that it were a greater service that I had occasion to render, that you might see how devoted I am to you.' Whereupon the blonde beauty, though generally well-skilled in the choice of words, found nothing better to say than, 'My home is only six paces off, and too humble for me to invite you to enter it.' 'Say not so,' replied Attilio. 'Rather were you a princess, and I authorized to entreat a favour, I should esteem it the very highest, if you would allow me to enter your dwelling and rest there a quarter of an hour, for indeed I am weary of wandering about, and a draught of water would refresh me.' To which the fair one replied, though not without hesitation and blushes, 'Who is there in this town he rescued who could refuse the hero of Bacchiloni the draught of water he so courteously entreats. My poor house and all it contains are at your service.' Then opening the small door she bade him enter in, and after bolting it again--for on festivals many loose characters prowled about, bent on spoil--she courteously led her guest by the hand up the perfectly dark winding stairs, so that he was quite dazzled when she threw open the door of her chamber into which the bright white moonshine streamed. 'Be seated a moment,' said she, 'while I bring you water; or would you put up with a glass of common wine such as we drink?' But he with quick-beating heart that choked his utterance, merely shook his head, and stepping to the window-seat on which her embroidery lay, fell to gazing on it, as though he wanted to draw it from memory. So she left him and went down into the kitchen where her nurse was fast asleep on a rug which she had spread on the flags for the sake of coolness. 'Oh nurse!' she whispered, 'if you only knew who has entered in!' Then after filling a goblet from a great stone pitcher that stood on the hearth, she stood still a moment, pressed her two cold hands on her burning cheeks, and said in a low tone, 'Holy Mother, of our Lord, guard my heart from vain wishes.' Thereupon she grew stronger, and after placing a small loaf on a tin plate she carried both it and the glass of water up to Signor Attilio, who had meanwhile seated himself in the window, and was gazing out into the open country. 'I am ashamed,' said she, 'to bring you such prison fare as bread and water. But if you will only stretch your arm out of the window, an old fig-tree stands between the two walls and the moat, which, with its load of sweet fruit is easily reached from here.' 'Gianna,' said the young man, taking the glass from her hand, 'were I to remain here your prisoner for ever, I should never wish for any other drink.' And she endeavouring to smile, replied, 'You would grow weary of such imprisonment, whereas in the world without, by the side of your young spouse, a thousand pleasures, prosperities, and honours of all kind await you.' 'Why do you remind me of it?' cried he, his brow growing dark. 'Know that this betrothal which you hold out as a Heaven on earth, is to me a Hell itself. When I was still weak from the fever of my wound, and hardly indeed my own master, I allowed myself to be decoyed into this detested net, in which I now writhe like a captured fish on a burning strand! Alas for my youth! why have my eyes been opened now that it is too late? Why have I learnt to know my own heart just after, like a fool, pledging myself to an accursed duty!' And so saying, he sprang from his seat, and strode with echoing footsteps through the moonlit room, just like a young panther trapped in a pit, and confined in an iron cage. But the fair one, alarmed though she was at the vehemence of this strange confession, was far from imitating his demeanour, but gently said while stroking the carnation blossom with her white finger, 'You astonish me, Signor Attilio! Is not the bride young, fair, and virtuously nurtured, that you should consider it a punishment to become her husband?' 'Were she an angel from before the Throne of God,' cried he, suddenly standing still and facing her, 'that flower that your hand has touched would be a more precious gift to me, than her whole person with all her gifts and virtues! Oh, why have you done this to me, Gianna! He who has never seen the sun may live and even enjoy himself in twilight. But since my eyes met yours for the first time this morning, I have known that there is only one woman on earth for whose love and favour I would dare anything, and cast body and soul away, and that woman art thou, Gianna the Fair; and now I would rather that eternal night should swallow me up, than that I should have to creep back into the twilight yonder, frozen and wretched, to dream of my sun.' "Thus saying he seized both her hands as though clinging to her to save him from falling into an abyss, but seeing that her face remained unmoved he let her go again, and returned to the open window. There he stood awhile quite still and silent, and only the nightingale in the bush below went on with her ceaseless trilling and warbling. Then as if seized by some sudden resolve the youth turned round and cried, 'But even though it should undo all that is done I will not consent, I will not endure these bonds and chains! Tomorrow with the dawn I send letters to Vicenza to take back my promise, and then I shall retire from both towns and challenge with sword and lance all who dare to deny that Gianna the Fair is the queen of womanhood.' 'This shalt thou not do, Attilio,' returned the beautiful being looking beyond him to the midnight sky with a calm and earnest gaze. 'That you should have been so suddenly attracted towards me, and should endow me so unqualifiedly with your affection, I acknowledge as an inexpressibly great gift, for which, although unworthy of you, I shall thank you as long as I live. But I cannot accept this gift without involving both in ruin. Reflect, my friend, how the scarcely smothered enmity between the two towns would burst forth again if you were thus to insult the house of Scarpa, and with it all the city, by despising your betrothed bride who has never offended against you by word or deed, merely because another face has pleased you better. And this very face, even granting that it does at this time deserve such excessive praise, and the passion it has excited in you, who can say that even in one year all its charms might not be faded, so that you would ask yourself wondering, how was it possible you could have been thus possessed by it? Do we not often see towards the close of summer, one single night of early frost avail to turn the trees that were green but yesterday, suddenly sere and yellow? I have overstept my one-and-thirtieth year; you my friend are in the fulness of your youth, you are still climbing the hill, the summit of which I have reached. Let me, therefore, being the elder, be the wiser as well, and show prudence enough for both. And to this end I declare to you my firm resolve, even were I to discover your love was more than a sudden caprice, and were all opposing circumstances miraculously to conform themselves to your wishes, I would _never_ consent to be your wife, no, not though your parents came to me in person to lend their support to your suit!' "It was only when she had ended this speech that she ventured to look towards him, and then seeing how pale he was, and how his fine eyes wandered round, as in despair, she felt ready out of very love and pity to contradict all that she had forced herself to utter with incredible firmness. "'Good-night, Madonna,' Attilio sorrowfully said, and seemed about to leave, but then stood still and looked on the ground. 'You are angry with me, Attilio,' said she. And he--'No, by God, Gianna, I am not; only give me leave to depart, for truly I have tarried but too long, and have spoken like a madman, without considering that what I offered you might prove so worthless in your sight, that you could not even stretch out your hand to take it, far less endure conflict and trouble for its sake. And thus I depart with well-merited humiliation, and it is no one's fault but my own that this my day of triumph, which began so gladly, should have so lamentable an end. Farewell, Gianna. The banner you worked, and which this morning seemed to me the most costly of possessions, I will now bestow upon a chapel, in order that the sight of it may not recall to me the hand which has so coldly rejected and repulsed me.' "With that he bent low and was nearing the door, when once more he heard his name called. Gianna's heart, which had long been beating wildly, now burst its bounds, and made itself heard in speech. 'Attilio,' said the blushing fair, who had lost all self-control, 'I cannot let you go away thus, and continue to live. What I have said stands firm, nor will you ever change one iota of it, for it behoves your own good which is dearer to me than my own. But I have not yet told you all. Know then that since my betrothed died--it is now twelve years ago--I have never had the thought nor the wish of belonging to any man, and if I have kept the jewel of my honour thus pure, in good sooth it has cost me neither effort nor regret so to do. For I do not lightly esteem myself, not so much because of this poor and transient beauty, as because I know well that mine is a free and strong spirit, which I could never render subservient to the sway of one weaker or lower than myself, as in marriage a wife is often bound to do. And many as my wooers have been, I have never yet found one whom to serve would not have appeared to me a bondage and degradation. It was only to-day that I saw you ride into the town to which you have given back freedom and honour. When I saw how modestly you bent your head beneath so great a triumph, achieved in such early youth--showing neither vanity nor scorn, but receiving like a messenger from God, the gratitude of those whom you had delivered--I could not but say to myself, 'Why art thou no longer young to deserve the love of this youth?' And when I saw the crimson scar on your throat, I felt that I would go barefoot on a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre, if mine might be the bliss of only once daring to press my lips to that sacred wound. And then when I came home, knowing well what had befallen me, I picked up a flower from the street--this one, see--just because it had been trodden under your horse's hoof; and I meant to have it laid under my pillow when I should be borne out hence to my last sleep. And now that I have told you this, Attilio, repeat, if you have the heart, that this hand has coldly drawn itself away from your grasp.' "Then she held out her arms to her lover, who stood before her in speechless ecstasy, like one doomed to death who had been reprieved at the very edge of the scaffold. She drew down his head on her breast, and kissed the wound for which her lips had yearned. Then freeing herself once more from his embrace, she said, 'What I do, my friend, is done with perfect deliberation and consciousness, and I shall never repent it, although many might censure and condemn my conduct if they knew of it. I give you the only jewel I possess, and which hitherto I have held dearer than my very life. For look you, on the very spot on which you stand, your future brother-in-law, Signor Lorenzaccio, stood and vehemently besought me to be his, and he would lead me to Vicenza as his wife. But what I denied to him, the enemy and oppressor of my city--and I was fain to threaten him with my dagger (the mark of which he bears on his right hand) before he desisted from his wild wooing--I give to you as the saviour of my city, give it in token of your triumph; and require from you in return no reward whatever, but that you forget me when you stand at the altar to plight your faith to another. And do not concern yourself as to what may betide me then. My lot will be blessed through all renunciation, and enviable in all sorrow, since I shall have endowed the noblest man on whom my eyes have ever rested with the free gift of my honour; and before the winter of years has covered this blond head with snows, I shall have enjoyed a late spring, beauteous beyond all I could have dreamed. These eyes and lips are thine, Attilio, and this untouched form is thine, and thine is this heart which, when thou shalt part from me, will never more desire any of the sweetnesses of this world, but like the heart of a widow, will still feed upon its past joys till it beat no longer.' "Thus saying she led him to the seat in the window, and knelt before him, and he took her head in his two hands, and was never satiated with gazing at her, and kissing her brow, cheeks, and mouth; and long after the moon had set they were still together and immeasurably blest But when the first cock-crow was heard over the plains, Gianna herself constrained him to leave her arms, lest he should be missed in his parent's house. They agreed, however, that he should return the next night and all the following ones, and fixed on the signal at which she should open the door; and so he took his leave; as one intoxicated reels from a banquet: and in the arrogance of his bliss he scorned to descend the winding stairs, although the streets were empty, but swung himself out of the window, and profiting by the foot-hold afforded by the fig-tree, scrambled down to the walls below, often delaying to call out all manner of loving names and to throw the flowers growing on the edge of the moat up to the beloved one in the window, till she, fearing observation, withdrew from it. Then he tore himself away, and crept so carefully along the walls, that he reached the gate unnoticed by any. The sleepy watchman did not recognize him, and no one had missed him at home, so that he entered exultingly into his own room, and throwing himself on his couch, snatched a brief interval of needed sleep. "With equal skill and secrecy, the lovers contrived their meetings for the nights following, so that no one in the whole town had the least idea of the relations between them; except the nurse Catalina, who was as silent about it as the fig-tree under the window. For the happiness and honour of her mistress were the first thought of her heart; and the sharpest tortures of the rack would never have extorted the youth's name from lips of hers. But one thing did grieve her much, and that was her dear lady's firm resolve that all must be over for ever, so soon as Attilio had exchanged rings with his bride Emilia Scarpa. 'What can you be thinking of?' said the old woman. 'Do you suppose you will be able quietly to endure that another should adorn herself with the flower that you have worn on your breast? As sure as I love you, lady, more than the fruit of my own body, you will die of it, your heart will break in twain like an apple when you run a knife into its midst.' 'Nurse,' said the Blonde, 'you may be right. But what of that? Better that I should be destroyed, than the one I love, and this dear city which is the mother of us both.' 'What folly you utter!' replied the old woman. 'If he love you as he says, and I believe, he will not be able to survive it; and so your obstinacy will bring about the death of two. And as for the city, now that it is defended by such a hero, it may safely challenge the enmity of three cities, each of them mightier than Vicenza.' Such arguments and others did Attilio too urge, and ever more and more pressingly as the time drew near when he must bid an eternal farewell to the eyes he adored. "He still hoped, as he had hoped from the first day, to conquer her opposition, and was resolved to sacrifice everything for her. Gianna, on the other hand, to whom the bare idea of her lover's heart ever growing cold, and regretting that he had linked his young life with her faded one, was far more bitter than parting or death, tried, whenever he assailed her with fresh entreaties, to turn away his impetuosity by some jest about her age, and the inconstancy of men, and to make the Present so sweet to him, that in it he should forget the bitterness of the Future. "Meanwhile in both houses, that of the Buonfigli as of the Scarpa, preparations for the marriage were eagerly carried on, and in nine weeks from the triumphal entry of the bridegroom, a no less brilliant reception was accorded by the inhabitants of Treviso to the bride. If, however, amongst the spectators there was even greater general joy than before, because of the now sealed and ratified treaty between the two cities, and also owing to the presence of the young and richly adorned bride with her escort of sixteen bridesmaids, all mounted on white jennets, and wearing costly apparel,--there were two in the festal procession who found it hard to conceal their anger and annoyance, one being the bridegroom himself, who would rather have touched a snake than his bride, and the other, Signor Lorenzaccio, his future brother-in-law, who secretly gnashed his teeth when he reflected that he had to play a quite secondary part to his young rival's, and would have gladly strangled, rather than embraced, him and his kindred. And yet a third heart there was, firmly closed against the rejoicings of the day, and that heart beat in the bosom of the fair Gianna, for she knew that the night that followed would be the last of her bliss. Accordingly she had not as on the former occasion exerted herself to procure a seat in the tribune in front of the town hall, but had kept at home while Attilio rode by the stranger's side through the streets, and a very rain of flowers rustled down about the pair. Even in the afternoon, while all the people were flocking out to the meadow before the town, where within splendidly decorated lists a tournament was to be held, she sat still at home lost in gloomy thoughts, and her tears falling so fast she saw nothing of the brightness of the day. 'O my poor heart!' she sighed, 'Now is the time to prove thyself strong enough to renounce thy own happiness; and thou art so weak, thou meltest away in tears. Thou hast undertaken more than thou art able to perform. True thou knewest not that love is a wine of which every draught but increases the thirst of those who drink. Now the cup of thy bliss is turned to poison that will slowly consume thee, and no leech on earth, nor help of all the Saints in heaven, will avail to heal thee!' At this moment in came Catalina, and persuaded her to go out with her, that at least if she really were resolved to part from her beloved, she might behold him once more in the full splendour of his knightly prowess and beauty, and as conqueror of all assembled. For the kind soul secretly hoped that a miracle would yet take place, and her mistress's mind change. Accordingly she dressed out the mourner (who was passive as a child) with the utmost case, and led her to the tilting-field, which was already swarming with people, and resonant with the neighing of horses and blare of trumpets. There then Gianna, standing amongst the crowd, saw the bride sitting on a raised daïs between the father and uncle of her bridegroom, and heard what people thought of her, some admiring her to the utmost, and others finding this or that to censure as well as to praise. The fair Gianna spoke not a word, and what she thought was never known. Only on two occasions she blushed deeply, when of some young men who passed before her, one exclaimed loud enough to be heard, 'I would give ten Emilias for one Gianna the Fair!' and the other, 'Treviso carries away the palm in women as in arms!' and this led to many eyes being bent on the fair embroideress, whose colour suddenly changed into deadly pallor; for at that moment Signor Attilio rode into the lists armed cap-à-pie, except that his throat instead of being defended by a brass haubergeon, which the French call _barbier_, was only protected by a slight leathern curtain fastened to the helmet. His visor was up, so that all noticed how pale he was and what sad and searching glances he cast around, and many marvelled at his aspect, seeing that he was such a triumphant young hero and a bridegroom to boot. However he rode up to the daïs on which his betrothed sat, bent before her, and allowed her to wind about his helmet the scarf she had been wearing, in token that he was her knight. Then the trumpeters blew, and from the other side came Signor Lorenzaccio riding into the lists, with visor closed, it is true, but all knew him from his armour and device, and hoped with all their hearts to see him stretched on the sand by the strong arm of his future brother-in-law. It was, however, otherwise decreed in the councils above. For scarcely had the heralds given the signal with their staffs, and the trumpets sounded, than both knights charged with lances in rest, and their horses hoofs raised such a cloud of dust, that for a moment after the shock, they were lost to the view of the spectators, who only heard the sound of lances on shield and coat of mail, followed by sudden silence. But when the cloud dispersed they beheld with horror Attilio, his feet still in the stirrups, thrown backwards on the saddle of his good steed (who stood there motionless), a stream of blood flowing from his throat, the undefended whiteness of which afforded a welcome mark to the cruel weapon of his foe. The conqueror faced him with his visor open, as though desirous to ascertain that his revenge was thoroughly accomplished, and after casting one last look of devilish hatred at his opponent, closed his helmet and rode, no one applauding him, slowly away out of the lists and through the petrified and horror-stricken crowds that could scarcely believe their eyes. "Meanwhile Attilio's squire and the other attendants hurried into the lists, lifted the groaning man out of the saddle, and spreading a carpet on the sand laid him thereon. And then a loud wailing arose, all order was over, the people rushed wildly over the barriers; those who occupied the tribunes hurried from their seats; and scarcely could the heralds succeed by remonstrance and blows to clear so much space about the dying man, as that his parents, relations, and bride might be able to reach him. He, however, lay still with eyes closed, and while some lamented, and others cursed the fiendish malice of Lorenzaccio, some called aloud for a leech, and others for a priest to afford the last consolations to the soul of the parting hero, no sound of pain came from his lips, nor of regret at having so early to join the heavenly hosts above. Rather did this hard fate appear to him a rescue from hated bonds; and when he heard his name called and recognized the voice of his bride, he endeavoured to shake his head, as though to tell her that he would not breathe away his last breath in a falsehood. Then all at once the crowd that pressed round this spectacle of woe parted asunder with a murmur of amazement, for they saw the fair Giovanna, pale as a spectre, yet crowned by the thorn-crown of woe, queen over all other women, advance and enter the circle. 'Go hence,' said she, stretching out her hand towards the bride, 'this dying man belongs to me, and as during life I was his, body and soul, so in death, too, I will be with him, and no stranger shall rob me of one sigh of his!' "Then she knelt down by her beloved, and gently lifted his powerless head on to her knee, his blood streaming over her festal attire. 'Attilio,' said she, 'do you know me?' Instantly he opened his eyes and sighed, 'O my Gianna, it is over! Death has not willed that I should pledge to another the faith and truth that only belonged to thee. I die; my wife, kiss me with the last kiss and receive my soul in thy arms!' "Then she bent down to his lips, and as her mouth rested on his, his eyes closed and his head sank back on her lap. And so mighty was the compassion felt by all for the noble pair, that no one, not even any of the Scarpas, ventured to trouble the parting of the lovers. Nay, when preparations began for carrying the lifeless form of the young hero back into the city, the people divided into two processions, one of which followed the dead, and the other the litter that bore his beloved to her house, for she had swooned away by the side of her lost friend. That same night the young Emilia returned with her mother to Vicenza. Her father, however, Signor Tullio Scarpa, remained in the house of the Buonfigli, in order to be present at Attilio's funeral, himself doubly a mourner, for his daughter's sorrow and his son's disgrace. "But when on the third day the beloved dead was borne to his grave in the chapel of the Madonna degli Angeli, there was seen next to the bier, and taking precedence of all blood relations, the tall form of Giovanna, dressed in deepest black, and wearing a widow's veil. And when she threw back the veil to kiss the brow of the departed, all the people beheld with astonishment the marvel that had taken place, for the gold of her hair which used to shine out from afar, had in a few nights changed to dull silver, and her fair face was pale and faded like that of an aged woman. "And, indeed, many thought she could not longer endure life, but would follow her beloved. Nevertheless she lived on for three years, during which she never laid aside her widow's garb, and was never seen in any public or festive place. In her retirement, however, she was industrious at her work, for she had vowed to the chapel of the Madonna degli Angeli, a large banner on which was represented the archangel Michael, clad in white armour, and slaying the dragon. And it was reported that the angel's coat of mail was worked with her own silver hair. And this banner was placed next to the first which hung in the chapel over Attilio's grave. This task completed, she held out no longer; they bore the embroideress too to her rest, and granted her her last petition, to be buried at the feet of him she loved. And that grave was long the resort of inhabitants and strangers, who went to admire the exquisite work of both banners, and to relate to each other the story of Gianna the Fair, who in life and death gave to her beloved all she possessed--even to her honour--though she might easily have preserved it unblemished had she held her peace." When the reader had ended, there was on interval of silence in the saloon, and the rain, the pattering of which had formed a melancholy accompaniment to the whole of the narrative, was now the only sound heard. At last the young doctor at the chess-table observed: "This story has somewhat of the gold tone of the Venetian school. And this the palettes of our moderns call no longer produce. Yet I own it seemed to me as if the copyist had introduced here and there some bold touches of his own." "The copyist!" said he of the sofa, throwing away his cigar. "This shews you know little of Erminus. He has only been taking us in, in order to contrast a highly coloured picture with our faded hues. Who will bet that this chronicle of San Niccolo is not a much later production than the far-famed Ossian of Macpherson!" Erminus seemed to turn a deaf ear to these remarks. "And how do you estimate the morality of the story?" asked he, addressing himself to Frau Eugenie. The lady in question reflected for a moment, then said, "I do not know that one could discuss so singular a case in the light of precedent or example. Have not different times indeed different manners, and different modes of feeling? I confess that a passionate self-surrender which does not reckon upon eternal constancy, must always clash with my own sense of right; and that it is only the tragic end that reconciles me to the startling commencement. And yet, had the Fair Giovanna been my sister, I should not have scrupled to walk with her hand in hand in the funeral procession that followed Attilio's bier." "A better testimony to the morality of the tale I could not desire," replied the narrator. "Allow me to kiss your hand in return." END OF THE EMBROIDERESS OF TREVISO. LOTTKA. LOTTKA. I was not quite seventeen years old, an over-grown pale-faced young fellow, at that awkward and embarrassing age which, conscious, of having out-grown boyish ways, is yet very unsteady and insecure when seeking to tread in the footsteps of men. With an audacious fancy and a timid heart; oscillating between defiant self-confidence and girlish sensitiveness; snatching inquisitively at every veil that hides from mortal eyes the mysteries of human life; to-day knowing the last word of the last question, to-morrow confessing the alphabet has still to be learnt, and getting comfort after so restless and contradictory a fashion that one would have been intolerable to one's very self if not surrounded by fellows in misfortune---that is in years--who were faring no better, and yet continued to endure their personality. It was at this time that I became intimate with a singular fellow who was some two years older than I, but like myself doomed to spend nearly another year as upper-class student. He did not attend the same gymnasium, nor were his relations, who lived out of Berlin, at all known to mine. I am really puzzled how to explain the fact that in spite of these obstacles we two became so friendly, that scarcely a day passed without his coming up the steep stairs that led to my rooms. Indeed even then a third party seeing us together might have found it hard to say what made us so essential to each other. He was in the habit of entering with a mere nod, walking up and down the room, now and then opening a book, or looking at a picture on the walls, and finally throwing himself into my grandfather's armchair--my substitute for a sofa--where, legs crossed, he would sit for hours, speaking not a word, until I had finished my Latin essay. Often when I looked up from the book before me I met his quiet, dreamy, brown eyes resting on me with a gentle brotherly expression, which made me nod to him in return; and it was a pleasure to me just to feel him there. If he chanced to find me idle, or in a communicative mood, he would let me run on by the hour without interruption, and his silent attention seemed to encourage and comfort me. It was only when we got upon the subject of music that he ever grew excited, and then we both lost ourselves in passionate debate. He had a splendid deep bass voice, that harmonized well with his manly aspect, dark eyes, and brown satin-smooth skin. And as he was also zealously studying the theory of music, it was easy for him to get the better of my superficial lay-talk by weighty arguments; yet whenever he thus drove me into a corner he always seemed pained at my defeat. I remember him, on one occasion, ringing me out of bed, formally to apologise for having, in the ardour of controversy, spoken of Rossini's _Barbiere_ which I had been strenuously upholding, as a wretched shaver whose melodies, compared with those of Mozart, were of little more account than the soap-bubbles in his barber's basin. In addition too to the extreme placidity that characterized him, he was always ready to do me a number of small services, such as the younger student usually renders to his senior, and there were two other things that helped to rivet our friendship: he had initiated me in the art of smoking, and set my first songs to music. There was one, I remember, which appeared to us at that time peculiarly felicitous both as to words and melody, and we used to sing it as a duet in all our walks together-- "I think in the olden days That a maiden was loved by me; But my heart is sick and troubled, It is all a dream may-be. "I think in the olden days, One was basking in sunny bliss; But whether I or another? I cannot be sure of this! "I think in the olden days That I sang--but know not what; For I have forgotten all things Since I've been by her forgot." Dear and ridiculous season of youth! A poet of sixteen sings of the "old myth" of his lost love-sorrow, and a musician of eighteen with all possible gravity, sets the sobbing strophes to music with a piano-forte accompaniment that seems to foreshadow the outburst of the world's denunciation on the head of the inconstant fair! We were, however, as I have already said, so especially pleased with this melancholy progeny of our united talents, that we were not long content to keep it to ourselves; we burned with desire to send it forth to the public. At that time the "Dresden Evening Times" under the editorship of, as I believe the late Robert Schneider, admitted poems over which my critical self-esteem could not but shrug its shoulders. To him, therefore, we sent our favourite--anonymously, of course--in the full persuasion that it would appear in the forthcoming number, text and music both, with the request that the unknown contributor would delight the Evening Times with other admirable fruits of genius. Full of a sweet shyness, spite of our incognito, we accordingly took to haunting the eating-houses where that journal was taken in, and blushingly looked out for our first-born. But week after week passed by without satisfying our expectations. I myself after twice writing and dignifiedly desiring the manuscript to be returned, gave up all hope, and was so wounded and humiliated by this failure, as first to throw down the gauntlet to an ungrateful contemporaneous world, and contribute to the pleasure of more enlightened posterity in the form of a longer poem; and then gradually to shun all mention of our unlucky venture, even requesting Bastel (my friend's name being Sebastian) to leave off humming the tune which too vividly recalled to me the mortifying history. He humoured me on this point, but he could not refrain from privately carrying on his investigations in pastry-cooks' shops, the more that he was devotedly addicted to cakes and sweet things. It was then midsummer, and the small round cherry tarts were wonderfully refreshing to an upper class student's tongue, parched and dry with Latin and Greek. Bastel most seriously asserted that sweets agreed with his voice; he was only able to temper the harshness of his bass notes by plenty of sugar and fruit-juice. I on the contrary, despised such insipid dainties, and preferred to stick to wine, which at that time did very little indeed to clear up any mind I had. But in virtue of my calling I was bound to worship "wine, women, and song," and in the volume of poems at which I was working hard, there was, of course, to be no lack of drinking-songs. We had now reached July, and the dog-days were beginning, when one afternoon Bastel made his appearance at the usual hour, but in very unusual mood. He lit his cigar indeed, but instead of sitting down to smoke it, he stood motionless at the window for a full quarter of an hour, drumming "_Non più andrai_" on the panes, and from time to time sighing as though a hundredweight lay on his heart. "Bastel," said I, "what's wrong?" No answer. "Are you ill?" I went on; "or have you had another row with the ordinary? or did the college yesterday give you a bad reception?" (He belonged to a certain secret society much frequented by students, and wore in his waistcoat pocket a tricoloured watch-ribbon which only ventured forth at their solemn meetings.) Still the same silence on the part of the strange dreamer, and the drumming grew so vehement that the panes began to ring ominously. It was only when I left off noticing him, that he incoherently began to talk to himself, "There are more things in heaven and earth--" but further he did not carry the quotation. At last I jumped up, went to him, and caught hold of his hand. "Bastel!" I cried, "what does this fooling mean? Something or other is vexing you. Tell it out, and let us see what can be done, but at least spare my window-panes and behave rationally. Will you light another cigar?" He shook his head. "If you have time," said he, "let's go out, I may be able to tell you in the open air. This room is so close." We went down stairs and wandered arm-in-arm through quiet Behren Street, where my parents lived, into Frederick Street. When he got into the full tide of carriages and foot-passengers, he seemed to be in a measure relieved. He pressed my arm, stood still a moment, and broke out: "It is nothing very particular, Paul, but I believe that I am in love, and this time for life." I was far from laughing at the declaration. At the age of sixteen one believes in the endless duration of every feeling. But I had read my Heine and considered it bad taste to become sentimental over a love-affair. "Who is the fortunate fair?" I lightly enquired. "You shall see her," he replied, his eyes wandering absently over the crowd flowing through the street. "I will take you there at once if you are inclined." "Can one go thus unceremoniously without being better dressed? I have actually forgotten my gloves." "She is no countess," said he, a slight blush shewing through his dark complexion. "Just think! yesterday when I wanted to look once more through the Evening Times--yes, I know we are not to speak of it, but it has to do with the whole thing--chance, or my good star led me to a quite out-of-the-way little cake-shop, and there--" He stopped short. "There you found her eating cherry-tarts, and that won your affection," laughed I. "Well, Bastel, I congratulate you. Sweets to the sweet. But have you already made such way as to be able to calculate upon finding her again at the very same place?" He gave no further reply. My tone seemed to be discordant with his mood. So indeed it at once became with my own, but my principles did not allow me to express myself more feelingly. Minor chords remained the exclusive property of verse; conversation was to be carried on in a harsh and flippant key, the more coldblooded and ironical the better. We had walked, in silence for the most part, all the length of Frederick Street to the Halle Gate, I, for all my air of indifference, actually consumed with curiosity and sympathy, when my friend suddenly turned up one of the last side streets that debouch into the main artery of the great city. Here were found at the time I am speaking of, several small one-storied private houses of mean exterior, a few shops, little traffic, so that the rattling of cab wheels sufficed to bring the inhabitants to their windows; and numbers of children who played about freely in the street, not having to take flight before the approach of any heavily-laden omnibus. When almost at the end of this particular side-street we came to a halt before a small house painted green, and having above its glass-door a large and dusty black board with the word "Confectionery" in tarnished gilt letters. To the right and left of this door were windows, with old brown blinds closely drawn, although the house was not on the sunny side of the street. I can see the landscape on those blinds to this hour! A ruined temple near a pond, on which a man with effaced features sat in a boat angling, while a peacock spread his tail on the stump of a willow tree. The glass door in the middle looked as though it had not been cleaned for ten years, and its netted curtain, white once no doubt, was now by reason of age, dust, and flies, pretty much the colour of the blinds. I was startled when Sebastian prepared to enter this un-inviting domicile: however I took care not to ruffle him again, and followed his lead in no small excitement. We were greeted by a hot cloying smell, which under ordinary circumstances would instantly have driven me out again, a smell of old dough, and fermenting strawberries, mingled with a flavour of chocolate and Vanilla, a smell that only an inveterate sweet-tooth or a youth in love could by possibility have consented to inhale! Added to this, the room was not much more than six feet high, and apparently never ventilated, except by the chance opening of the door. How my friend could ever have expected to find the Dresden Evening Times in such an out-of-the-way shop as this was a puzzle to me. Very soon, however, I discovered what it was that had lured him again--spite of his disappointment--into this distressing atmosphere. Behind the small counter on which was displayed a limited selection of uninviting tarts and cakes, I could see in the dusky window-seat behind the brown blind, a young girl dressed in the simplest printed cotton gown possible, her thick black hair just parted and cut short behind, a piece of knitting in her hands, which she only laid down when after some delay and uncertainty we had determined upon the inevitable cherry-tarts. My friend who hardly dared to look at her, still less to speak, went into the narrow, dark, and most comfortless little inner room, where the "Vossische Journal," and the "Observer on the Spree" outspread on a round table before the faded sofa, kept up a faint semblance of a reading-room. A small fly-blinded mirror hung on the wall between the two wooden-framed lithographs of King Frederick William III. and Queen Louise, over which was a bronzed bust of old Blücher squeezed in between the top of the stove and the low ceiling and looking gruffly down. Sebastian had thrown himself in feverish haste into one corner of the sofa, I into the other, when the young girl came in with the small plates for the tarts. I was now able to look at her leisurely, for she waited to light a gas-burner, it being already too dark to read. She was rather short than tall, but her figure was so symmetrical, so round, yet slender, that the eye followed her every movement with rapture, spite of her unbecoming, and almost ugly dress. Her feet, which were made visible to us by her standing on tip-toe to reach the gas burner, were daintily small as those of a child of ten, her little deft snow-white fingers looked as if they had always rested on a silken lap. What white things she had on, a small upright collar, cuffs, and a waitress's apron, were so immaculately clean as to form a striking contrast with the stained carpet, dusty furniture, and traces of the flies of a hundred summers visible on all around. I ought, I am aware, to attempt some sketch of her face, but I despair beforehand. Not that her features were so incomparably beautiful as to defy the skill of any and every artist. But what gave the peculiar charm to this face of hers, was a certain spirituality which I found it no easy matter to define to myself, a calm melancholy, a half-shy, half-threatening expression, a springtide bloom, which, having suddenly felt the touch of frost, no longer promised a joyous fruitful summer; in short, a face that would have puzzled and perplexed more mature decipherers of character, and which could not fail to make an irresistible impression upon a dreamer of sixteen. "What is your name, Fräulein, if I may venture to ask?" said I, by way of opening the conversation, my friend seeming as though he had no more important object than the mere consuming of tartlets. "Lottka," replied the girl without looking at me, and already preparing to leave the room. "Lottka!" cried I. "How do you come to have this Polish name?" "My father was a Pole." And then she was back again in the shop. "Would you have the kindness, Miss Lottka, to bring me a glass of _bishop_." I called after her. "Directly," was her reply. Sebastian was studying the advertisements in the "Vossische Journal" as though he expected to meet with the real finder of his lost heart there! I turned over the "Observer." Not one word did we exchange. In three minutes in she came again, bringing a glass of dark red wine on a tray. I could not turn my eyes away from her white hands, and felt my heart beat while gathering courage to address her again. "Will you not sit a little with us, Fräulein?" said I. "Do take my place on the sofa, and I will get a chair." "Thank you, sir," she replied, without any primness, but at the same time with almost insulting indifference, "my place is in the shop. If there is anything I can do for you--" "Do remain where you are," I insisted, venturing to catch hold of one of her hands which felt cool and smooth, and instantly slipped out of my grasp. "These newspapers are horribly dull. Allow us to introduce ourselves. My friend here, Mr. ----" At that moment the shop-door opened, a little girl pushed shyly in, with two copper coins in her small fist, for which she wanted some sweeties. Our beauty availed herself of this opportunity of declining our acquaintance, and after having served the child, sat down again in her window-corner and took up her knitting. Our position grew more and more unbearable. As to the tarts they were eaten long ago, and I had, partly out of embarrassment, and partly to give myself the air of an experienced wine-bibber, tossed off my glass of bishop at a draught, and now sat with burning brow and wandering mind, looking at the flies crawling along the glass's edge, and intoxicating themselves with the crimson drops. Sebastian was as silent as an Indian Fakir, and seemed to be listening intently to what was going on in the shop, where indeed there was not a sound to be heard, except now and then the click of the knitting-needles against the counter. "Come, you trappist," said I at length, "we will pay our bill and get some fresh air. My lungs are as it were candied. For any one but a fly this atmosphere is insupportable." "Good-bye, pretty child," said I at the counter with all the importance of a roué of sixteen, who has a volume of lyrical poems at home written in the style of Heine, and ready for the press. "I hope that we may improve our acquaintance at some future time when you are less absorbed. Au revoir!" I should no doubt have indulged in greater absurdities, but that she looked at me with so strangely absent an expression that I suddenly felt ashamed of my impertinence, made her a low bow, and hurried out into the street. Sebastian followed me instantly; he had hardly dared to look at her. "Now then," he said, as we rushed along through the silent street, "what do you say?" "That the bishop is very fair, but the tarts execrable. I cannot understand how you forced your portion down as well as half of mine. I suspect that confectioner's shop of only selling old cakes bought second-hand." "What of that?" growled he. "I did not ask about such things. I want to know what you think of _her_." "My good friend," I returned in an authoritative and fatherly tone. "What can one say about a girl who is able to breathe in that atmosphere! Woman is ever an enigma as you well know." (He nodded assent and sighed; I had contrived--God knows how--to pass with him as a great discerner of feminine spirits, and was fond of introducing into my generalisations the word "Woman," which has always a mystical charm for youths of our age.) "This monosyllabic creature--that she is enchanting it is impossible to deny! But I warn you against her, Bastel. Believe me, she has no heart." "You think so?" he interpolated in a horrified tone without looking at me. "That is to say she has either never had one, or destiny has changed it into stone in her breast. Otherwise would she so coldly have turned away when I addressed her? She has a past I tell you, perhaps a present also, but no future." This stupendous sentence of mine thrown off in mere thoughtlessness produced an unexpected effect upon my chum. He started as though a snake had bitten him, snatched his arm out of mine and said-- "You think then that she--that she no longer--in a word you doubt her virtue?" I saw now the mischief I had done. "Be easy, child," said I, throwing my arm over his shoulder. "Come, we must not have a scene here. We have agreed woman is an enigma. But as to character I have no grounds for suspecting hers. I only meant to say, take care that you do not get involved in an unpromising affair. For she looks like one from whom a victim would not easily escape! If you like I will keep an eye upon her, and I promise to render you every assistance that one friend can to another." We had now reached a dark and deserted street-corner. Suddenly he embraced me, squeezed my hand as though bent on fusing it with his own, and instantly vanished up the nearest side-street. I for my part walked home very slowly in order to grow cool and collected, but the singular form I had seen never left me for a moment. I was so feverishly abstracted at the home tea-table that my good mother grew alarmed, and sent me early to bed. When I went to my class the following morning, I found I had not prepared my Plato, and was obliged to put up with many mocking remarks from the lecturer on history in consequence of my having pushed the date of the battle of Cannæ a good century too far back. The day was wet, and I lounged down the street full of depression and _ennui_. Sebastian kept himself out of sight. I stood an hour at the window on which he had drummed "_Non più andrai_" the day before, and looked meditatively at the rain-pools in the street below, out of which the sparrows were picking a few oat-husks. I heard the horses stamping in the stable, and the stable-boy whistling Weber's "Jungfern Kranz" and found myself suddenly whistling it too, and stamping the while. I felt so absurd and pitiable that tears nearly came. At length I armed myself with an umbrella, and ran out into the wet and windy street. I had been invited to a party at a friend's house for that evening, but I had an hour to spare. And this hour, I thought, could not be better spent than in sauntering through the street where the confectioner's shop stood, and patrolling a short time on the other side to watch who went in. As it was already growing dusk I felt pretty well concealed under my umbrella, but all the same I was conscious of a certain agreeable mysterious sensation as though playing an important part in some deed of honour. In point of fact, however, there was nothing remarkable to be seen. The shop seemed to be pretty well frequented, but only by a humble class of customers, children, schoolboys intent upon devouring their pocket money, coughing old women going in for a penny-worth of lozenges. Dangerous young men did not seem aware that behind those brown blinds lurked a dangerous young girl. Much relieved by the result of my observation, I finally crossed the street just to find out whether there were any possibility of peeping in. The gas was lit in both rooms, but the shop-window was so well-protected that one could see nothing whatever from without. But on the other hand the blind of the reading-room had a crack just across the back of the angler. So I stood and looked in, a good deal ashamed of myself for spying. And there, on the very same corner of the sofa that he occupied yesterday, sat my poor friend Sebastian before an empty plate covered with flies, his eyes wandering beyond the newspaper into empty space. A singular thrill came over me, half jealousy, half satisfaction, at his having got on no further. Just as I was watching him, he made a movement as if to take up his cap and leave. I drew back from the window, and crept along the houses like a thief who has had the narrowest escape of capture. When I got to the house where I was expected, I had of course to collect my wits. I was more lively than usual, and paid my court to the daughters of the house with all the awkward nonchalance of a man of the world of sixteen, nay, I even allowed myself to be persuaded to read out my last poem, and drank several glasses of strong Hungarian wine, which made me neither wiser nor more modest. When ten o'clock struck, I suddenly took my departure under the pretext of an appointment with a friend. To keep late hours seemed to me congruous with the character of a youthful poet. Had people but known that the real engagement was the copying out fair a German essay, all the halo would have vanished! And as it was that luckless essay fared badly enough. The night was wondrously beautiful. After long-continued rain, the air was as soft and exquisitely still as a human heart just reconciled to a long-estranged friend (I involuntarily fall back into the lyrical style of those early days!), and the sky sparkled and shone with thousands of newly-washed stars. In spite of the lateness of the hour, girls and women went chattering through the streets without hat or shawl, with merely a kerchief thrown over their heads, as though the lovely night had enticed them out just to inhale, before going to bed, one draught of fresh air after the discomfort of the day. Every window stood open, the roses gave out their fragrance; one heard Mendelssohn's "Songs without words" played on the piano, or some sweet female voice quietly singing to itself. How it happened I did not know, but all of a sudden there I was again at the little shop, and had hold of the door handle before I could make out even to myself what it was that led me there. As I entered, Lottka raised her head from the counter where it had been resting on her arm. Her eyes shewed that she had been asleep. The book, over which she had been tiring herself, fell from her lap as she rose. "I have disturbed you, Miss Lottka," said I. "Forgive me, I will go away at once. I happened to be passing by--and as the night was so beautiful--as since yesterday you--Would you be so kind as to give me a glass of bishop, Miss Lottka?" Strange that my usually reckless eloquence should so regularly fail me in the presence of this quiet creature! "What have you been reading?" I began again after a pause, walking the while up and down the shop. "A book from the lending library? Such a torn shabby copy is not fit for your small white hands. Allow me--I have a quantity of charming books at home--romances too--" "Pardon me," she quietly rejoined. "I have no time to read romances. This is a French Grammar." "You are studying by yourself then?" "I already speak it a little, I wish to understand it more thoroughly." She relapsed into silence, and began to arrange the plates and spoons. "Miss Lottka," said I after an interval, during which I had regained courage from a contemplation of the gruff old Blücher in the smaller room. "Are you happy in the position that you occupy at present?" She looked at me out of her large weary eyes with the amazement of a child in a fairy-tale when suddenly addressed by a bird. "How come you to put such a question?" she enquired. "Pray do not attribute it to heartless curiosity," I went on, in my excitement upsetting a small pyramid of biscuits. "Believe that I feel a genuinely warm interest in you-- If you need a friend--if anything has happened to you--you understand me-- Life is so sad, Miss Lottka--and just in our youth--" I was floundering deeper and deeper, and the drops stood on my brow. I would have given a good deal if that old Blücher had not encouraged me to make this speech. However I was spared further humiliation. The door leading from the interior of the house opened, and the person to whom the shop belonged made her appearance. She seemed a good-natured square woman, with a thick cap-border, who explained to me as civilly as she could, that I had already remained a quarter of an hour beyond the usual time of shutting up, for that she was in the habit of putting out the gas at half-past ten. Accordingly I paid in all haste for my half-emptied glass, threw an expressive and half-reproachful glance at the silent girl, and went my way. That night my couch was not one of roses. I made a serious attempt to finish my German essay:--"Comparison between the Antigone of Sophocles and the Iphigenia of Goethe," but what were either of these Hecubas to me? I began to scribble verses on the margin of the book, and their melody had so lulling an effect that not long after midnight I fell asleep in my chair, and in spite of the uncomfortable position never woke till morning, though in my verses I had confessed myself once more in love; and what of all the untoward circumstances of the case was the darkest, in love with the heart's choice of my best friend! This too was my first waking thought on the following morning. I remember distinctly, however, that the misfortune which I clearly saw to be ours, did not after all make me actually miserable, nay that it rather exalted my self-complacency and rendered me very interesting in my own eyes, as I had now a chance of personally experiencing all that I had hitherto merely read of. I was never tired of conjuring up the disastrous and heartrending scenes to which this complication must necessarily lead, and an indefinably pleasurable kind of pity for myself, for Sebastian, and for the innocent source of our woes suffused all my thoughts. Instead of going to the gymnasium, where I should have had to appear without the German essay, I preferred to visit the "hedge-school" as the French say, that is to lounge about the park, and there on a lonely bench in the most out-of-the-way corner, commit my youthful sorrows to paper. Heine and Eichendorff were at that time contending for my immortal soul. On that particular morning I was not yet ripe for the irony of the "Buch der Lieder," and the tree-tops rustled too romantically above my head for the utterance of any tones but such as suited a youthful scapegrace. About noon I saw with melancholy satisfaction that the poem entitled "New Love," begun that morning, would form a very considerable addition to my volume, if it went on long at this rate. In the afternoon when I sat, thinking no evil, in my room, and attempting to draw the profile of my secretly beloved one from memory, I heard Sebastian's step on the stair. I hastily hid away the sheet of paper, and dipped my pen in the ink-stand to seem as though I were interrupted at my work. When he entered I had not the heart to look up at him. He too gave me a very cursory greeting, stretched himself out as usual in my arm chair, and began to smoke a short-pipe. In about half-an-hour he asked, "Have you been there again?" "Yes," I replied, and seemed to be very busy looking out a word in my lexicon. "And what do you think of her now?" "What I think? I have not yet found out the riddle. So much, however, I know, that she is not a flesh and blood girl, but a water-nixie, a Melusina, 'cold even to her heart,' and who knows whether her very figure does not end like a mermaid's '_desinit in piscem_?'" He sprang up. "I must beg you not to speak in such a tone!" "Patience, old boy," said I. "Do not go and suppose that I think lightly of her. A past history she has that is quite clear. But why need there be any harm in it? Suppose there were only some misfortune, a great grief, or a great love?" "You think so?" and he looked at me anxiously and sadly. "I should not be at all surprised," I continued, "if she, with those precocious eyes and that wonderful composure, had already traversed the agonies of hopeless love. Do not forget her Polish father. Polish girls begin early both to excite and to feel passion. How the poor child ever got into that fly-trap, God knows. But you and I together should find it difficult to deliver her out of it." After that followed a silent quarter of an hour, during which he turned over my MS. poems. "I should like to copy out this song," he suddenly said, reaching out a page to me. "What for?" asked I. "Bastel, I half suspect you want to pass it off as your own." "Shame upon you!" returned he with a deep flush, "_I_ give myself out for a poet! But I have a tune running in my head; it is long since I have composed anything." "Look out something better and more cheerful. What could you make of that feeble-minded whimper? That song is half a year old" (dated from that 'olden time' that I could not myself distinctly remember!) He had taken back the sheet, and was now bending over it, being somewhat short-sighted, and singing in a low voice the following verses to a simple pathetic melody: "How could I e'er deserve thee, By serving long years through; Though thou wert fain to own me, Most stedfast and most true. Or what though high exalted, Though glory were my meed: Love is a free gift from above, Desert it will not heed. "Thou tree with head low bending, Thy blossoms may prove vain; Who knows if God will send thee The blessing of his rain? Thou heart by joy and anguish Proved and refined indeed: Love is a free gift from above, Desert it will not heed." He sprang up, just gave me an absent nod, and rushed out of the room. Not long after I went out myself. I had no particular object, except to quiet the tumult in my veins by bodily fatigue. After walking with great rapidity about the town for an hour or so, I found myself unintentionally in the neighbourhood of the mysterious street. It attracted and repelled me both. I had a dim consciousness of not having played a very creditable part the night before. I was pretty sure that the young stranger who had so zealously offered himself as her knight, would be greeted by a satirical smile by Lottka. But that was reason the more, I argued, for seeking to give her a better impression of me. And therefore I plucked up courage, and rapidly turned the corner. At the same moment I was aware of my friend and rival, his cap pressed down on his brow, advancing with great strides towards the small green house, from a contrary direction. He too was aware of me, and we each of us came to a halt and then turned sharp round the following moment as though we had mistaken our way. My heart beat wildly. "Shame upon our ridiculous reserve and suspicion of each other!" I inwardly cried, feeling that if this went on I should soon hate my best friend with my whole heart. I was in the angriest of moods while retracing my steps, and reflected whether the wisest and most manly course would not be to turn round again and take my chance even if a whole legion of old friends stood in my way. Had I not as much right as another to make a fool of myself about the girl? Was I timidly to draw back now after speaking out so boldly yesterday and offering myself as champion to the mysterious enchantress? Never! I'd go to her at once though the world fell to pieces! I turned in haste--there stood Sebastian. In my excitement I had not even heard his quick steps following me. "You here!" I cried in counterfeit amazement. "Paul," he replied, and his melodious voice slightly trembled. "We will not act a part. We--we have been fond of each other, you and I. But believe me if this were to go on I could not stand it. I know where you are going: I was bound the same way myself. You love her--do not attempt to deny it. I found it out at once." "And what if I do love her?" cried I, half-defiant and half-ashamed. "I confess that the impression she has made on me--" "Come here under the gateway," said he. "We are blocking up the way, and you speak so loud you will attract attention. You see I was right; indeed I should have been surprised if it had not turned out thus. But you will agree that it is impossible to go on. One or other must retire." "Very well," returned I, endeavouring to assume an inimical and dogged expression. "One of us must retire. Only I do not see why it should be I. Just because I am the younger by two stupid years, though as advanced a student as yourself." I had hardly spoken the hasty heartless words before I regretted them. At that moment they sounded like a humiliating boast. "Besides," I hastily added, "it does not signify so much which of us takes precedence, as who it is she cares for. At present you and I seem to have equally poor prospects." "That is true," he said. "But none the less I cannot find it in my heart to enter into a contest with you; and then you are the bolder, the more fluent, I should give up the game beforehand if we were both to declare our feelings for her: you know what I mean." "If this be so," I rejoined, looking with artificial indifference through the dark gateway into a garden where a lonely rose-tree blossomed; "if you have not more confidence in yourself than this, you cannot after all be so much in love as you suppose, and as I can fairly say I am. I have spent a sleepless night" (I did not reckon those seven hours snatched in a chair) "and a wasted day. And so I thought--" I could not end my sentence. The pallor of his good, true-hearted face shewed me how much more deeply he was affected by this conversation than I, for whom indeed it had a certain romantic charm. I felt fond of him again. "Listen," said I, "we shall never get on this way. I see that neither of us will retire of his own free will. Fate must decide." "Fate?" "Or chance if you prefer it. I will throw down this piece of money. If the royal arms are uppermost, you have won; if the inscription--" "Do so," he whispered. "Although it would be fairer--" "Will you cry done?" "Done!" The coin fell to the ground. I stooped down in the dim light we were standing in to make sure of the fact. "Which is uppermost?" I could hear him murmur, while he leaned against the door-post. He himself did not venture to look. "Bastel," said I, "it cannot be helped. The inscription is uppermost. You understand that having once appealed to the decision of Providence--" He did not move, and not a sound escaped his lips. When I drew myself up and looked at him, I saw that his eyes were closed, and that he stood as if in a trance. "Don't take it so to heart," said I. "Who knows but that in two or three days I may come and tell you that she does not suit me, that the field is open for you, and that--" "Good night," he suddenly whispered, and rushed away at full speed. I only remained behind for a moment. At this abrupt departure the scales fell from my eyes. I was conscious that my feelings for the mysterious being were not to be compared with his, and that I should be a villain if I were to take advantage of this foolish appeal to chance. In twenty yards I had caught him up, and had to employ all my strength to keep hold of him, for he was bent on getting away. "Hear me," I said. "I have changed my mind. Nay, you _must_ hear me, or I shall believe you were never in earnest in your friendship for me. I solemnly swear, Bastel, that I make way for you. I resign utterly and for ever, every wish and every hope. I see it all clearly. You could not recover it if she were to prefer me. I--why I should make up my mind! You know one does not die of it even if all one's dream-blossoms do not come to fruit. Give me your hand, Bastel, and not another word about it." He threw himself on my breast. I meanwhile feeling very noble and magnanimous, as though I had renounced a kingdom to which I was heir, in favour of some cousin belonging to a collateral line. Any one who had seen us walking on for an hour hand in hand, and been aware that we were disposing of a fair creature who had probably never given either of us a thought, could hardly have refrained from laughing at so shadowy an act of generosity. I insisted upon accompanying him at once to the shop. I was bent upon proving that my sacrifice did not exceed my strength. "Success to you!" I cried, as he turned the handle of the door, and I shewed him a cheerful face. And then I went away wrapped in my virtue, whose heroic folds were full compensation for all that I had resigned. I slept so soundly that night, that I felt ashamed of myself the next morning for not having dreamed of her. Could it be that the flame of this "new love" had gone out thus suddenly, not leaving so much as a spark behind? I would not allow it to myself, and thereby diminish the importance of so tragic a collision. As it was Sunday I had plenty of time to give myself up undisturbed to my happy-unhappy sensations. A few verses written down that morning still linger in my memory: "Sad and consumed by envious desire, A Cinderella sits beside the fire: The hearth grows cold, the ashes fly about, There is no sunshine in the air without. "Oh strange that friendship should so cruel prove As to inflict a pang on yearning _Love_: Pale and half-blind she weeps the long hours thro', Yet are they children of one mother too! "Love decks herself and proudly lifts her head; More and more glows her cheek's soft rosy red: The pale one bears the weight of household care, In games and dances never claims a share. "Yet when her sister comes home late at night, Poor Cinderella laughs and points with spite: 'Blood's on your shoe for all you're gaily drest,' And thus she robs the proud one of her rest!" And yet people persist in calling youth the time of unclouded bliss--youth, which through mere mental confusions and self-invented tortures lets itself be cheated out of heaven's best gifts; counterfeits feelings in order to achieve unhappiness, and passionately presses the unattainable to its heart! * * * * * About a fortnight may have sped away without my ever seeing my fortunate rival except by accidental glimpses. From some delicate scruple, for which I gave him full credit, he left off climbing the stair to my study as heretofore, and if we met in the streets we soon parted with a commonplace word or two, and a pretty cool shake of the hand. However, by the time we reached the third week, this estrangement became intolerable to me. It was holiday time; the days were too hot for work or exercise, and I even found the Castalian fount run dry. I became aware that the silent presence of my friend had grown to be a positive want. I longed even to hear his deep voice sing once more, "I think in the olden days," and was as uncomfortable in my isolation as Peter Schlemihl when he had lost his shadow. At last I determined to seek him out. He lived the other side of the Spree in an upper room of a house belonging to a tailor's wife, by whom his cooking was done, and his few wants attended to. I must just mention here that he received a very small allowance from his family, and made up the deficit by giving music-lessons, for which indeed he was but poorly paid. When I entered his little room he was sitting at an old, hired piano, and writing down some notes in a music-book on his knee. He jumped up with an exclamation of pleasure, let the book fall, and caught hold of my hand in both his. He made me sit down on the hard sofa and light a cigar, and spite of all I could say, would have me drink a glass of beer which the tailors wife fetched from the nearest tavern. At first we said but little, as was our wont, but often looked at each other, smiled, and were heartily glad to be together again. "Bastel," said I at length, shrouding myself as completely as I possibly could in tobacco-smoke, "I have a confession to make. You need no longer keep up any reserve with me about--you know what. The wound inflicted by a certain pair of eyes" (again the old lyrical style, this time with a touch of Spanish colour), "either was not so deep as I at first believed it, or else absence has done wonders. Suffice it that I am perfectly recovered, and if you have turned these last weeks to good account and been made happy, I shall rejoice with you unqualifiedly." He looked at me with beaming eyes. "Is it really so?" he said. "Well, then, I can tell you, you remove a great weight from my heart. I have reproached myself a hundred times for accepting your sacrifice, and my best hours with her have been embittered by the thought of having done you wrong. I did not indeed feel sure that you would have been satisfied with what made me so happy. And besides I felt that it would have been wholly impossible for me to have renounced her. But now--now all is right." And again he pressed my hand, his joy so genuine and touching that I felt myself and my artificially excited feelings, very small indeed in comparison. He then went on to tell me how far matters had advanced. It certainly did require a modest nature, and a very sincere affection, not to be rather disheartened than encouraged by the amount of progress made in the course of three entire weeks. He had gone evening after evening, to spend an hour in that small reading-room. It was plain that his silent reverential homage had touched her, and the last few evenings she had permitted herself to sit with him, and keep up an innocent chat. Once even, when he was two hours later than usual, she received him with evident agitation, and confessed that his delay had made her anxious. She had become, she said, so accustomed to their daily talk, and as there was no one else who took the least interest in her; and then she stopped--perhaps because he too vehemently expressed his delight at this her first kind word. He, for his part, had told her all about his relations, and everything connected with himself that could in any way interest her. But she had not confided to him the very slightest particulars about her family or her past history, had only said how she was pining in this dark shop-corner, and longed to go far away into foreign lands. She had been putting by, she told him, for a year past to meet travelling expenses; and privately teaching herself both French and English in order to go into the wide-world at the first opportunity. "If you had only seen her, Paul," said he at the end of his narrative, "and only heard her voice, how sadly and resignedly she told me all this, you would have pledged your life that no evil thought had ever stirred her heart, that she was as pure and innocent as saints and angels are said to be, and you would understand my resolve to leave nothing undone in order to make her happy." "You really then mean to marry her?" "Can you doubt it? That is if she will accept me. She must have plainly seen that my intentions were honourable, although, as to any formal declaration, you know that my heart overflows least when it is fullest. And besides there is no hurry. She cannot be thinking of leaving for some time to come, and as for me--if I make great efforts in four or five years--" "Four or five years? Why, you will scarcely have passed your legal examination." "True," he rejoined. "But I have given up the idea of it. I shall not seat myself on the long bench of law students, which is but a rickety one after all. I think I can in a shorter time make something of music, and at the worst if we are not able to get on here--and indeed my parents would hardly be pleased at the marriage--we can seek our fortune in America." I looked at him sideways with pride and amazement. He seemed to me to have suddenly grown ten years older, and I confessed to myself that all the lyrical enthusiasm of my views of life, would not have rendered me capable of so bold a plan. "And she," I asked; "will she consent to this?" "I do not know," he replied, looking straight before him. "As I told you before, I have never asked her point-blank. Our talk once turned on marriage. She said most positively she should never marry. 'Not if the right man appeared?' I ventured to put in. 'Then least of all,' said she suppressing a sigh. So one of us is wise it seems." "Nonsense," said I. "All girls say the same to begin with. Afterwards they think better of it." "It seems, too, that she is a year older than we thought--only a month younger than I am. Apropos, I have a request to make to you; that is, if you are able--" "Come, no preamble. You know that I am never shy of asking you to do me a favour." "To-morrow is her birthday. I had just contrived to find out the date, when she said that she already felt herself very old, and was weary of life. That if she knew she were to die on the morrow it would give her no regret. I was busy just when you came in, writing out the air of one of your songs: you know the one beginning, 'How could I e'er deserve thee?' and I meant to give her a nosegay with it. But it does grieve me to think that I have nothing better to offer her. She has her dress fastened with an old black pin, and its glass head is cracked. A little brooch would be sure to please her--only unluckily my piano and singing lessons are over just now, most of my pupils are away, and so I cannot get at some fees that are owing; and to sell any of my effects is impossible, since all the superfluities I had--" He looked with sad irony around his bare apartment. "We must contrive something," I said. "It stands to reason that the birthday must be duly honoured. Certainly I am no Cr[oe]sus at this moment,"--and therewith I drew out a very small purse from my pocket, in which rattled only a few insignificant coins--"but at all events I have some superfluities. It now occurs to me that I have not used the great _Passow_ for some months, never indeed, since I accidentally discovered little _Rost_ at my father's, in which one can hunt out words so much more conveniently. Come! The old folios will help us out of a difficulty." After a few weak endeavours to prevent my laying this offering upon the altar of friendship, he accompanied me to my room, and then we each loaded ourselves with a volume of the thick lexicon. And an hour later, richer by five dollars, we betook ourselves to the shop of a small working-goldsmith, as we had not courage to make our intended purchase at one of the great jewellers of _Unter den Linden_. It is probable that our man taxed us no less heavily. But, however, he treated us like two young princes, who in Haroun-al-Raschid mood had chosen to knock at a lowly door. For a gold snake which after a few coils took its tail into its mouth, and glared at us with two square ruby eyes, he asked ten dollars, but let himself be beat down to seven, the pin being probably worth about half that sum. It was I who had to carry on the whole transaction. Sebastian was so embarrassed, and absorbed himself so persistently in the contemplation of the other ornaments on the counter, that the shopkeeper evidently grew suspicious, and kept a sharp look out after him, as though he might be having to do with pickpockets. "Here is the trinket," said I, when we got into the street, "and now good night, and I say--you may just congratulate her from me too to-morrow. But indeed I ought to hope that she has forgotten all about me. I certainly did not display my best side to her. Let me see you again soon, and come and tell me what effect the snake has produced in thy Paradise, happy Adam that thou art." And so I left him, conscious of a faint glimmer of envy. But I manfully trod out the first sparks, and as I walked along the park in the cool of the evening, sang aloud the following song, which apart from the anachronism of budding roses in the dog-days, gave a pretty faithful description of the mood I was then in: "The roses are almost full-blown, Love flings out his delicate net: 'Thou butterfly fickle and frail Away thou shalt never more get.' "'Ah me! were I prisoner here, With roses all budding around, Though satisfied Love wove the bands, My Youth would repine to be bound. "No musing and longing for me-- I stray thro' the woods as I will. My heart on its pinions of joy Soars beyond and above them still!'" The following evening I was sitting innocently and unsuspiciously with my parents at the tea-table, when I was called out of the room: a friend it seemed wished to speak to me. It was about ten o'clock, and I wondered who could be paying me so late a visit. When I entered my room I found Sebastian as usual in the grand-paternal arm-chair, but I started when, turning the light on his face, I noticed his pallor and look of despair. "Is it you?" cried I. "And in such agitation? Has the birthday celebration come to a tragic end?" "Paul," said he, still motionless, as though some heavy blow had stretched him out there. "All is over! I am a lost man!" "You will find yourself again, my good fellow," I replied. "Come, let me help to look for you. Tell me all about it to begin with." "No jesting if you would not drive me out of the room. I tell you it is all too true. I have only now fully discovered what an angel she is, and I have seen her for the last time." "Is she gone away--gone to a distance?" He shook his head gloomily. Only by very slow degrees could I extort from him the cause of his despair. Briefly it was as follows: He had found himself in the presence of his beloved at the usual hour, and after eating an extra tart and drinking a glass of bishop in honour of the day, he had brought out the gifts with which he meant to surprise her in a sequence which seemed well advised. First he had freed the bouquet from its paper coverings, and she had thanked him with a kindly glance, and put it at once in a glass of water. Then he gave her the song, and sang it for her under his voice, she sitting opposite with downcast eyes, and giving not the slightest sign by which to judge whether she saw its application or not. Only when he had ended she held out her hand--a favour of which she was chary--and said in a cordial tone: "It is very kind of you to have thought of my birthday, and to have brought me such beautiful flowers and such a charming song. There is nothing I love so much as flowers and music, and I very seldom come in for either. I shall soon know the tune; indeed I half know it now." He could not part with the hand given him, and as her graciousness had inspired him with courage, he now brought out the serpent-pin, and placed it in her hand. "Here is something else," he said; "it is but a humble offering, but I should be very happy if you would not disdain to wear it." She looked full at him, opened the little case slowly and with evident reluctance, and as soon as she saw the shining of the gold, dropped it on the table as though the metal had been red-hot. "Why have you done this?" she said, hastily rising. "I have not deserved it from you--at least I do not think I have behaved in such a way as to authorise you to make me a present like this. I see I have been mistaken in you. You, too, think meanly of me because I am poor and dependent. I cannot conceal that this pains me, from you of all people," and her eyes grew moist. "Now I can only request that you will instantly leave me, and never return," and with that she laid the flowers and song down before him on the table, and spite of his distracted assurances and entreaties, with burning face and tearful eyes she contrived to elude him, and not only left the little inner room, but the shop as well. It was in vain that he awaited her return; in her stead the square-built woman entered, but apparently without the least idea of what it was that had scared the young girl away. A full half-hour he continued in a most miserable state of mind to occupy his accustomed seat on the sofa. But as she remained invisible, he at length took his departure, and once in the street, plucked the nosegay to pieces, and tore up the song into shreds, and--"There," he cried, "is that wretched pin that has made all the mischief, you may take it, and give it to whom you will! I could hardly resist the temptation as I came along to open a vein with it." "And is that all?" enquired I coolly, when he had come to an end of his shrift. He sprang up as if to rush away. "I see I might have spared myself this visit!" he cried. "You are in so philosophical a mood that a friend expiring at your side would seem nothing to wonder at. Good-night." "Stay," I remonstrated. "You ought to be very glad that one of us at least has the use of his five senses. The story of the pin is a mere trifle. Who knows whether she did not reject it after all from the superstitious fancy that pins pierce friendship. Or even if there were more in it, if she actually felt a suspicion that you meant it as a bribe, that is still no cause for desperation; on the contrary she has proved that she is a good girl, and respects herself; and if you go to her in the morning as though nothing had happened, and in your own true-hearted way explain--" "You forget she has forbidden me to return." "Nonsense! I would bet anything that she is already very sorry she did so. Such a faithful Fridolin is not to be met with every day, and whatever she may think she feels for you--whether much or little--she would be conscious of missing something if you left off eating your two cherry tarts daily, and she no longer had to strew the sugar over them with her little white hand. Teach me to understand women indeed!" He gazed for a long time at the lamp. "You would do me a kindness by going there with me and explaining matters for me. She would at least allow you to speak; and if you were to bear witness for me--" "Willingly. I shall say things to her that would melt a heart of stone. Trust me, this serpent will not long exclude thee from thy Paradise, or Miss Lottka is not that daughter of Eve, which hitherto much to her honour I have held her to be." He pressed my hand as if somewhat relieved, but was still gloomy, and I soon lighted him down the stairs. * * * * * I had a very beautiful and touching address all ready composed when we set out the next evening on our common mission, and my poor friend gave me plenty of time to rehearse it, for he never said a word. When we approached the shop he drew his arm out of mine, I was not to find out that he was beginning to tremble! I myself was not thoroughly at ease. To see her again after so long an interval, and now to address her on behalf of another--I was fully conscious of the difficulty of the position, but my honour was pledged to play my part well, and to guard against any selfish relapse into my old folly. When we entered she was not alone. For the first time we found a fashionable-looking man in the shop, sitting on a stool close to the counter, and while drinking a glass of lemonade, trying apparently to make himself agreeable to the young attendant. Sebastian's melancholy visage darkened still more at this spectacle, although the calm manner and monosyllabic replies of the girl might have convinced him that the conversation of this coxcomb was as displeasing to her as to us. "We shall soon drive him away," whispered I, and ordering wine and cakes with the air of an habitual customer, I together with my mute companion took possession as usual of the familiar inner-room. I had, however, reckoned without my host. The stranger, who now carried on his conversation in a lower tone, appeared to have no idea of vacating his place in our favour. I was able to contemplate him at leisure in the small mirror that hung between the royal pair. His hair cut short round a head already bald at the top, his light whiskers, and the gold spectacles on his pinched nose, were all highly objectionable to me; and I wondered too at the insolent familiarity of his manner, and the careless way in which he crumbled a heart-shaped cake in his white effeminate hands, as if to typify his facility in breaking hearts. I took him for a young nobleman or landed proprietor, and little as I feared his making an impression upon the girl, yet it was annoying to me to see her exposed in her position to the attentions of such a man. I was even concocting some bold plan of getting rid of this incumbrance, when I felt Sebastian convulsively clutch my arm. "What is the matter?" I said. "Are you going mad?" Instead of answering, he pointed to the mirror, in which he too could see a portion of the shop reflected. "Impudent fellow!" he muttered between his teeth, "he shall not do that a second time." I had just time to see that the stranger was bending over the counter, and trying to take the girl--who had retreated as far as ever she could--under the chin, when my friend, having noisily pushed away the table before us, confronted him with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes. "What do you mean, sir!" he began, and his deep voice put out all its strength. "Who are you that you dare to take a liberty with a blameless girl--a girl who--" His rage actually choked him. He stood with hand raised, as if determined to punish any fresh act of audacity on the spot, while the stranger, who had drawn back a step, measured this unexpected champion from top to toe with a look, half amazement, and half compassion. "The bishop is too strong for your head, young friend," said he in a sharp tone, while he twirled his smart cane between finger and thumb. "Go home before you talk further nonsense, and be more careful another time, for you may not always meet with persons who can take your greenness into proper account. What I was saying to you, Lottka--'" And therewith he turned as if his opponent had already vanished out of sight and mind, and addressed the girl, who, pale as death and with eyes closed, was leaning back in the furthest corner between the window and the wall. I had followed Sebastian, and whispered to him to take care what he was about, but he never heard me. "I only wanted to ask you, Fräulein," he said in a hollow voice, "whether it is with your consent that this gentleman allows himself to take such liberties with you as are not generally permitted by respectable young ladies; whether you know him sufficiently well to justify him in using your Christian name, and whether it is agreeable to you that he should remain talking to you so long?" She did not answer. She only raised her large eyes entreatingly to the angry lover who did not understand their glance. "Who is this amiable youth, who plays the part of your knight, Lottka?" now asked the stranger in his turn. "I begin to suspect that I have interfered with some tender relations between you. I am sincerely sorry for it, but still, my child, without venturing to impugn your taste, I would advise you in future to pay more attention to solid advantages in the choice of your adorers. The declamations of schoolboys are no doubt pretty to listen to, but they may lead as you see to awkward consequences. What do I owe?" He threw a dollar on the table. "You can give me the change another time. I will not disturb you further just now." He took his hat and was about to leave when Sebastian barred the way. "You shall not go," said he in a constrained voice, "before you have in my presence apologised to this young lady, and given your word of honour never again to forget the respect due to her. I hope you understand me." "Perfectly, my young friend," replied the other, his voice now trembling with excitement. "I understand that you are a crazy enthusiast, and take the world for a raree-show. I do not grudge you your childish amusement, and esteem you accordingly; but I have no wish further to prosecute your acquaintance, lest a joke should turn to earnest, and I should be forced--spite of the lady's presence--to treat you like a young whippersnapper who--" Here he made a pretty unequivocal movement with his cane. I had just time and sense enough to interfere. "Sir," said I, "I have to request your card; we can best settle this matter in another place." He laughed loud, drew out his pocket-book with an ironical bow, and reached me a visiting-card. Then he nodded familiarly to the girl, shrugged his shoulders, and pressing his hat low down on his brow, left the shop. We three remained for several moments in the same position as if we had been touched by a magic wand. I as the least deeply implicated was the first to recover myself. "For God's sake, Fräulein," said I to the pale statue in the window, "tell us who this man is. How comes he to behave so to you? Since when have you known him?" Then in a lower tone. "I pray you by all that is good, speak, if but one word. You see the state my friend is in; this concerns him more deeply than you are aware. You do not perhaps know that there is nothing more sacred to him than yourself; you owe it to him--" He seemed to have heard what I said. With a sudden gesture as though shaking off some heavy weight, he tottered to the counter, behind which she stood entrenched and unapproachable. "Only one word, Lottka," he murmured. "Do you know that insolent man? Have you ever given him cause so to think of and speak to you? Yes or No, Lottka?" She was silent, and her hands hung down helplessly by her side. I could plainly see two great tears forcing their way between her lashes. "Yes or No, Lottka," he repeated more urgently, and his breast heaved fast. "I wish to know nothing further. Do not imagine that the first rude fellow I come across, has any power to shake my holiest convictions. But how was it you had not a word to crush him with? Why are you silent now?" A convulsive shiver passed over the young girl's frame. With eyes still closed she felt for her chair in the window, but did not seat herself--sank down on her knees beside it, and hid her face against it. "I beseech you," she murmured in an almost inaudible voice, "do not ask anything about me--go away--never come here again. If it can in any way comfort you, I am innocent so surely as God lives; but so unfortunate that it is almost worse than if I were a sinner too. Go away. I thank you for all you have done, but go, and forget that I am in the world. I would I were in another!" "Lottka!" cried Sebastian wildly, about to rush in and raise her up, but that she put out her hands to ward him off with such a lamentable gesture that I held him back; and after a struggle, during which I represented to him that they were both too excited at present to understand each other, I persuaded him to leave the poor child to herself, and we went off, promising to return on the morrow. We walked in silence through the streets. It was impossible to tell him that the scene we had witnessed had considerably shaken my faith in his beloved. For the rest I was perfectly satisfied with the part he had played, and owned to myself that I should have done just the same in his place. It was only when we reached the door of my house that he broke silence. "You must do me the favour," he said, "to go to that man very early in the morning" (we had read his name and address on his card; he was an assessor at the Town Court). "I leave all details to you." "Of course," I returned, "it stands to reason that I should do all I can for you; but in this matter--I have never delivered a challenge, and have only twice seen a duel of any kind; and in this case, as I believe, we must employ pistols. If you knew any one more conversant with such matters?--one would like to do things in the regular way with a fellow like this, who treats us both like schoolboys." "You are probably right," said he. "But there is no help for it. I can have no third party admitted into this affair. It is possible that he may make some disclosures to you--invent more calumnies--how should I know? So everything must be kept to ourselves. I shall be at home all the morning, and as soon as you have done with him you will come straight to me, will you not." That I promised, and we parted. What my parents must have thought of me that evening, when I gave crooked answers to every question put, Heaven only knows. * * * * * That night in good truth I really slept very little. I kept thinking of all that might ensue, hearing pistol-shots fired, and seeing my poor friend fall. But I was also much engaged in puzzling over Lottka's conduct, and came more and more strongly to the belief that she was not worth an honest true-hearted youth throwing down the gauntlet in her cause, and answering for her virtue with his life. The day had scarcely dawned before I was up, but on this occasion I had no idea of verse-making. I dressed myself at first entirely in black like an undertaker's assistant; then it occurred to me it might be better to be less carefully got up, and rather to treat the matter with indifference, as though such things daily occurred to me. So I merely put on a comfortable summer attire, just substituting a black hat for the cap I usually wore, and drawing on a pair of perfectly new gloves. When I looked in the glass, I viewed myself as decidedly grown up, and also decidedly easy-going and dignified. But for all that I could make nothing of my breakfast. I had a bitter taste on my tongue. About nine o'clock I set out. The house in which our enemy lived stood in the best part of the town, and the porter told me he did not think it would be easy to get an interview with the assessor. Nevertheless a footman, although certainly treating me rather _de haut en bas_, ushered me into a small room, and signified that his master would soon appear. I had plenty of time to look about me, and firmly resolved as I was not to be cowed by outward circumstances, I could not help feeling, while silently comparing this elegant bachelor's snuggery with the four bare walls of my friend's room, that the game was very unequal. Two raw half-fledged novices pitted against a thorough man of the world, and not even perfectly certain that we had the right on our side. I owned to myself that we were in a fair way to act a ridiculous part, and all my lyrical idealism was powerless against the awkwardness of prosaic facts. The longer I waited, the more I made up my mind to see our enemy enter with a mocking smile, and asked myself how to meet it with becoming dignity. But to my surprise there was nothing of the kind. In about ten minutes the door opened, and the assessor just put in his head, saying in the most urbane tone possible, that he was very sorry to be obliged to keep me waiting, not being quite dressed, but that he begged me in the meantime to use his cigars and make myself at home. Another five minutes, and in he came, shook my hand like an old acquaintance, and begged me to be seated on his silk-covered divan. I had to light a cigarette, but declined to share his breakfast which the footman brought in on a silver tray, and I was looking out for the pleasantest introduction possible to our affair, when he anticipated me, and while pouring out his tea began in quite a friendly tone-- "I am very glad you have come. I can easily imagine what brings you, and I may frankly tell you that yesterday's scene to which I owe your acquaintance, made upon me a most painful impression. You will easily understand that it is by no means pleasant to have a youth--an utter stranger--fall upon one out of a clear sky with a perfect torrent of invective. But on the other hand, I am sufficiently versed in human nature to be able to explain the very peculiar conduct of your Hotspur of a friend. He is in love with the little girl, and in that shows very fair taste. He has diligently read romances and old legends, and thinks he has gained from them a knowledge of the world. This sweet illusion will vanish all too soon, but while it lasts it makes so happy, that it is positive cruelty to blow away its soap-bubbles prematurely. I at least would never deprive any one of his innocent enjoyment. And so I am sincerely sorry to have disturbed any tender tie. I hope your friend will be content with this explanation, and for my part I wish him pleasant dreams, and when the time comes as gentle a waking as possible. The cigar does not seem to draw well? Try another. What are you studying if I may ask? You are still a student, are you not?" I felt myself blush crimson. For a moment I doubted whether I would not deny my position. However I stuck to the truth. "We shall pass our final examination at Easter," I said. He was magnanimous enough not to misuse his superiority. "So young," he said, with a good-natured shake of the head, "and already such Don Juans! You seem entitled to fair hopes, my young friend, and if you would only accustom yourself to more self-restraint--" "Forgive me," said I, "but I must return to the matter in hand. My friend, as you rightly perceive, has a serious affection for this girl, and feels himself deeply aggrieved by the disrespectful manner in which you behaved to her. I believe he might be satisfied by a few lines in your handwriting, expressing your regret for your conduct to Fräulein Lottka. If not--" He looked askance at me with such amazement, that I felt suddenly paralysed. "Are you really in earnest?" he said. "You look too intelligent for me to believe that you can approve of this commission you have undertaken for your friend. My conduct to Fräulein Lottka! That is going a little too far! No, my good friend, let us make ourselves as little absurd as we can. Have you considered what you are proposing to me? With all the respect to the honourable feelings and true-heartedness of a student of the upper class, can he seriously imagine that I owe him reparation, because in a public shop I chanced to stroke a girl under the chin." He burst out laughing, and threw the end of his cigarette out of the window. I rose. "I doubt," I said, "that this will satisfy my friend. If you would at least declare that you know nothing of Fräulein Lottka, which casts a shadow on her reputation." "Just sit down, and hear me out," he broke in. "Now that I see you are really in earnest, it is my duty to tell you the truth in the interests of your friend who takes up the case so tragically, that he is sure to commit himself to some folly. About ten years ago I was acquainted with a lady of a certain character here in Berlin. She was a German, but bore a Polish name, that of her first lover, a Polish nobleman, who had left her, _plantée là_, with one child. As she was beautiful and not inconsolable, she found plenty of adorers, and lived in wealth, keeping a small gambling-house too; and I can well remember the strange impression it made on me when first I entered it, to see a child of eight years old sitting at the faro table, looking at the gold heaps with her great sleepy eyes, and then at her mother and her friends, till the Champagne, of which she seemed to like a sip, took effect, and she fell asleep on a sofa amidst laughter, the rattling of money, and very free talk indeed. I was sorry for the pretty child, and it crossed my mind that she could have little respect for her mother, who exercised no sort of self-control even in her presence. After a few years I broke off the connection, which proved a very expensive one, but I heard in a roundabout way that the Polish Countess--as we used to call her--went on still in her old course, except that she relied less on her own attractions, and called in younger faces to her aid. I enquired casually after her daughter, but the conversation had turned, and I received no answer. "Well--yesterday as I chanced to be passing by that miserable cake-shop, thinking of anything else than of this old story, I saw an old lady getting into a cab at the door, while the shop-girl put in the various parcels of purchases. When she turned round to re-enter the shop, I recognized the child with the weary eyes, now grown up into a beauty, who might, if she chose, enter into formidable competition with her mother. As I had nothing particular to do, I followed her into the shop, reminded her of our old acquaintance, and was not a little surprised to find her just as rigid and unapproachable as her lady-mamma was the reverse. With all my long practice in cross-examination, I was only able to get out from her that she had parted from her mother three years ago, but as to what she had been doing since, or through how many hands she had passed, or whether her icy manners were artificial or natural, that I had not been able to unravel, when our Orlando Furioso, your excellent friend, suddenly burst in upon us. And now, after I have given you this explanation, you may yourself judge, whether the idea of my coming forward to vouch for the poor child's character or having to fight with an enthusiastic boy about her virtue is not quite too absurd! "No, no," he continued, "if you have any influence over your friend, my dear fellow, do warn him not to go too far. For even if the daughter were as yet perfectly pure, what good could come of it with such antecedents, and such a mother? Your friend is the son of respectable people, tell him that he must not compromise his parents and himself--a mere passing liason, _à la bonne heure!_ but to stake his very heart's blood, and to interfere with fire and sword, _allons donc!_--I do hope you may be able to bring him to reason; and now you must excuse me, I have a case coming on." He had risen, while I still sat petrified by such a revelation; then he called his servant, and after reciprocal assurances of high esteem, had me shewn out. I tottered down the steps like a drunkard. * * * * * It was not for an hour afterwards--I needed a long circumbendibus before I could take heart to bring this melancholy business to an end--that I found myself knocking at Sebastian's door. A faint voice bade me come in, and then I found the unhappy fellow lying dressed upon his bed, and one glance at his disordered hair and attire shewed that he had spent the night in that fashion. Before I could say a word, he held out a letter that was open beside him on the pillow. A boy had brought it very early in the morning, but had not waited for an answer. Of course I do not pretend to give the exact words in which it was couched, but their purport was as follows: "You had scarcely left me when the idea struck me that the dispute of which I was the miserable cause, might have fearful consequences. I write to you to entreat and beseech you, if there were any earnestness in the feelings you professed for me, to let the matter drop, and to believe that in reality _I am not worthy_" (these words were doubly scored) "that you should sacrifice yourself for me. Promise me that you will try to forget me utterly. I am a poor lost creature, and only death can deliver me. But I shall not die yet, so have no anxiety on that head. I will try whether it be possible for me to live without my misfortune dogging every step I take. I thank you for all your love and kindness, and I never shall forget you. But do not attempt to find me out. I am firmly resolved never to see you again, and you will only increase my misery if you do not obey my wishes, but attempt to force a meeting." The letter had neither address nor signature, it was firmly written, and there was not a mistake throughout. I silently returned him the letter, not liking at that moment to tell him that under the circumstances nothing could be more propitious than such a decided step on her part. But I gradually discovered that nothing in the letter impressed him so much as the pretty clear confession of her own liking for him. This it was he dwelt on; their separation seemed to him comparatively unimportant, probably not seriously resolved upon, and practically impossible. I therefore felt myself bound no longer to keep back my information, and gave him an exact account of my interview with his enemy. To my surprise it did not seem to produce on him the overwhelming effect I had dreaded. He told me he had himself conjectured something of the kind, and much as he regretted it, it could in no way change his feelings, rather it could only increase his love to positive worship to find that she had worked herself free from such degrading relations, and was high-hearted enough to wish to bear alone a sorrow she had never deserved. He knew indeed, that he should have some obstacles to confront, as regarded his parents, friends, home, &c. But since she had plainly told him that he was dear to her, no cowardly scruples would prevent his making up to her for the sufferings brought on her by a cruel fate. If the world bespattered her pure life, he would wash it all away in his heart's blood. He ran on in this half-feverish way, and his high-wrought enthusiasm, his innocent brave spirit so carried me along, that not only did I keep all objections to myself, but actually became of opinion that this was all exactly as it should be, and the one important matter now was to find out the young girl, and induce her to change her mind. I threw myself into a cab, and drove to the shop, hoping to get upon her track there. Sebastian remained at home; he did not venture contrary to her expressed command, to take any part in the search. We had settled to meet again at noon. Alas! I came back as ignorant as I went. The mistress of the confectionery business had only been apprised of the departure of her young shopwoman early that morning by an open note found on her table. None of the neighbours had seen her go away. Most of her effects were left behind, she had only taken with her some linen and a travelling-bag which the good woman knew her to possess, and could not now find. She had instantly given information to the police. But all in vain as yet--the poor child had utterly disappeared. It was now that grief and the after effects of the excitement of weeks, began to tell severely upon my poor friend. He was in such utter despair that I at first feared for his reason; not because of his frantic outbursts, or delirious grief, but from a certain suppressed wildness that tried to smile while the teeth chattered, a quite aimless way now of walking, now standing still; speaking to himself and laughing loud, while the tears, of which he seemed unconscious, rolled down his cheeks. It was the first time that I had ever seen the elemental throes of a true and deep passion, and I was so shocked that I forgot all besides, and at all events never presumed to attempt consoling the poor fellow by commonplaces. I remained with him the whole day and a good part of the night. It was only about midnight, when I saw that he was quite exhausted (he had not closed his eyes the previous night), that I yielded to his entreaties, and consented to leave him alone, after exacting a solemn promise from his landlady to listen how he went on, for that he was very ill. I knew he had no weapons of any kind, and I hoped that sleep would do him some good. The next morning, however, I could not rest, reproached myself for having left him, and anxiously hurried to his lodgings. But there he was no longer to be found. His landlady gave me a note of two lines, in which he bade me farewell for the present. He could not rest till he had found her, but he would do nothing rash, for he was not unmindful of his other duties, and so I might confidently expect his return. He had packed his knapsack, and taken his walking-stick with him. And the landlady told me he seemed to have had two or three hours sleep, for that his eyes looked clearer. This was but meagre information, but I had to content myself with it. And moreover I was about to accompany my parents on a tour which kept me absent for several weeks. To the letters I wrote--for I was always thinking of him--no answers ever came, so on my return when my first walk led me to his lodgings, I was fully prepared to find an empty nest. I was the more rejoiced, therefore, when he himself opened the door, and I met a sad face, it is true, but free from the morbidly strained expression which had so much pained me. That he had failed to meet with any traces of the lost one I guessed rather than actually heard from him. A melancholy indifference seemed to pervade him; he set about whatever was proposed, as one who took no part in it, whether for or against,--and what to me was most striking of all, his passion for music seemed completely over. He never sang a single note, never alluded to any composition, and would willingly have given up his music-lessons, had he been able to live without them. The mainspring of his nature seemed hopelessly broken, something had got wrong which there was no repairing. In the following spring, when we both went to the University, I used to see him almost daily. He regularly attended law lectures, and had become member of a society in which his admirable fencing and his now proverbial taciturnity rendered him prominent, and I was hoping that the incident which had so deeply affected him would after all leave no bad results in his healthy nature, when something occurred that tore open every wound anew. I will for the sake of brevity relate the sad tale consecutively, and not as I learned it from him, bit by bit, and at long intervals. * * * * * It was the Christmas of 1847. He had resolved upon spending the holidays--not as usual, in paying a visit to his parents, but in the strenuous study of his law-books, a long indisposition having thrown him back considerably. I had in vain attempted to coax him to come to us for this Christmas Eve. Indeed as a rule he avoided parties, and if he ever did appear at a social gathering, he usually made an unfavourable impression, especially on ladies, because of his silence and his obstinate refusal to sing. On this particular 24th of December, he spent the whole day hard at work in his own room, got his landlady to give him something to eat, and only went out at five o'clock when it had grown too dark to write, leaving instructions to keep up his fire, as he should only spend an hour or so looking at the Christmas market, and then return, and go on writing late into the night. When he got into the street, he felt the winter breeze refresh him. The intense cold of the last few days had somewhat abated, snow was falling lightly in large flakes, which he did not shake off, but liked to feel melting on his flushed face. His beard, which had grown into a very handsome one during the last year, and much improved his looks, was white with them. Slowly he went through Königsstrasse to the Elector's Bridge. There were crowds of well-wrapped figures flitting about, who having made their purchases at the last moment, were now hurrying home fast, for already the windows were beginning to shine with Christmas candles. The solitary student worked his way through the throng, without that melancholy yearning for home which would, on this particular evening, have oppressed most youths, if compelled to spend it away from their own people. He had sent off presents to his parents and sisters two days ago, and this very evening expected a Christmas box from them, which, however, he felt no impatience about. No one could care less for any addition to his possessions than he did; indeed, since he had lost the one thing to which he had passionately clung, he had grown indifferent to all besides. He stood for a while before the equestrian statue of the great elector, who in his snow mantle looked even more majestic and spectral than usual against the pale winter sky. Below, the stream, hemmed in by ice on either side, flowed darkly and silently on, and in one of the barges the bargeman had already lighted up a small Christmas tree, which sent out a radiance through the open door. A couple of red-cheeked children were standing by the lowly table, one blowing a penny trumpet, the other eating an apple, and the solitary observer on the bridge might have stood there long in contemplation of this humble idyll but that the human stream swept him along with it, and landed him in the very centre of the busy noisy Christmas market going on in the Schlossplatz. He walked awhile up and down the chief passages between the booths, looking at the cheerful traffic of buyers and sellers, listening to the chattering of the monkeys, and the shrill screams of boys advertising their various wares; and silently he sighed, reflecting that he had positively no connection with the world in which the festival was so joyously kept, that it would be all one to him if he were suddenly transported to Sirius, amongst whose inhabitants he could not feel more alone than here. Then he suddenly resolved to cheer up, and actually hummed the tune "I think in the olden days." A garrulous saleswoman in a booth of fancy-goods now interrupted him, entreating him to look out some pretty trifle for his "lady-wife." At that he hurriedly turned off, and made for one of the less frequented alleys where small dealers were offering their penny-worths as bargains. He had not proceeded far when a singular spectacle caught his eye. Before a booth of cheap toys stood a lady in an elegant fur-trimmed polonaise, such as were then worn, a square Polish hat on her head, and a thick veil drawn over her face to protect her from the snow, so that there was no seeing her features. She had put down her large muff on the counter before her, and with tiny hands in daintiest gloves was busy picking out various toys, and dividing them amongst a number of street-children who crowded closely about her, and struggled for these unexpected gifts in a very tumult of delight. A few expressive words on the part of the seller in the booth reduced them to something like order, and at length they all dispersed, their treasures tightly clutched in their little fists, but it was only a minority that said "thank you" to the giver. "And now what have I to pay you for them all?" said the lady. Her voice ran like an electric shock through the youth, who had approached unobserved. "Lottka," he said in a whisper. The lady turned round quickly, and her first impulse was to draw her veil closer about her face. Then, however, by the light of the booth lamps and the glare from the snow, she was able to recognize the figure that only stood two paces off. She hurriedly paid the sum required, turned to Sebastian, and held out her hand. "It is you," she said, without showing any special excitement. "I had not expected ever to see you again. But I am only the more glad of it. Have you any engagement? Are you expected anywhere this evening? No? Then give me your arm. I too am free--quite free," she added with a singular expression. "It is so pleasant to walk about in the snow, and see so many happy faces. It seems to me sometimes as though it could not be necessary to take any great pains to be happy since so many are so, and so cheaply too. Do you not agree with me?" He did not reply. The utterly unexpected meeting had positively stupefied him, and the quick way in which she spoke and moved was perplexing. She had at once hung upon his arm, whereas formerly she carefully avoided every touch, and now she walked on beside him, daintily putting down her little feet in the snow, her head bent, with a bright thoughtful expression, as though planning some mysterious surprise. He only dared to steal glances at her now and then. She had evidently grown, her features were rather more marked, but that added to her beauty, and her fur cap was wonderfully becoming. "Fräulein Lottka," said he at length, "that I should find you here! You do not know--you would not believe how I have sought for you--how ever since--" "Why should I not believe it?" she hastily replied. "Do you suppose I have not known that you were the only human being in the world who ever really loved me? That was the very reason why I was obliged to part from you. Your love and goodness deserved something better than to be made unhappy for my sake. It is enough that one wretched life should be destroyed, and even that is not very intelligible when one thinks that there is a Providence--but why should we talk of such melancholy subjects? Tell me what you have been doing all this while. Do you know that you are much better looking than you were? Your beard becomes you so well, and with it you have the same innocent eyes that would better suit a girl's face, and yet they can look brave and resolute enough too when they flash out at a villain. "Forgive me," she went on, "for being so talkative, but you cannot guess how long I have been silent--almost _always_, since we parted. I had too much to think about. But now I have arranged it all, and since then I am quite happy. It is not very long ago that I have done so. Last night even I had quite too horrible thoughts; they actually pierced my brain like needles of ice. So I said to myself, 'there must be an end to this.' Neither man nor God can require any one to live on with thoughts like these. And after becoming quite clear about that, my spirits returned, and even my tongue is loosed again. But you are all the more silent. What is the matter with you? Are not you a little tiny bit glad that we can wander about together so confidentially, and feel the snow on our faces, and see so many poor men enjoying their Christmas Eve? I too wanted to make a festival for myself, and so I spent my last two dollars in an improvised Christmas gift. But it did not answer so very well either: unless one loves the person one gives to, there is not much pleasure in giving. Now I am sorry that I have no more money. You and I might so well have made presents to each other." "O Lottka," said he, "now that I have found you again--that you are so kind to me--that you know how I love you--" "Hush!" interposed she, "this may be felt, but not spoken of. For to-day everything is as sad as it ever was, and as utterly hopeless." He stopped suddenly and looked full at her. "Hopeless," he groaned. "But are you aware that I know everything, and no more heed it than if it were some story going on in the moon. That I have no one in the world to consult but myself, and if my own father and my own mother--" "For God's sake do not go on," she cried, with a look of distress, and placing her hand on his lips. "You do not know what you are saying, how horrible it is, and how you would one day repent it. You have a mother whom you can love and revere, and who loves nothing on earth better than you, and who is proud of you, and you would bring sorrow and shame on her? If you had rightly considered what that means--but we will say no more about it. Come--I will confess to you that I am hungry; since yesterday evening I have eaten nothing out of sheer disgust. I thought, indeed, I should never have a pure taste in my mouth any more, but since I have chatted so pleasantly with you, I feel much better. Take me where there is something to eat. And then we can still go on chatting away for a couple of hours, and you really must treat me, for as I said I have spent the last money I had in those toys." At once he turned off into a side street, and rapidly led her to a small eating-house that he knew, which was generally empty at this hour. They were both lost in thought, and he was wondering, half in terror, half in rapture, at the way things had come about, and asking himself what turn they would take now. For although her dark allusions made him very anxious, yet on the other hand he found comfort in her free and frank manner towards him, and her clear recognition of his feelings for her. "Here," said he, throwing open a small door over which a blue lamp was burning. They entered a bright comfortable dining-room in which was only an elderly waiter with a green apron of the good old fashion, sitting half-asleep in a corner. He looked at the pair with some surprise, and then hastened off to bring what Sebastian had ordered. "He takes us for brother and sister," whispered the young girl. "Or for a newly-married pair on their travels. Ah, Lottka!" and he seized one of her little hands which she had just ungloved. She heartily but without any embarrassment returned his passionate pressure. "It is charming here," said she, beginning to free herself from her warm wraps. "I do so rejoice to be for once with you thus before I--" She stopped short. "What are you thinking of?" he enquired in great agitation. "This is not _really_ to be the last time--" "Do not ask me," said she. "I am provided for, you need have no anxiety for me. When I wrote you that little note I really did not know what would become of me. It was only at first that I was safe. While you and perhaps others were looking everywhere for me, I sat up in the attic of an old friend not far from that shop--the only friend I had, an asthmatic sempstress who used often to buy cough-lozenges from me, and got fond of me because I would put in a stitch for her now and then. The poor thing when at her worst was unable for weeks together to earn anything. It was at her door that I knocked in the night, and actually I remained a couple of months hidden there, for no one concerned himself about her, and I used to help her with her sewing, and to cook our frugal meals; but at last I could no longer endure life in such a cage. I had saved a little money, and meant to cross over into France, where no one would have known me. But I was stopped on the way, there was something wrong in my passport, and so I was of course transported back like a vagrant; and here in Berlin--but we will say nothing about it. I already feel that nausea coming back, and here is our supper, and I must not let that be spoiled." He poured out for her a glass of the wine the waiter had brought, and pledged her. "Thou and I," he whispered gently. "No, thou alone," she replied, and sipped at the glass. "Is the Rhine wine too strong for thee?" asked he. "Shall I order Champagne?" She shook her head vehemently. "I could not touch a drop of it. I drank it too early, and in too bad company. But you must eat with me if I am to enjoy my supper." He put something on his plate, though he could not get a morsel down, and kept watching her while she did full justice to their simple meal. Her hair was cut as short as ever, her dress was quite as plain, her form so full and so supple that each movement she made was enchanting to contemplate. Every now and then she apologized for her appetite. "It is only," she said, "because I am for once happy, and everything is so good, and we are so delightfully alone--you and I. There"--and she put a bit of game from her plate on to his--"you must positively eat that, or I shall believe you have a horror of eating from the same dish even as I. If things had been different, and we could really have travelled off together through the world--that would have been beautiful! But it cannot be, and some day you will be happy with some one else, and she with you; lots are very unequally divided, and one must put up with one's own till it gets too bad. But do pour me out some wine--I drank that last glass off unconsciously. Thanks--and now--to thy mother's health! And that shall be the last." She emptied the glass, and as she put it down again, he noticed that she shuddered as if some ice-cold hand had suddenly grasped hold of her. "Let us go," she said. He paid the bill and again offered her his arm. When they got out they found that the large soft flakes had changed into a driving snow-storm, that met them full in the face. "Where shall we go now?" asked he. "It is all the same to me. I have no longer any home. I thought indeed--but it is quite too boisterous and wretched to take leave of each other in the open air. Are we far from your lodgings?" "I am in the old quarters still. Over the bridge, and then only a hundred yards. Come." "That is--" said she, holding him back as if considering. "What will the people you lodge with think if you suddenly bring a girl back with you?" "Have you not your veil on!" "I? I do not care about myself. To-morrow I shall be--who knows how far away, where I can defy all comments. But it might get told to your mother, and give you trouble hereafter." "Have no fear," he said, pressing the hand that rested on his arm. "My room has a private entrance, and the people of the house burn no light on the stairs. We shall not meet any one." With rapidly beating heart, he led her along the now deserted streets, and often they were obliged to stand still and lean against each other, while the icy blast swept by. Once when he turned his back to the storm and drew her closer to his breast, he bent down and hurriedly kissed her through her veil. She made no resistance--only said, "I think the worst is now over, we may go on." After that they did not speak another word till they reached the house. * * * * * The steep staircase was--as he had said it would be--quite dark, and as they went up it, on tip-toe, he first, holding her hand so that she might not miss a step, no one came across them. Only they heard children's voices through the door, and saw a light shine through the key-hole of the room in the upper story, telling of a Christmas tree there. He carefully closed his door, and let her precede him into the small dark room, which was only lit by the glow in the stove, and the reflection of the snow. He then bolted both doors. "The kitchen is next to us," he said, "but there is no one there now. We need not talk in a whisper. But the landlady may just come back once to enquire whether I want anything." She answered nothing; she had placed herself on a chair in the window, and was looking out at the whirls of snow. When he had lit his small student's lamp with its green shade he noticed a box on the table. "Look," said he, "that is my Christmas box from home, we can put that in a corner for the present. Will you not take off some of your wraps, and seat yourself here on the sofa? You must be too warm in your furs." "I shall soon be going," said she. "But thou art right, the stove does burn well." And she began to draw off her polonaise, and put away her fur cap and gloves--he helping her. "But now shall we not begin to unpack?" said she, shaking back her hair. "I should much like to know what is in the box." "I am in no hurry," he laughingly replied. "I have just been unpacking something far more precious to me." "You ought to be ashamed of yourself," returned she, suddenly assuming a colder tone (she had been saying _thou_). "You do not deserve that people should be planning how to give you pleasure. I--if a mother had sent _me_ such a Christmas box from a distance--give it me--I will undo the string." She hastily began cutting open the cover with a little knife of hers, and he gazed in carefully suppressed emotion at every movement of her exquisite hands. "Lottka," said he; "if you and I were both together in America, and this box had come over the sea--" She shook her head. "No box would have come then." "And why not, Lottka? If my mother knew thee as I know thee, dost thou suppose she would hold thee guilty for circumstances over which thou art powerless. Naturally she has her prejudices--like all good mothers. But I know that she loves me more than any of her prejudices." The girl left off her unpacking, and with her little knife cut all sorts of patterns on the lid of the box. "Do you call that a prejudice?" said she, without looking at him. "Could you eat an apple that you had found lying in the dirt of the streets? You might wash it ten times over, the repugnance would be all the same. And who knows what foot might have trodden on it, who knows that some slime might not have penetrated the rind, even though it should still be sound at the core? No, no, no! It is so once for all, bad enough that so it should be--but it must not be made even worse." He wound his arm about her, but rather like a brother than one passionately in love. "Lottka," he said, "it is impossible that this can go on. You cannot waste your life in unavailing regrets." He stopped short--he could not find words that expressed his meaning without fearing to pain her. "In regrets," she repeated, looking at him firmly and sorrowfully. "Oh no! Who is thinking of it? I have already told you that you may be quite easy about my future. I am provided for. I am not so forsaken as I appear, provided my courage does not desert me--my courage and my disgust. And why must every one be married? If I chose I might be so, and very well too. All possible pains have been taken to make me fall in love, and I have had a choice of very desirable wooers, rich, young, and handsome, and some were really willing regularly to marry me in a regular church, with a regular clergyman in gown and bands. There was only one hitch." "What was that?" he eagerly asked. "It is unnecessary to mention it. But no--I will tell it to you straight out, that you may never judge me wrongly. Do you know what has given me a horror of all men except perhaps yourself! I will whisper it in your ear. It is because I did not know whether the proposed bridegroom might not have stood too high in the mother's favour before he concerned himself about the daughter." She turned away and went hastily to the window. After a time she again felt his arm around her. "What you must have had to endure, dear heart!" he faintly whispered. She nodded slowly and significantly. "More than you would suppose so young a creature could have survived. About seven years ago, when I first understood it all, I still thought I could change my lot. I would not remain another day in the house. I went out to service. I cut off all my beautiful long hair to prevent any one admiring me, and the ugliest clothes were good enough for me so only they would restore my respectability. How little it has availed me thou knowest. Later, when I was taken up as a vagrant, I was brought back to the house, to _her_ who naturally had a legal right over me. I had to bear it. I was powerless against the law. But I at once declared that I would destroy myself if I were not left in peace. And so I have sat nearly a year in my own room, and as soon as any one came near it I bolted the door. But still as I was obliged sometimes to breathe the air, people saw me, and she herself--though I never would speak a word to her--pretended that she loved me very much, and only yesterday--it was to be a Christmas treat--she sent me in a letter; guess from whom?" "How can I guess?" "You are right. No mortal ever could suppose it. But you remember the creature with whom you quarrelled on my behalf?" "Lottka!" he cried beside himself. "Is it possible--" She nodded. "It was a very affectionate letter, the most beautiful things were promised me in it--the paper smelt of Patchouli: since then I have had that nausea, that loathing which only passed off when you and I met again. But I have but to think of it, and--fie!--there it comes again!" She wiped her lips, and the same strange shudder passed over her. He seized her hands--they were stiff and damp. Suddenly she shook her head as if to get rid of some importunate thought. "But we were going to unpack," said she. "Pretty subjects these for Christmas Eve! Come to our box--_ours_ I say. You have bewitched me with your dream about America." "We will make it come true," he impetuously cried. "I shall remind you on some future day of our first Christmas Eve, and then you will be obliged to confess that I have more courage, and am a better prophet than you." She made no reply, but cut the last string and opened the box. All sorts of small presents came to view, a pair of woollen gloves that his eldest sister had knitted for him, a watch-chain woven of the fair hair of the younger, with a pretty little gold key hanging to it, home-made gingerbread, and finally a large sealed bottle. "Have you vineyards?" asked she playfully. He laughed in spite of all his sadness. "It is elder wine, and the grapes grow in our little garden. As a child I thought it the best of all things, and ever since my good mother believes she cannot please me better than by sending me on every Christmas Eve, and every birthday, a sample at least of her last year's making." "I hope it tastes better to you than the most costly Rhine wine," said she earnestly, "or you would not deserve it. Look--there are letters." "Will you look them over? I am too much distracted. I should not know what they were about if I read them." She had seated herself on the sofa, and taken the letters on her knee; one after the other she read them with most devout attention, as though their contents were wonderful and sublime, yet they were only made up of sisters' chat; little jests, apologies for the insignificance of their offerings; and in the lines written by the mother, there was traceable, together with her pride in having so good a son, her sorrow at being unable to embrace him at such a time, and her anxious fear that it was not so much work that kept him away, but rather the melancholy unsocial mood which even made his letters short. "Are you still reading them?" he at length asked. "They are simple people, and when they write, the best that is in them does not always get put on paper. Good God! thou art weeping, Lottka!" She laid the letters on the box, rose hurriedly, and pressed back the tears that still welled from between her long eye-lashes. "I will go now," she faintly said. "I shall be better out of doors." "Go? now? and where? The storm would blow you down. Remain here for to-night, and if you like--the kitchen is close by--two chairs will do for me--and besides I have not a thought of sleeping." She shook her head, and looked down. Then she suddenly raised her eyes, and looked full at his with an expression that made his heart beat wildly. "Not so," she said. "But it is true that the storm without would blow me down, and where too could I go? Is this not Christmas Eve, and the last that we shall ever spend together. And I must give thee something, my presents to the children gave me no real pleasure, and why should I not on this day at least think of _myself_ as well? Am I not right, Sebastian?" She had never before called him by his name. "Thou wilt give me something?" enquired he, amazed and uncertain. "The only thing I still possess--myself," she gasped, and wound her arms about his neck. * * * * * When he woke in the dark on the morrow, and half raised himself from bed, still uncertain whether it had been real or only the most wondrous of dreams, the chamber was empty, not a trace remained of the last night's visitor. He felt all round his little sitting-room, called her gently by name, thinking she had perhaps stolen into the kitchen just for a freak, and would soon return. But all was silent. The intense cold overcame him, and with teeth chattering he slipped back into bed, and there, propped by pillows, tried to collect his thoughts. Before long a horrible fear sprung up within him. With burning brow, despite the icy air, he hastily drew on his clothes, and kindled a light. The Christmas gifts of his family were still on the table, and he suddenly discovered a sheet written over in pencil pushed between the letters from his mother and sisters. The characters were uncertain and tremulous, as though written in the dark. The words ran as follows:--"Farewell, my beloved friend, my _only_ friend! It grieves me much that I must grieve you so, must leave you so! But there is no other way. You would never let me go there where I needs must go, unless both are to be made unhappy. I thank thee for thy true love. But all the sweetness in thy soul can never wash away the bitterness from mine. Sleep well--farewell! I kiss thee once more in sleep. I know not whether thou wilt be able to read this. Do not grieve; believe that all is well with me now. Thy own loving one even in death." The maid who was in the habit of coming about this time to light the kitchen-fire, heard a hollow cry in the next room, and opened the door in her terror. She there saw the young student lying on the sofa as though prostrated by some heavy blow. When she called him by name, he only shook his head as if to say she need not concern herself about him, and then stooped to pick up the paper that had fallen out of his hand. "What o'clock?" he enquired. "It has just struck six." "Give me my cloak and stick. I will--" He tottered to the door. "You are going out bare-headed in all this cold? All the shops are closed, there is not a creature in the streets: you know this is a holiday?" "A holiday," he said, repeating the syllables one by one as though trying to make out their meaning. "Give me--" "Your cap? Here it is. Will you not first of all have a cup of coffee? The water will soon boil." He made no further reply, but went out with heavy steps, and stumbled down the dark staircase. The snow crunched under his feet, and thick icicles hung in his beard. Far and near there was not a living creature to be seen in the dim streets; the sentinels in the sentry-boxes looked like stiff snow men. As he passed the bridge he saw that the river had frozen over during the night. He followed its course a long way, his eyes riveted on the ice as though looking for something there. Then he plunged into the neighbouring streets, quite aimlessly, like one walking in his sleep. For he could not expect to find what he was searching for by any pondering or thinking of his own. But the fever of an immeasurable agony drove him restlessly on, until he was utterly exhausted. He might have been wandering a couple of hours or more, for the streets were beginning to look alive, when he reached the Potsdam Gate. He there saw a cab stopping in front of the small toll-house, coming as it seemed from the park. The toll-keeper came out in his furs, and as he reached out his snuff-box to a policeman who sat by the driver, asked laughingly-- "Anything that pays duty?" pointing to the closed cab windows. "Not anything that pays duty here," was the reply. "I must give up my contraband to the proper authorities. She has smuggled herself--not into, but out of the world, but she is a rare piece of goods all the same. I was making my first round this morning yonder there by Louise-island, when I saw a well-dressed lady sitting on a bench, her head drooping as though she were asleep. 'My pretty child,' said I, 'look out some warmer place than this to sleep in, in such bitter cold as this.' But there was no waking her. Her hand still held a small bottle--it smelt like laurel leaves. She must have drunk it off, and then _tout doucement_ have fallen to sleep! Good morning. I must make haste to deliver her up!" The driver cracked his whip. At that very moment they again heard the toll-keeper's voice. "Stop!" (he called out). "You can take another passenger. A gentleman looked into the cab window--and bang!--there he lies in the snow. Do get down, comrade, he is quite a young man; he must have weak nerves indeed to be knocked down in a second at the sight of a dead woman! How if you put him in beside her? They seem much of a muchness." "No," returned the policeman, "that is contrary to regulations. Dead and living are not to be shut in together. Wait, we will carry him into the toll-house. If you rub his head with snow, and give him something strong to smell at, he'll come round in five minutes. I am up to these cases." They bore the unconscious figure into the house: then the cab set out on its way again. But the policeman's prognostics were not fulfilled. Sebastian's consciousness did not return for five weeks instead of five minutes. It was only when the last snow had melted away that the miserable man began to creep about a little with the aid of his stick. Then he went off to his parents, who never knew what a strange fate had desolated his youth, and cast a shadow over his manhood, that was never entirely dispelled. When he died at the age of five-and-thirty he left behind him neither wife nor child. END OF LOTTKA. THE LOST SON. THE LOST SON. About the middle of the seventeenth century there lived in the town of Berne a worthy matron named Helena Amthor, the widow of a very rich and respected burgher and town councillor, who after twelve years of happy married life, left her with two children while she was still in the prime of her age and beauty. Nevertheless she declined all the advantageous and honourable offers of second marriage made to her, declaring on every such occasion that she had now only one thing to do on earth, and that was to bring up her children to be good and worthy members of society. But as it often happens that too great anxiety defeats itself and achieves the very reverse of what it aimed at, so it proved here. The eldest child, a boy, who was eleven when his father died--an intelligent but very self-willed fellow--rather required the discipline of a man's strong hand than the tender but too indulgent care of a mother who positively idolised him as the image of the husband she had prematurely lost, and who never knew how to oppose any of his impetuous wishes. The consequence was that the older the young Andreas grew, the worse he behaved, and rewarded his mother's unwise love by almost breaking her heart. When she first came to some recognition of his faults it was already too late. The remonstrances and admonitions of his uncles were all in vain, and even the grave censure and heavy fines he incurred, from the town authorities, owing to his irregular conduct, tamed his rude nature as little as did his mother's tears. At length Frau Helena made up her mind to the greatest pang she had known since her husband's death--to a parting with her son, whom a cousin in Lausanne, a wealthy merchant, now offered to take into his house, in the hope that change of scene and regular work might exercise a healthy influence on the reckless youth. Andreas, who was twenty years old at the time, consented willingly enough to leave the old-fashioned "bear-garden," as he called his native town, for a strange place, where he promised himself, spite of his cousin's _surveillance_, a far freer and more amusing life. Neither did he show the least tender feeling on parting from his mother and his little sister of twelve, Lisabethli, but kept his large stock of travelling-money far more carefully in his belt than his mother's counsels in his heart. No wonder, therefore, before six months were over, news came from Lausanne that Andreas had secretly quitted the town, leaving behind him disgraceful debts at gambling-houses and taverns, and making off with money entrusted to him for the business, in lieu of which a heavy bill drawn on his mother was found in a corner of his desk. That bill and all other debts Helena Amthor paid without delay; she said not a word about them to anybody, and always gave one answer to whatever enquiries might be made about her son, that he was well and upon his travels, and that he wrote to her from time to time. Nor was this statement untrue, for as soon as his money ran short--which often happened--he turned to his mother, who at that time never refused him. But as to what there was in his or her letters no mortal creature ever knew. She left off speaking of him, never introduced his name, so that at length people grew shy of touching on the sorrow of her life, and Andreas was virtually dead as far as the whole town of Berne was concerned. He himself seemed quite content to be so, nor ever expressed any wish to see his home again. When he came of age and had to settle matters with his guardian, he curtly sent the latter word what day and hour he was to meet him at the "Vine-tree," in Strasburg, there to make over the fortune inherited from his father. But his guardian, a man already in years, neither could nor would travel so far on his ward's account. Therefore Frau Helena resolved upon undertaking the sorrowful journey herself, probably with a last unspoken hope that this meeting might have some softening effect upon his estranged affections. When, however, she returned after a ten days' absence, the traces of confirmed sadness on her fine face were more marked than before, and from that time forth no one could say that they ever saw her laugh. And yet fate that had laid this heavy burden on her, had also granted her consolation in another direction, that might well have gladdened a less deeply-wounded heart. Her other child Lisabethli, who was about eight years younger than the lost son, was as admirably endowed, as obedient and loving, and as completely the delight of every one who saw her, as her brother was the reverse. And these sweet and lovely characteristics, though originally a matter of temperament no doubt, were in no small measure owing to her own self-training and self-culture; for her mother--more particularly during the years when Andreas was at home--had erred quite as much on the side of severity towards her youngest child as on that of indulgence towards her favourite. Even when Lisabethli was quite a small thing in the school-room, she had shed many hidden tears over the reproofs and constant putting-down she received; and pitied herself for her inability by all her love and duty to win from her mother one of the fond words or caresses which the else stern lady lavished upon her unruly boy. All her anxiety on his account seemed but to estrange her from her sweet girl, about whom, by the way, her brother no more concerned himself than though she had not been in existence. And yet the child continued to be gentleness and brightness itself, and was soon wise enough to estimate the misery that disturbed the balance of her mother's mind, and to resolve to treat all injustice towards herself as she would the mood or caprice of a suffering invalid. Later--after the flight of Andreas from Lausanne, and while the rumour of it was spreading more and more amongst the inhabitants of Berne--the relations between mother and daughter improved. Indeed the former had never been blind to the pure beauty of her child's nature, though, like one under an evil spell, she wrought out her own wretchedness by her partiality. Her mortally wounded maternal pride still forbade her to betray to her daughter, even by a sigh, the pangs her son inflicted on her. But in all other respects she now seemed to give the young girl the next place in her affections, and was even anxious to make up for all that in her earlier days she had inflicted or withheld. Still she was sparing of her caresses. If she but passed her delicate white hand over the girl's brown head when wishing her good night, still more if she kissed her eyes and said, "my good child," Lisabethli would blush crimson for joy, and the happy beating of her heart would keep her awake a whole hour. At the same time, Frau Amthor endeavoured so far as was compatible with her stern character, to procure for her daughter all the pleasures and amusements of her age, and was in the habit of inviting her friends on Sundays to the quiet home, behind which lay a beautiful terraced garden, and during the summer time the young people used to enjoy little excursions, and out-door parties; but she forbade them most strictly to go to any dances however respectably carried on, or in accordance with long established custom, they might be. It seemed that some innermost feeling of her nature shrank from the idea of the sister dancing while the brother, homeless and friendless, might at that very moment be driven by despair to end his life. For that it would come to this at last, was the one spectral thought that cast its shadow over the mother's soul both in her waking and sleeping hours. The house that had belonged to the Amthors for many generations, was a narrow three-storied antique building, with wainscoted walls and ceilings, and handsomely furnished with old silk tapestry and heavy hangings. On the ground-floor were the offices and the room in which dwelt the old man-servant and the faithful maid by whom the work of the house was done. Above were the rooms inhabited by the mother and daughter, which opened at the back upon the garden; and in the third story were what had been the late councillor's library and study, and of later years rooms entirely devoted to Andreas. The chamber where his bed stood had not since his departure been entered by any one but the old maid-servant. His mother never set her foot in it, and if his sister crept by it to take a book from the library, she held her breath as she passed the door as though it were haunted. Our story begins on a September evening--on the very day that Lisabethli had completed her nineteenth year. In honour of the anniversary, her mother had invited some half-dozen of the girl's favourite companions and what with singing and other amusements, which the grave matron left the young people to carry on alone, the hour of ten had struck unobserved. Indeed the girls, who after a very sultry day were still pacing the garden walks arm in arm, deep in important confidential talk, might easily have forgot time till midnight, if a storm that had gathered on the other side of the river had not scared them in. And once in, they found that their respective attendants had come for them with lanterns, and so kisses and good-byes were heartily exchanged, and in the great room looking out on the terrace the usual stillness prevailed, when the first roll of thunder resounded through the darkness. Frau Helena had joined her daughter, who stood in the open doorway looking down, beyond the dark steps leading into the garden, to the river Aar, lost in vague, dream-like thoughts, such as are wont to succeed a festive day when the soul is once more free to retire into itself. She gently laid her hand on her daughter's hair, and the sweet child silently leaned her head down on the mother's shoulder, as though to seek shelter from the vivid flash of lightning that suddenly rent the black cloud above them. "Come in, child," said the mother, "we shall soon have rain." The daughter shook her head without saying a word. She was now gazing steadily on the clear space of sky at the horizon, where the snow peaks of the Oberland far away from the range of the thunder-cloud, rose glittering in the moonlight, a wondrous spectacle indeed. "Dear little mother," at length she said, "how vast the earth is! Yonder they neither see nor hear anything of the storm that rages here. And yet still further off, in that star just above the Rothhorn, they would know nothing of it if our earth were to be shivered to atoms!" Her mother made no reply. Her thoughts were--she herself did not know where, but well she knew with whom--with the one they had always flown to at the approach of bad weather for many years past; because, while the sky was growing dark, she could not tell whether her boy had a roof over his head or not. "How the river feels and answers to the storm!" resumed the girl. "One might really fancy one saw the surface shudder with terror as the lightnings flash down. And yet they can go on dancing and fiddling in the tavern on the little island yonder. They must be a godless set." "They will soon leave off," said the mother, "it will be too bad even for them. No human being is so hardened but what the hour comes when he hearkens if God warns him. But let us come in. The drops that fall are large as hazel-nuts." "Look, mother," said the daughter holding her back, "there is something not right going on there. The door of the tavern is suddenly thrown open--people are rushing out--there is a girl in their midst--something flashes like a sword-blade--listen! they are quarrelling--oh, what wild unruly creatures!" The thunder now paused, and a sound of angry voices as well as of breaking glass was plainly audible, while a single clarionet, undisturbed by all the noise and confusion, went shrilly on playing gay dancing tunes. "I would give a hundred crowns," said Frau Helena with brows knit, "if that sink of iniquity yonder were removed from the town. I really might be driven to think of changing my house in my old days, merely to escape hearing and seeing such things as these." "And just at this sweetest of all hours," interposed the girl, "when everything else is so peaceful, and one might for once dream and think at will. Just look, they are all crossing the bridge now. For God's sake--why they are actually fighting--one is being pushed against the railings--the woman throws herself between them--his arms are free again--if they should push him into the river--" "Come, that is enough," said the mother authoritatively, "now let us go in. It is no sight for Christians to gaze at when men attack each other more cruelly than wild beasts would do. Just read me the evening lesson and then we will go to bed." A brilliant flash now suddenly lit up the houses by the side of the Aar, the tavern on the island, and the high sweltering current of the river. For a moment the dark group massed on the narrow bridge was distinctly seen: a tall youth with a red feather in his cap in their midst, struggling against them, with only a woman with white head-gear on his side. The clash of swords was heard, and a shrill female cry for help, and then with a terrific thunder-clap like the fall of some mighty tower, the clouds sent down sheets of rain, darkness swallowed up the wild doings on the bridge, and nothing remained visible but the red light in the window of the island tavern. The two women had retreated into the house horrified, and while the mother slowly walked up and down the carpeted floor, Lisabethli sat at the table, her hands folded on the open book before her, and her eyes fixed upon a large nosegay which stood in a beautiful Venetian glass, a present from her godfather on this her birthday. As to reading, that was not to be thought of, the thunder would have drowned her voice; still less was sleep possible, for the scene of violence was too vividly present to her mind. She kept listening intently for what might be going on without. "Oh God!" she almost unconsciously prayed, "have pity upon them all, and let no harm be done!" Just then another flash shone through the window and the door which had been left ajar that the fresh night-air might enter the room, and she fancied that she saw a shadow on the upper terrace show through the pane for one moment, and then vanish. "Mother," she faintly called out, "let us lock the door, someone has climbed over the wall, and--" She could not end her sentence, for the door was pushed open and a man rushed into the room. "For the sake of God's mercy," cried he, sinking half from exhaustion, half in the attitude of entreaty at the knees of Frau Helena. "Whoever you be, noble lady, save an innocent man! They are on my track. Where--where--" and he looked around, and with blood-stained hands pushed his dripping hair from his eyes. "Where can I hide myself! What can I say to move your heart to pity? If you knew how it had all come about, how entirely without fault of mine I have fallen into this horrible strait--am hunted down as a murderer--oh noble maiden--" and he turned to the pale girl who gazed with a shudder at the red feather in the stranger's cap; "if you have a brother who is dear to you--who may perhaps at this moment be asking hospitality in some strange land--implore your lady-mother not to thrust me out into the night where Heaven knows what disgrace may overtake me. By the head of your own son, noble lady--" "Silence!" interrupted Frau Amthor in a hollow trembling tone, more awful in the ears of the suppliant than the roar of the thunder. Meanwhile she looked at him with such an absent far-away expression that her daughter flew to support her in case she should swoon. But it passed over. "Close the terrace-door," she hastily said, leaning back in her chair, "then call Valentin. But make haste! I seem to hear voices in the garden below." The young girl bolted the heavy door in the twinkling of an eye, and hurried off. The stranger remained a moment or two alone with the mother. "You are saving my honour and liberty!" he stammered out, "perhaps my life. But believe, noble lady, that what you do is not done for one unworthy or reprobate, and my own mother, who would ransom the life of her son with all she has, were he to fall among bandits, will in return for your noble-hearted deed--" "Not another word," broke in the matron, "what I do is not done for your sake. But you are bleeding," she suddenly said, and paused--her glance falling upon a spot on his shoulder where great drops were oozing through his black silk doublet. "It is nothing," returned he, hastily pressing his glove on the place. "I hardly feel it. Would to God that the blow I dealt in return may not be more dangerous! But I fear--" Lisabethli now returned with the old servant. "Valentin," said the lady, "take this stranger gentleman to the upper story, and then see him to bed--in the room--you know which. No one is to know that he is in the house. I will give my own instructions to Donate. You understand how to foment. Look to the gentleman's wounds; there is linen in the cupboard; there are shirts in the press---he is to be treated _as though he were my own son_. Go--I hear footsteps." They all listened with beating hearts. In spite of the noise of the rain, voices were audible in the garden. The next moment the old servant had pushed the stranger out of the room, and mother and daughter were alone. "My child," said the mother, "go for a time downstairs to Donate. I shall have to lie, and I would not that your ears should hear me." "Mother," returned the girl, "I pray you to let me remain with you. I should die of terror down there. Never believe that anything you do can seem wrong in my eyes; and you are doing it to save a human life." Meanwhile there were three knocks at the bolted door. "In the name of the law, open," a deep voice called out. "Who knocks at this late hour?" returned Frau Amthor, and her voice sounded as unconstrained as though nothing had happened. "The sergeant, with the train band," was the reply. "Open, or we burst the door." "Go, Lisabethli," said the lady in so loud a tone that every word was audible without. "I must say that customs are changing in our old town of Berne: the idea of the watch breaking into a peaceable private dwelling in the dark night-time! I hope you have some satisfactory explanation to give of this visit of yours, sergeant," this in a majestic tone to the intruder, "you know who I am, and that my house is not likely to contain any disreputable character whom the bailiffs are after." The sergeant who had cast a hasty glance all round the room, now stood confounded opposite the lofty figure of the matron, and his eyes fell before the steady gaze of hers. "Forgive me, Frau Amthor," he mumbled, while he beckoned to his followers to stay where they were, and kept awkwardly turning the handle of his dagger round and round. "We are on the track of a dangerous fellow who has taken part in riotous, murderous doings on the island yonder. When I and my men were approaching the tavern the people in it saw him flying in this direction, leaping over hedges and walls, and we traced his foot-marks to your garden, and even found one of his gloves below the window. Therefore I held it to be my duty--" "To break into my house as though it were a likely refuge for murderers," interposed the matron, looking at him with so undaunted a gaze that the bearded man stared down at the carpet much embarrassed by the wet foot-prints he had left on its pattern. "Go your way," she continued, "and be more careful another time at what door you knock. To-morrow I shall go to the Town Council and lay a complaint before them about their endurance of the disorder and riot that goes on on the island, exposing even the quietest householder in the neighbourhood to an invasion of the watch by night on a charge of unlawful concealment!" The sergeant would fain have broken out into further apologies, but an imperative gesture of the lady, in the direction of the door, prevented his uttering a word. He retired with head sunk low, and had scarcely crossed the threshold, when Lisabethli shot the bolts after him, and then sunk down on a seat, with a deep-drawn sigh, so much had the short scene affected her. "Remain here," said the mother after a pause. "Light a taper for me. I will go upstairs." "Dearest mother," pleaded the girl timidly, "would you not rather-- Indeed you are too pale--it will distress you too much." Frau Helena made no reply, but taking the light out of her hand, left the room with face rigidly set, as though no worse thing could happen to her. She was a sternly virtuous woman, a proud woman, who had always felt too much self-respect to condescend to a lie. Now she had degraded herself in her own estimation and in the presence of her child, and this for the sake of a stranger who had no other claim to such a sacrifice than that of having adjured her by her deepest grief. The door through which she had passed remained half open, and Lisabethli could hear with what slow and heavy steps she went up the stairs, and how often she rested on the way, as though needing to gather breath and courage for the painful entrance into her lost son's room, which she had not visited for years. "He is in a swoon," said old Valentin, meeting her on the threshold. "I have bound up his wounds, but as I was putting a clean shirt on him he fell lifeless from under my hands. I will fetch some cold water: there is no danger--it is only faintness from loss of blood." He hurried down stairs, and the lady entered the room. There lay the stranger on the bed, his eyes closed, his mouth half open from pain, and showing his white teeth. His light hair still dripping with blood and rain, was pushed back from his pale brow. His cap and silken doublet lay on the ground, as well as the blood-soaked shirt which the old servant had replaced by a clean one. Frau Helena trembled all over when she saw this stranger clothed in the fine linen she herself had spun for her son, and marked with his initials. That she might avoid seeing anything else in the room, she fixed her eyes on the young face that in spite of its deadly pallor had a boyish, harmless, good-natured expression. She saw at once from his clothing that he was the son of respectable parents, and the tone in which he had implored her to save him, still rung pathetically in her ears. A motherly feeling overcame her, and great tears rolled down her faded face. Then the old servant returned with a pitcher of cold water, and prepared to wash the temples of the unconscious youth. "Leave that to me," said his mistress, taking the sponge out of his hand. "Bring the best vinegar out of the side-board, and a flask of our old wine. When he comes to himself he will need a cordial." Then she washed the blood out of his hair, and held the ice-cold sponge to his lips. This brought him round: he opened his eyes, and on seeing the noble lady who had saved him bending over his couch, he tried to sit up and speak to her. But she gently constrained him to lie down again, and to let her go on with her ministrations. "I am better already," he gasped out, while he took hold of her hand to carry it to his lips. "O how much you are doing for me! And you do not know me, and must think ill of me. Let me just tell you how it all came about." "Not another word to-night," interposed the lady, gently laying her hand on his lips. "You have lost too much blood to exert yourself safely. I leave you in the care of my old servant who will sit up with you. I hope that you will get some sleep, and to-morrow be on the way to recovery. Good night." She left the room without casting a look around at any of the things that evoked such bitter memories. But as soon as she found herself in the dark lobby, she leant her head against the wall, and sobbed in secret. This burst of grief lasted but a few minutes, then she raised her head again, and with her usual lofty bearing went down to her daughter. "Valentin thinks that there is no danger," she said. "Let us go to our rest." "Mother," asked the girl, "do you believe that he is a murderer? There is something about him that seems as if he would not hurt the meanest thing that lives, let alone a fellow creature." "Yet on the other hand how did he get to that tavern on the island?" said the mother, as if speaking to herself. "Because he was a stranger," hastily broke in the daughter. "He does not speak the German of Switzerland. Did you not notice that, mother dear?" "It is useless to theorise about it," abruptly replied Frau Amthor. "Come to bed, child, the storm has passed over." And so after the daughter had read the evening prayers, they went to their rest. But it was long after midnight before either of them closed an eye. Lisabethli kept constantly seeing before her the true-hearted terror-stricken gaze of the stranger, when he appealed to her to help to soften her mother's heart, the blood on his forehead, the red feather in his cap, while the scream of the woman who threw herself between the combatants on the bridge, still sounded in her ears. Frau Helena for her part was listening anxiously to what went on overhead. For the room where the wounded man lay was immediately above her chamber, and she thought of all the nights she had lain awake till morning expecting the return of Andreas from his orgies, and how when at length she heard his unsteady step, she used to turn on her pillow, not to sleep, but to shed bitter tears. Now everything was silent enough, only from time to time Valentin gave a short cough. The poor lady sat up in bed, and tried to pray; "Oh Lord God," so ran her prayer; "let him in foreign lands meet a mother to stand by him in all time of need; and if no one will have pity on him, let him find his way back to his own mother, that I may not die before I have once more held his hand in mine." * * * * * The morning was just breaking pale and cloudy through the small round panes, when Frau Helena left her room, and hastily dressed herself. "Sleep another hour," said she to Lisabethli, who at once bestirred herself too. "I will just go upstairs, and see how our guest is faring." The girl, however, had no wish for further rest. Very quietly she too rose and dressed, and crept on tip-toe after her mother. On the stair she met Donate carrying a small tray. "He has not made much of his breakfast," said the faithful old servant. "Fearfully weak he still is, and his hand shakes so if he tries to hold the spoon. But for the rest a very fine handsome creature, and I would rather bite my tongue out than betray him." The young girl made no reply, but went on to the top of the staircase. Once there, as the door had been left ajar, she could see the stranger lying in bed, but raising his head a little to greet Frau Helena, who was bending over him and enquiring how he had slept. "I really hardly know, noble lady," answered the youth. "My faithful watcher there will be better able to tell you whether I was quiet or talked nonsense and threw my hands and feet about. But I dreamed a great deal, and such lovely dreams--nothing in them of blood or wounds. And this morning when I came to myself it gave me a sudden stab in the heart to think how I must have alarmed you last night, and that you do not even know to whom you have been so unspeakably kind. Nay," continued he, seizing hold of her hand on seeing that she was again going to impose silence, "I will not let you go, even though it should be better for me to remain four-and-twenty hours without speaking. It makes me wild to lie here and let that good Samaritan, and yourself above all, feel that you are wasting your time and trouble upon a fellow who better deserves to lie on the straw of a hospital amongst brawlers and swashbucklers whom the beadle picks up half-dead on the streets. I owe my present plight to my greenness and presumption, having always held that with a good conscience and good courage, nobody need fear to face the devil. My father has often enough shaken his head at me warningly and said, 'Touch not pitch if thou wilt keep clean hands; and don't mix with wolves if thou dost not mean to howl with them.' And when I left Augsburg how my mother charged me only to enter respectable houses and keep good company! The egg, however, thought itself wiser than the hen. For you see, noble lady, I am naturally a restless sort of a fellow, and beautiful as my native town is, and cheerful too at times, I found it too confined, and wanted to see the world, Switzerland more especially, because I had heard so much of it from my father. He served his apprenticeship here in Berne in the house of the rich master-clothier, Aufdembühel, whom you doubtless know. Afterwards he settled in Augsburg, and married my mother and set up a great fabric of his own; and yet he has always thought fondly of Berne, so that when I told him my wish to visit it he made no objection. I almost think he had some idea of a daughter-in-law from that house, which suited my notions too, for I have grown to the age of five-and-twenty in Augsburg, and all the blue and brown, eyes there have left me scathless. And so for about a fortnight I rode southward in highest spirits, and crossed the beautiful Lake of Constance in a boat, and last evening when it was getting rather late I came through the gates by the bear-pits, thinking no evil; but I did not like to come down at once upon Herr Aufdembühel, bag and baggage as they say, so put up my horse at the 'Stork,' and then set out strolling about the town to take a general survey of it, as I always do on first getting to any new place. Yesterday, however, it was unfortunate that I did not first of all have a meal at the inn. For owing to the long ride and great sultriness while the storm was gathering, I suddenly became intolerably thirsty, and felt that I should turn to tinder unless I could get a draught of wine. I was looking about me, therefore, for a tavern, just as I passed the one on the island where I heard music and dancing going on, and I asked a well-dressed burgher whether one could get tolerable wine there. 'The wine was good enough,' he said, 'much better than the company. If he were to judge me by my dress he should say I should not find people of my own class there.' 'I would go into a stable full of cows and goats,' I laughingly replied, 'if I could find red wine in one of the milk-pails.' And there I left my worthy, standing, looking rather anxiously after me, and crossed the bridge to the tavern. "When I opened the door, however, I saw that my friend had not cautioned me for nothing, and that in a stable with brute beasts I should have found better manners and customs than there. Whether it be a haunt of thieves I cannot say, but most of the people looked to me as if they had narrowly escaped the gallows, or were on the high way thither, men and women both, and when I entered they nudged each other with surprise. But I who did not like to show the white feather, and held that a stranger might safely do what an inhabitant of the place could not, boldly seated myself in a corner, and ordered a measure of wine. And as I kept quiet, they seemed to be getting used to me, at least most of them had either drunk themselves stupid, or else were taken up with their female companions. Amongst the last class, was one better dressed, and with hair neater than the others, but a bold hussy like the rest. She neither danced nor sang, nor seemed to care for drink. She sat on the knee of a tall strong man, whose clothes looked as if they had originally been good, but were now stained with rain and wine. His face too might once have been handsome, before he got the red scar across his forehead, or his red eyelids and straggling beard. I could not help watching the pair--he throwing down the dice disdainfully, as though good or bad luck were all the same to him, and when he won giving a push to the girl to collect the money, whereupon she would take a long dagger that lay on the table, and with the bare blade just sweep the coins to one side as if they were so much dirt. Neither of them spoke a word, while their partners--rough young churls with red faces and glassy eyes--cursed freely in Spanish and French, and struck the table with their clenched fists. The girl seemed at length to tire of the game, and looking round her with a yawn, chanced to spy me out for the first time, for when I entered she was dozing on the man's shoulder. I suppose my dress took her fancy, or the ring on my finger; suffice it to say that she began to cast meaning glances at me, and to make signs with her hand behind her lover's back, which I neither understood nor attended to, but gulped down my wine the more quickly that I might slip away, when all of a sudden she sprang from the knee of the gloomy gambler, and seated herself on the bench beside me as if intending to sleep, but in reality she kept ogling me all the time. The man with the scar seemed aware of something wrong, for he loudly called to her in French to come back at once, but she pretended to be asleep, and not to hear him. At that he started up in a rage and bade me go my ways at once--said he had seen me making signals to the girl, and luring her from his lap. I who was inwardly furious at his brutality, put on a careless semblance, and said that no one had a right to bid me leave, that I was interfering with nobody, and paying for my wine like the rest. At that he grew frantic, dragged the girl from the bench, and called out to the host to know why he did not keep his house clear of suspicious characters who only came to spy, called me all sorts of opprobrious names, and when the girl took my part, seized hold of my doublet, and tore my collar. I saw now pretty plainly what I had brought upon myself, for all the rest of the gamblers joined in the outcry, and the landlord, who got his livelihood through men of that class, and did not want decent customers, rudely told me that I was out of place in a house like his where people knew their manners. 'Very good,' I said, 'I will no longer disturb you.' I threw my money on the table and moved away. But as I was opening the door, the girl suddenly clung to me and begged me to take her with me for a walk, as she was sick of the company. '_Allez-vous-en_,' cried I. '_Je ne veux pas de vous_,' and what else of bad French I could muster. Just then the storm began, and the uproar within got worse and worse, for the lover wanted to tear her away, and the others screamed and stormed, and she clung to me like a wild cat to a tree, and I could not help thinking in my anger and vexation, 'What if thy good mother saw thee?' Then came so dazzling a flash, that even those rude beings were quieted for a moment, the music stopped, and the landlady put up a sort of prayer. I took advantage of this interval to shake off my troublesome fair one, and slip out of the house. But while I was on the bridge, thanking God for having got off with only a black eye, the whole of them rushed out upon me with drawn blades, and had they not been half-drunk, my last hour would inevitably have struck! The French girl too came to my aid, and when she saw her lover--the man with the scar--drive his dagger into my shoulder, she yelled like a maniac, pushed me against the railing, and covered me with her own body. Meanwhile, seeing my life was at stake, I drew out my short sword, and laid about me so lustily, that all fell back with the exception of my chief foe who was maddened with jealousy and wine. He actually ran in upon my sword, gave a roar like a bull, and then fell speechless on his face. Instantly all was so still one only heard the thunder and the rush of the river. But then came two flashes and showed us the train-band marching towards the island. 'Get him into the boat,' said one of the fellows to another. 'He is already in,' was the reply; 'the best way were to throw him into the river.' Meanwhile they had caught hold of the whimpering girl, and were pushing her off by the shoulders. '_Allons, depêchez-vous_,' she cried. '_Voilà les gendarmes! On nous attrapera tous._' And then there was such a rush along the narrow bridge that no one took any notice of me, and under cover of the darkness and pelting rain I made my escape. The rest, you know, noble lady. And now just picture to yourself my fate if Heaven had not touched your heart, if you had refused me your protection. Indelible disgrace must have attached to me as a brawler, if not as a murderer; found in a disreputable house; no worthy man to bear witness to my innocence, and Herr Aufdembühel, instead of writing word to my father that he rejoiced to renew their old friendship by welcoming his son, would but have come to see me in prison, and have shaken his head incredulously over my self-justification, whereas I read in your eyes that you do not hold me an empty liar, but feel compassion for my reckless youth, and will not withdraw your hand from me." After this impetuous narrative, which evidently excited him much, the youth sank back on his pillows with a deep sigh, and closed his eyelids. "Be of good cheer," said Frau Helena, her black eyes moist with tears. "You shall want for nothing under my roof, and since I have had you laid in this bed, I should look upon you as my son, even if everything about you did not assure me that I might give credence to your words. Valentin thinks that in about a week you may be able to rise. Till then I shall only ask one thing from you, to be a tractable patient, and not through impatience or anxiety to retard your recovery. If you wish, as you cannot move your arm, I will write word to your mother how you are, and that she need fear no danger for you." "Oh, my gracious hostess," cried the youth, catching hold of the sleeve of her dress and pressing it to his lips; "you are indeed like a mother to me, for you offer of your own accord what I scarcely dared ask. And yet I know what a favour you will be conferring upon my dear mother. For indeed both parents are now sitting anxiously together like two birds in a nest whose young one has just taken his first flight, and I had promised to send them tidings as soon as I reached my journey's end. But now, if you are good enough to write to Frau Martina Brucker, Augsburg, will you make light of my hurt and keep back from her the way I got it, until I can send her a circumstantial account. For she is very easily frightened, and as I am her only child, she has always taken as much care of me as though I were a girl, and hitherto I have tried to give her as little uneasiness as possible. If she were to know what a scrape her Kurt got into on the very first night of his arrival at Berne, she would not have an hour's peace until she could get him out of this dangerous atmosphere. But you will see at once what to do. You will know perfectly what to say to a mother so as to comfort even more than alarm her." He grew so pale while uttering these last words, that Valentin hurried to the bed-side with a cordial, and gave his mistress plainly to understand that her interview had been too long. So after a few further directions, she crept softly out on tip-toe, and in the lobby came upon Lisabethli. "You have been listening?" said she sternly. "Dearest mother, forgive me," returned her child. "I could not help it. I needs must know how it all happened. God be praised and thanked--I was right--he is innocent." "Come down, child, you have nothing to do up here. Should any one call I am engaged. I must sit down at once and write to his mother." * * * * * But nevertheless a visitor came whom neither Donate could send away, nor Lisabethli receive alone. It was no other than the chief sergeant, the greatest man in the town next to the mayor, and distantly related to Frau Helena. He came on the part of the Town Council to apologise for the intrusion of the previous night, and also to say that the disorders on the island should now be effectually put a stop to by the closing of the tavern, which had long been a thorn in the side of the civic authorities. As to the savage doings of yesterday evening, a mystery lay over them which up to the present hour no one had been able to penetrate. Both combatants had disappeared as completely as though the earth had swallowed them up, their bloody traces had been washed away by the heavy rain, and nothing was known of their names or their antecedents. Only a boat usually fastened to the bridge had been found two or three miles from the town keel uppermost, and the landlord of the Stork stated that a horse had been left in his stable last evening, whose rider had never made his appearance since. During this communication Frau Helena had often changed colour, but did not utter a syllable which could have betrayed her secret knowledge, nay, she was even careful not to speak a word of any kind, as it must needs have been at least indirectly untrue. As soon as she was alone again, she wrote to Frau Martina Brucker in Augsburg, judiciously keeping back all that might have made her uneasy as to her son's conduct, and concluding by a cordially expressed promise to nurse him as a real mother might, since she--this she added with silent tears--was not so favoured by Heaven as to have her own son under her roof. This letter she herself took in the afternoon to the post, accompanied by her daughter, without whom, indeed, she seldom left the house. Neither of them said a word about their hidden guest, and yet neither thought of anything else. So it was in the evening too when they silently sat at their spinning wheels. It was only when Donate came in at a late hour to announce that the fever was higher, the patient unable to sleep, and delirious, calling constantly for his mother, and wanting to get up and ride off homewards, that they held a council as to whether it was any longer possible or justifiable not to call in a chirurgeon, but trust to the skill and experience of old Valentin, who had served half his time as apprentice to a leech before Herr Amthor took him into his service. At last Frau Helena went up herself to inspect the wound. There was nothing in its aspect to alarm, and the old man assured her that the rambling, Donate had been frightened by, merely resulted from the full-bloodedness of youth, and that in four-and-twenty hours all danger would be perfectly over. Frau Helena knew that her faithful servant was accustomed to weigh his words before he spoke positively. She stood for a while by the side of the feverish sufferer, who did not know her, but when he felt the touch of her hand called her "mother," and then with a sudden brightness in his face began to talk to her in a tone of affectionate confidence, telling her she was not to suppose he had set his heart on Herr Aufdembühel's daughter--that she knew he would never marry unless he found some one like her. Then he would break out into French, as if violently remonstrating with the bold girl of the tavern, telling her not to hang about his neck, since though she might stain his doublet with wine, she could not ogle the ring off his finger--and all sorts of delirious fancies. To all which the judicious matron listened attentively, for she well knew men, and was silently touched by the evidence thus afforded of a good and innocent nature. She felt her motherly partiality for the young stranger grow hour by hour, till she was almost angry that this youth should assert a claim to a place in her heart, long entirely filled by sorrow for her lost one. The night was again restless, and so was the day. But just as Valentin had foretold, on the third night came a refreshing sleep, and when Frau Helena paid her morning visit to her guest, he looked at her with clear intelligent eyes, and even tried to move his wounded arm, which was still helpless, but going on as well as possible. The lady shook her head lovingly at him, and bade him not play any pranks, or fancy himself well before the time, and the youth, although in the highest spirits, gravely assured her that he would be passive as an unweaned child. But that very evening, as mother and daughter were sitting in their saloon by candlelight, and Lisabethli practising some foreign tune upon the spinett, there came a knock at the door, and in answer to a somewhat nervous "Come in,"--for the ladies were not accustomed to such late visitors--their young guest appeared leaning on the arm of Valentin, who by silent shrugs, gave them to understand that this was no doing of his, and that he washed his hands of the consequences of such imprudence. Kurt, however, over whose pale cheeks a flush of pleasure passed at this escape from the sick room, gaily and gracefully bent his knee before the grave matron, and prayed her forgiveness for having ventured once more to stand on his own feet contrary to her command. He only wanted to wish his benefactress good-night, and to thank the young lady too, whom he had not seen since that terrible evening, for the trouble she had taken in making lint and sewing bandages together. It was impossible to resist his lively cordial manner: and even Lisabethli, who had been more startled by his unexpected appearance on this occasion than on the first, soon regained her natural ease and replied playfully and intelligently to his friendly talk. At a signal from her mother she brought in a tray of fruit and pastry, and their guest who had fasted for some days (first, however, asking and obtaining leave from Valentin), was soon biting with his white teeth into the juicy early pears. "Noble lady," he said, "I cannot describe to you how pleasant it is to me to find myself at this table. When I first saw your lights shine from the terrace below, and directed my fugitive steps hither, how little I dreamed that I should ever sit here safely and happily, and that you would be so very kind to me! You must know that I am a thoroughly spoilt child, and on my journey here, much as I enjoyed the freedom and novelty of it, yet in the wretched hostelries, spite of good food and fiery wine, I used to long for the clean tablecloth laid by our maid at home for our simple fare. I never ventured to sleep in any of their beds without spreading my cloak over the sheets. Now here I find everything just as it is at my own mother's--only better appointed--and that there I have to be son and daughter in one, while here I sit merely on sufferance, because, as my old friend tells me, your son is on his travels, while a daughter is left to you such as my mother has long vainly wished for." At these words the old servant slipped away, for this reference to the absent son distressed him, but Lisabethli came to her mother's rescue. "Often," she playfully observed, "did people wish themselves a cross, and if her mother would be candid, she would admit that she not seldom found herself desiring better companionship than that of a silly little daughter, her head full of freaks and fancies, who strummed on the spinet half the day through, roasted the meat too brown, and made the soup too light, and cost more than she was worth in ribands and tuckers." At this the mother with a faint smile, observed that the picture was certainly like, though somewhat darkly shaded; but that even were it a correct one, each must accept the punishment Heaven adjudged him. And so saying her face grew very sad, for she thought that in her case this was but too true. The young people, however, paid no attention, but went on chatting in the liveliest manner, and becoming so thoroughly at home with each other that they felt like old acquaintances; and when Lisabethli had risen from her instrument after playing three or four national airs to their guest, the minster tower struck twelve before any of them knew that they had been more than an hour together. There is little to record about the following days and evenings, except that both the young people, and even the mother, daily thought the time longer until--the house-door being barred and bolted--they were able to receive their guest in safety, and chat half the night away in the cheerful, well-lit sitting-room. They seemed to fall into this state of things as if it always had been and must always continue, and the very fact of having a secret to keep and a peril to avert, gave to these innocent meetings an excitement and a charm against which even Frau Helena herself was not quite proof. She was wise enough, however, to foresee that there was another danger besides that of the discovery of her hidden guest and of her own untruth. Lisabethli, who until the present time had very seldom, and only for short periods, been in the company of young men, had already spent eleven days under the same roof with this stranger; and if, since she had fathomed his candid and upright nature, the mother had learnt to love him, was it not expecting too much to suppose the daughter blind to all his gifts and virtues? He, indeed, confidential and friendly as he was, appeared to have taken good care of his own heart, and in all the unchecked playfulness of their talk throughout the long evenings, not a word escaped his lips that sounded other than brotherly in its tone. But if it were really so, if this bird of passage had no thought of nest-building, it would be all the worse for the child, and a mother's duty was to put an end to it at once. She blamed her own weakness and inability to remind her guest (who was really now quite able to travel) of the journey he no longer seemed anxious to take. She felt how much she should miss him, when she had him no longer to expend her motherly care upon, and no more heard his frank loving voice call her "lady-mother," or even vie with her little daughter in devising pet names for her. Then, too, she had a sense of the ungraciousness and unfitness of hastening a guest's departure. And so she was glad and sorry both, when a letter arrived from Augsburg, written by his parents, who at its close enjoined their son not to trespass too long upon the hospitality of the noble lady to whom he owed his life, but to set out as soon as ever his wound was healed and journey homewards; as so only could his anxious mother be fully convinced that he was really out of danger, and that the punishment of his recklessness had been on this occasion a lenient one. When young Kurt had read out this letter to his two friends, not a word was spoken by any of the three for a long time, and afterwards the talk turned only on grave or indifferent subjects. For the sense of this being their last evening was heavy upon the hearts of all, though none chose to confess it. After midnight--when he had left them--mother and daughter went on sitting up, pretending to have something to do, for neither felt able to sleep. Then Lisabethli left the room to give some last directions to Donate. On her return she held a sheet of paper in her hand, and her face was as white as the paper. "Dear mother," she stammered out, "Donate has just given me this. It is from _him_. Will you read it." "Read it yourself," said her mother, "there can be no harm in it." "Oh mother," whispered the girl, "I cannot see to read it. There is a cloud before my eyes--I know that it is a farewell!" "Give it me," said Frau Helena. "He asks you," she said, after a pause, "whether you have any objection to his applying to me for my consent to give you to him. He does this in writing because if you do not love him, which he fears is but too likely, as you have always seemed so cheerful and unconcerned--he would prefer not to see you again, but to set out without any leave-taking, and take his unhappy heart as far as possible from hence." The girl did not answer, and her mother too was silent. Suddenly Frau Helena felt her child's arms around her neck, her tears on her cheek, while her soft little mouth whispered in her ear. "I should have died, dearest mother, if he had not loved me." Then her mother took her upon her knee as she had not done since she was a child, pressed her closely to her heart, and said with trembling voice, "God bless you, my good children: you have to make up to me for much." That night no one closed an eye till morning, when they snatched an hour or two, and the daughter, who woke first, glad as she was that her mother should have more rest, could yet hardly wait patiently until she rose and went to return an answer to the young lover's letter. When Frau Helena went upstairs, she found her guest--who had like herself only closed his eyes a short time before--fast asleep, and so she sat by his bedside contemplating the good innocent countenance that beamed with hope and happiness even in its sleep. But as still he did not wake, she called him by his name. At that he started, and in his confusion could find no words, especially as he did not know what she would say to his letter. But though her face remained grave, her words at once gave him comfort and confidence. "Dear son," said she, "you must not remain here any longer. After what you have written to my child, it would not be fitting that I should persuade you to go on accepting our well-meant though poor hospitality. As soon as you are ready to set out we must part, and Valentin will let you out at the garden door, from whence you must make your way to the 'Stork,' and there get your horse, explaining your long absence in the most credible way you can. And further I must insist that you do not before your departure say a word to my daughter that might not be spoken to a stranger. She loves you dearly, and I may truly say that I could wish nothing more than to have so worthy a son, since my own son," and here she sighed from the depths of her heart, "is alas! lost to me, as I shall tell you later. But I do not choose your parents to think that after nursing you here we have taken advantage of your gratitude to procure a husband for my daughter; and you yourself, when you go off and mix with the world again, may wonder at the especial charm you found in my simple child, when she was your only companion. Therefore you must part without one binding word on either side, and thus my child, too, will have time to examine her young heart, and to find out whether compassion and the interest of an adventure may not have produced an illusory belief that you are her Heaven-appointed bridegroom. If when you have spoken to your parents and obtained their consent you are still of the same mind as now, you can let us know by letter or in person, and God will then give his blessing if this marriage be really made in Heaven. And now, dear son, I leave you, and shall expect you at breakfast, for you shall not leave my house fasting and unrefreshed, although I must still impose abstinence upon your yearning heart." She rose and pressed a mother's kiss on the brow of the youth, who had listened in speechless rapture. But if he drew from this token of affection any hope that she would not be so stern as to prevent him pressing his loved maiden to his heart once at least before they parted, he did not know the strong character of this mother, in whose nature severity and tenderness were strangely blended. The farewell had to take place exactly in the manner prescribed, and if Lisabethli had not in reaching out her hand given him a look that was one long confession of the deepest love and fidelity, he might have gone away, not in joyous hope, but in uncertainty as to whether or not he had found a heart that was his for life and death. He left a ring on the table of his room, wrapped in paper, with just one line to the mother. "Will you keep this token for me till you allow me to offer it to your child." As to Valentin and Donate, he rewarded their care so liberally that in their amazement they came to tell Frau Helena that Herr Kurt must surely have made some mistake. But when they saw the traces of tears in Lisabethli's eyes, they silently went their way, and began to put many things together. This was about noon, when most persons were at home, and Kurt could go through Frau Amthor's garden-gate with least risk of being observed. Some hours passed by without the mother and daughter opening their lips even to speak on indifferent subjects. They were more occupied with each other than ever, and showed it in a hundred little loving ways, only they hardly dared to allow their eyes to meet, for each had a secret to keep. When the day got cooler, the mother was just going to invite her child, who was walking alone in the garden, to put on her hat and take a turn with her through the town, when Valentin suddenly appeared with an anxious visage, and hastily announced that the chief sergeant, who had paid his mistress a visit twelve days before, now requested to know whether she was at home. He had something, he said, of importance and urgency to communicate. Frau Helena--whose first idea was some fresh imprudence on the part of Kurt--had just time to make a sign to Valentin, enjoining silence towards Lisabethli, when in came the stately dignitary, looking far more solemn and mysterious than he had done on the former occasion, and requesting a private interview. After she had led him into a small study, where he took his seat facing her, coughed several times, and re-arranging the tags on his dress, he began in evident embarrassment to address her as follows:-- "I need not to premise, worthy Frau Amthor, how not only your family and house, but also your own character are held in honour by every person, public or private, in our good town, and your virtues, as well at the name and memory of your departed husband, looked up to as a Christian example. It is, therefore, the universal wish to keep sorrow far from you, and to offer you whatever consolation lies within human power for such trial as Heaven has appointed. It will not have escaped you that all as by common consent have long avoided touching the wound that your son's conduct has inflicted, and I indeed as your friend and relative, should have been especially bound never to name your lost Andreas in your presence, if my official duty had not required me so to do. Will you, therefore, not render my painful duty still harder to me by suppression or evasion, but openly tell me what accounts of your son you have lately had, and where you have reason to believe him now to be?" "If you ask me thus earnestly," replied the mother, without betraying either in look or tone how fast her heart was beating; "I must, alas! return you for answer, that it will be four years next All Saints' since I saw my unhappy son for the last time, and that since then I have had no manner of communication from him. But now let me enquire what leads you and the rest of the Town-Council to make such enquiries about the absent one who--whatever his offences may be--has at least not given his native town any cause for complaint for a space of nine years?" The sergeant coughed again, and resumed after a pause, during which he was evidently in search of the most appropriate words possible. "Hear me out patiently, my worthy friend and relative, and do not be startled if my communication should sound strange and alarming. Up to the present time it is only a surmise which may--God grant it!--prove to be entirely unfounded. You remember the night on which the train-band intruded upon you, and the disorderly conduct on the island, respecting which I waited upon you the following day, bearing the apologies of the Council. The tavern which caused you so much annoyance, was closed at once, and the scene of much nightly misdemeanour removed. Neither since that night had any trace of the chief offenders been found, so that I began to suspect the watchmen must have been bewildered with new wine, and seen phantoms. But last evening, just as we were breaking up, a young female was brought before us, who had gone to the sexton of St. Ursula to request him to give private burial to a corpse then in her room, since she feared--the fatal wound having been received in a brawl--that she might else as a stranger in the place be held in some way amenable to the law. The little money the girl possessed--she seemed to be no better than a French courtesan, and could scarcely put ten German words together--she had offered the sexton as a bribe for secrecy, but when he, as his duty was, gave information of the death, and took her with him to the Court, she seemed inspired with sudden courage, and being thoroughly cross-examined by us, was yet able to establish her innocence in this tragic matter. The dead man, who had been her lover and brought her with him from Lyons, had on the night of the storm picked a quarrel on the island with an unknown youth, and had been stabbed by the latter during a struggle on the bridge. When the train-band was seen approaching, she had just had time with the help of two of their travelling companions, to get the unconscious man into a boat, and to bring him to the obscure inn where they had arrived on the previous day. The two other men seeing that there was nothing more to be made, got themselves out of the scrape, but she had faithfully tended the wounded man by night and day, and persuaded the host that he was getting better, and would if secrecy were maintained reward him liberally by-and-by. It was only when he had drawn his last breath that she thought of herself with any anxiety, for during his illness she had been obliged to spend all the money he had won at play, and the few ornaments she had, she had sold to a Jew in hopes of getting him quietly buried. As to her future maintenance, however, she continued with brazen assurance, she should have no fear, as she was young and--thank God!--not ugly, if only she were acquitted by us, and could get to a country where people understood her. The dead man had, indeed, treated her liberally as regarded dress, food, and presents, but she had not had much pleasure with him, for he was of a sulky temper, and not a thorough Frenchman, spite of his name. She rather thought he must have been an Alsatian. He called himself Laporte, had travelled through many lands, had served in the Dutch army, and was not fond of speaking about his past. The idea of travelling in Switzerland occurred to him when he had exhausted all his means. She had never found out whether he had a treasure buried in this country, or friends who were in any way bound to him, and at whose door he had only to knock in order to be set on his legs again. This was the simple truth, and more she did not herself know, and therefore could not tell us, even if she were put to the torture. "After this declaration of Fleurette,--which was the female's name--the mayor ordered that the body should be moved from the inn (where as yet the death had not transpired) to the hospital, and last night it was borne upon a bier into the dead house, and a protocol was made previous to the interment of the stranger--as such--close to the churchyard wall. The foreign hussy was meanwhile confined for a season in the tower of the hospital. When we betook ourselves this morning to the dead house, and the inspector had given us his report, namely, that the wound had been dealt by a German sword between the fourth and fifth ribs, and that it was a marvel such a wound had been so long survived--there came a judicial investigation of the clothes and few effects found, the result of which in no way contradicted, but rather confirmed, the young woman's statement. We found that in his commission as officer in the Dutch army, he was entered as a Monsieur Laporte or De la Porte; there were no other papers. The clerk had indeed already finished the protocol, when the surgeon called our attention to a seal-ring on the dead man's clenched left hand. It was a thick gold ring of curious make, with a blood-red cornelian, and it was impossible to get it off. But as I chanced--being fond of antiques--to bend down closer with a candle in order to examine the style of it, I saw to my surprise and horror, that it was exactly--but you must not be alarmed, it may as I said be merely accidental--_exactly_ I repeat, like the family arms of the Amthors, two beams supporting a cornice with an open door in the middle and a star above. The candle shook in my hand, all the more that at the same moment I saw in the pale bearded face, which had at first seemed to me that of a perfect stranger, an expression--I pray you, my good cousin, to forgive me if I pain you--an expression such as I had seen on the dead face of my excellent and honoured friend, your late husband, when on the day of his burial I stood for the last time beside his open coffin." The worthy man, having got so far in his narrative, made a pause, during which he did not venture to look at the matron opposite him, though indeed he could but poorly estimate the amount of the woe that hung over her. He had no idea that the fate of both children might depend on whether the stranger proved to be her own son or not. "Be comforted, my beloved friend," he at length resumed, wiping away the cold drops from his brow. "I have taken upon myself not to say a word of this discovery to any one but the mayor, whom you know to be an honourable man heartily devoted to your family. I asked him whether this melancholy supposition had not better be buried in our hearts. It is not probable, but yet it is possible, that a branch of the Amthors may have migrated to foreign lands, there changed their name to Laporte or De la Porte for the sake of convenience, retaining, however, the family arms. As to that look in the dead face, which is a good deal disfigured by a deep scar, I said nothing about it to him, as he had declared he saw no likeness whatever to Andreas, whom he remembered to have often met nine or ten years ago. Nevertheless he was of opinion that so singular a coincidence ought not to remain a secret to you. If indeed, contrary to all probability, it should prove to be your poor son who has met with so tragical an end, no one would deny a mother the bitter consolation of blessing to its eternal rest, the head she had carried beneath her heart. Again, as regards official formalities, it is unfitting that we should satisfy ourselves with the declaration of a vagabond female, when we have the most convincing witness at hand; for it may prove desirable hereafter, with regard to future demises, inheritances, and the like, to have some certain knowledge to go upon. Therefore I determined to come to you, to lay the whole case before you, and persuade you, if I can, to pay a visit to the hospital--as secretly as you will--in order to prevent all useless suspense or suspicion." So saying he rose and went to the window to give Frau Helena time to collect herself and come to a decision. A quarter of an hour passed away, during which nothing was audible in the small room but the ticking of the great clock--a wedding present from Lisabethli's grandfather to his daughter-in-law, bearing on its metal face the family arms of the Amthors. Out of doors, too, all was still--nothing to be heard but the cawing of a flight of rooks wending their way over the terrace, or the muffled thud of an over-ripe apple on the grass. At length the lady rose and approached her old and tried friend, who met her rigid gaze with an expression of sorrowful sympathy. "I thank you," she said, "for having come to me, and performed this painful duty with so much consideration. Say to the highly respected mayor that I shall find myself at about nine o'clock at the side-door of the hospital, and should wish to be met there by some trustworthy person, and this painful step concealed from all who might be likely to talk of it. The rest I leave in God's hand--He will order it aright." "I shall be there myself to meet you," replied the sergeant. "May our Lord God strengthen your heart, and your frame, and grant us the fulfilment of our hope that this may prove merely an accidental coincidence!" "Amen!" said Frau Helena in a hollow voice, in which was no hope whatever. Thereupon her visitor left her. As soon as she was alone she sank down on her knees in the place where she had been standing, and waves of anguish closed over her mother's heart. * * * * * It was already getting dusk, when her daughter's voice speaking in the garden to old Donate, roused the mourner from her trance. Soon after Lisabethli entered, and found her mother sitting at her desk, as though evening had overtaken her at her accounts and letters. "Dearest mother," said the girl, "he has sent me another letter--a boy brought it to Donate; he wrote it as soon as he had got beyond the gates, because you said he might write when far away. Will you read it? He says that I am to be as sure of his truth as of your love, and that nothing can ever part us but death." She held the letter out to her mother, but the latter did not take it. "Leave me alone, awhile, child," she replied. "I have got something to think over." The girl went away, happy to keep her treasure all to herself. The mother remained an hour longer in the darkening room, absorbed in darkest thoughts, through which pierced not one heavenly ray. She never for a moment doubted that the ring on the finger of the dead man, was the same that she had placed on the finger of her Andreas the first time that he went to Holy Communion. As to any accident which had transferred this ring to the hand of some one else, she never entertained the idea. He who lay in the dead house of the hospital with that sword-thrust in his breast was none other than her much-loved, much-wept son. And he who had killed this son--in self-defence it is true--was one to whom she had promised her daughter, who would probably return in a few weeks as a happy bridegroom to the desolate house, and with laughing face carry off her daughter, so that through him she should be bereaved of both her children. She hated him at that moment, she cursed the hour in which he entered her house, cursed her own tongue that had promised him protection and ratified that promise with a falsehood, when saving him from his pursuers. And yet the next moment her heart recalled that curse, for in her mind's eye she saw again the candid face of the innocent fugitive, heard his clear tones, remembered her own words when she vowed to be a mother to him, and her daughter's voice when she came to her on the previous evening with her letter, and said, "I should have died, dearest mother, had he not loved me." She knew her child, and that these words were not lightly spoken. She felt, moreover, what she owed to this child, who had been for years defrauded of her due share of maternal love. Would she not have cause of bitter complaint against a brother who, after years of long wild wandering, had only returned to his country to bring fresh misery on his mother's head, and to destroy the whole happiness of his sister's life? "No," said the stronghearted woman, "it must not be. No one is guilty here but I. I am the real cause of his miserable end, I with my foolish indulgence and subservience from excess of love! No one shall suffer--ought to suffer, but I. I shall not have any joy in the son whom God seemed to have given me to replace my lost one; my other child will go away, and I shall be left solitary, with only my own misery--misery purchased by a double falsehood!" She sank again into gloomy brooding, till the minster clock struck nine. Then she started, and gathering together all the strength of a desolate soul, she called to Lisabethli to bring her her coif, as she had a necessary errand that took her out. The girl wondered at her going so late, but did not like to ask any questions, having indeed in her early days too many experiences of unusual proceedings on her mother's part to dwell much upon this wonder, especially now she had such happy thoughts of her own. But old Valentin could not refrain from enquiring whether he might not light the lantern and accompany his mistress. She shook her head in silence, doubled her veil over her face, and left the house. It was no great distance to the hospital, but she often felt as though she should never be able to reach it. "O Lord God!" she inwardly prayed, "take me away from earth! It is too much--Thou visitest Thy servant too severely!" And yet something too seemed to draw her onwards to the place where she should behold for the last time the long yearned after face of her lost son! When she reached the site of the old pest-house, with its handsome chapel, a man dressed in black drew near and whispered her name. It was, she knew, her friend the chief sergeant, but they did not exchange words, and he led her through the side-door, which he unlocked, into the interior of the building. They entered a dimly-lighted hall, where the hospital attendant on duty had fallen asleep on a bench. Their footsteps wakened him, but at a signal from the sergeant he remained where he was, while the former lighted another taper, and preceded the lady. They went up some steps, and through a long passage to a kind of cellar-door which stood half open. "If you prefer to go in alone," said he, "take the taper. I will wait for you in the passage." She bowed assent in silence, took the tin sconce into her hand, and entered the chamber of the dead. It was a low stone-roofed room, with bare walls blackened by smoke and time, and entirely devoid of furniture. In its midst stood the coffin, roughly made, and stuffed with nothing but half mouldy straw. In it rested the corpse, beneath a grey pall, scarcely long enough to cover the tall frame of the dead, who had been laid down in the clothes he wore in life. At the lady's entrance two rats who had been gnawing at his boots, jumped out of the straw into their holes. She did not notice them. Her eyes were fixed upon the head of the coffin, where the pall just showed a high white forehead with a deep scar down to the very eyebrows. She placed the taper in a niche of the wall, and with her remnant of strength approached to raise the pall. One glance at the rigid face furrowed by the conflict of life and of death--and she sank down beside the coffin. Yet it was no swoon that mercifully shrouded her senses. It was only that her legs would no longer support her; her mind was fully awake, and her heart felt all its old wounds open, and begin to bleed and burn afresh. She had fallen on her knees, her hands folded, her eyes fixed on the pale face of her dead son, averted as it seemed from her in indifference, in almost anger, and upturned to the black arch of the roof. Oh! she would have given her life, the last poor remnant of her days on earth, if those eyes could but have opened once more for one farewell look, if those discoloured lips could once--only once--have called her "mother!" The sergeant who was waiting in the passage, was under the impression that he heard a groan proceed from the chamber of the dead. What it meant he did not know. If indeed it were her son he would not disturb the mortal anguish of the mother. Suddenly he heard her steps approach the door, and saw her coming out, the light in her hand, her head erect as if no shock had bowed her down, her eyes strained and strange, but meeting his. "I have kept you waiting," she said, "which was unnecessary. One glance is sufficient to reveal the truth to a mother: but it has shaken me. I had to rest a little." "So it is not he!" cried her faithful friend. "God be praised!" "To all Eternity!" said she. "Let us go. The place is ghastly." She went on hastily with the taper, and steadily descended the steps. In the hall where the watcher sat, she put down the taper on the table, and her hand no longer trembled. "You will see," said the sergeant to the sleepy official, "that to-morrow, not later than five, the sexton comes and bears the body to its rest." "The grave is already dug, sir," was the reply, "near the place where a year ago Hans Frisdolin, the parricide was laid." "Not so," returned the sergeant, "he shall have no dishonourable burial, only as a stranger he must lie next to the wall. His French girl has offered to pay the sexton. You can remind her, Killian." "What I wanted to ask," the man broke in, "is whether the foreign lady may have wine, and also a roast pigeon for which she longs. She will pay for it, she says, and indeed she is a very good little thing, and a pair of foreigners have been to pay her a visit in the tower and spent three hours there. The warder turned them away at night, but the lady was sadly put out, and she sent the warder to ask whether I would not pay her a visit, for she found the time hang heavy." "She must conform to the regulations," growled the sergeant. "To-morrow she will be free, and then she can recommence her godless trade, as she too surely will so soon as she is beyond our jurisdiction. Good-night, Killian." He turned to Frau Helena, who had gone to the door of the hall, and there in deep shadow leant against the wall. While he led her out, and on the way to her house, whither he accompanied her, he kept railing against the dissolute creature, who might well have the unfortunate dead on her conscience instead of throwing out baits for fresh victims before the earth had closed over the last. He protested it removed a stone from his heart to know that this Laporte was no Amthor, and he hoped that the real Andreas might yet live to make up to his mother for all that she had so christianly endured. The Council, however, was truly indebted to the worthy matron for having given herself the trouble of this late walk. And so saying he took leave of the silent lady, and wished her a night of refreshing sleep. That wish was most certainly not realised. A storm arose that filled the night with such wild uproar, that it seemed as if the very earth trembled. In the room which had once been that of Andreas, a window-shutter had been blown open, and now kept beating and flapping against the wall. Lisabethli, who had fallen asleep, woke up in terror at the sound. She saw her mother leave the room without a light, and heard her go upstairs, and there was an end to that source of disturbance as she fastened the shutter again. The young girl waited awhile for her return, but fell asleep before it, and indeed she would have waited in vain. For Frau Helena remained in the dark room above, as though it were more tolerable to her to listen to the storm than to the breathing of her child, who, in her happy dreams spoke of her Kurt, and called him loving names. About dawn the wind went down, and in its place came a cold rain which got heavier and heavier, and at length veiled town and river in a grey mist. The sexton who, with two companions to help him, had by five o'clock dug a grave by the churchyard wall, and lowered a rudely-made coffin into it, was quicker than ever over his work, and the coffin rested slantingly in the shallow pit. Then, since the clergyman who was to have blessed it, omitted his duty in consequence of the terrible weather, the man of the spade himself said a Paternoster for the poor soul, and hastily shovelled in the coarse clods, leaving the rest to be finished by his companions. He was about to hasten home and catch a short morning-nap in his warm room, when he noticed a female figure kneeling by a head-stone not far from the new grave, her head, covered by a black veil, resting against the stone. That stone had long been deserted, the family of the one who slept there having removed to another country. What could the lady be doing there? As, however, she remained quite still, and spite of the rain seemed absorbed in her devotions, he did not venture to disturb her. For an instant it flashed across him that it might be the foreign hussy who had paid for the grave of the murdered man, but he heard afterwards that she had slept till a late hour, and had, indeed, only awaked when the beadle came to march her out of the town. A few days later there reached him from an unknown source, a considerable sum of money, which purported to be payment for a forgotten burial. He for his part gave himself no thought about the matter, and pocketed the unexpected windfall as though it had dropped from the sky. * * * * * What follows is soon told. In the next spring the marriage of Kurt Brucker and Elizabeth Amthor was, according to custom, celebrated at the home of the bride, and the Augsburg relations came in great state to do all honour to the bride's mother, and the family of the Amthors. Nothing which could be looked for on such an occasion was left undone, and Lisabethli had no cause to complain of her dower, her outfit, or the wedding banquet. One thing only was lacking--the smile of joy on the face of the bride's mother. She was kind and courteous to all, to strangers and relatives alike, and bowed assent when the guests remarked to her how completely made for each other the young couple were, and that both houses might well be congratulated on so fitting and honourable an alliance. But amidst all the loud cheer of the bridal banquet, she sat pale and silent as a ghost, and though the rest of the family of the bridegroom who had not known her before, gradually grew reconciled to this, and whispered to each other that it was the sorrow for her absent son which pressed so hardly upon her on this joyous day--yet Kurt had not been wont to see his mother-in-law thus, and it struck him as strange that she never once gave him her hand, or pressed him in her arms as she had done the stranger-guest when, but half-recovered, he had ventured to woo her child. It was only when the youthful pair set out to their new home, that the mother kissed her daughter with such a violent burst of tears, it seemed as though her heart would break and melt away, and then laid her damp hand on her son-in-law's brow, murmuring words that no one could understand. Then she turned hurriedly away, and even before they left the house, locked herself up in the solitude of her own room. There she spent the few years that she had to live, avoiding all society, reading religious books, and only opening her door to the poor and the sorrowful. When, in a year's time, letters came from Augsburg, pressingly inviting her to the christening of a grandson, she excused herself on account of her age and infirmities which unfitted her to travel. Yet she was often seen to walk with vigorous step in solitary roads outside the town--old Valentin a few paces behind her. But she never addressed him and seemed, indeed, almost to have lost the habit of speech. It was only on her death-bed, when she felt her end drawing near, that she sent for the parish priest, who spent some hours with her. What she then imparted was told by him to one of her daughter's children who travelled to Berne to see his grandmother's grave. That she had ordered to be dug by the churchyard wall, close to the long-ago-levelled mound under which her lost son had found his last resting-place. END OF THE LOST SON. THE FAIR KATE. THE FAIR KATE. "It is incontestably true," said the old landscape-painter B----, slowly stroking down his grey or rather mouse-coloured beard, "women will be women, that is, sex dominates in the best as in the worst; and though they are often obstinate enough in taking things into their head, yet after all it is but seldom a head with any special or original character, is only a feminine head. A genuine individuality that can be measured by itself alone is far more rare among them than among us men, and positively I do not know if the fact gives us anything to boast of. Very often our peculiarity is only peculiar folly--a departure from nature, whether through culture or mutilation; while women, for whose training or spoiling less is done from without, seldom become unnatural either in good or evil, seldom exceed the average. But when they do so I have always found something to marvel at. "For instance one case remains indelibly fixed on my memory, when I actually witnessed a thing unheard of and unparalleled, a lovely girl who had an actual hatred of her own beauty, not merely a conceited, coquettish, pretended indifference to it, or even an over-strained, saintly, nun-like renunciation of it, but what one might call an honourable enmity against it, which had, indeed, its good grounds. "I became acquainted with the story in question in the following way. "At that time--it's now more than twenty years ago--I was very intimate with a long-forgotten Dutch painter, Jan van Kuylen or Kuyden--you will not find the name in any catalogue of known artists. "In the course of the usual journey to Rome, he had remained hanging about Munich, the real reason being that Raphael and Michael Angelo were secretly oppressive to him, crushed his own small personality, and disgusted him with the neat Dutch style by which he made a good deal of money. He was a curious fellow, the oddest mixture of humour and phlegm, ideality and cynicism, sentimental tendencies and caustic irony. And so, too, in his studio you found the oddest medley; there were exquisite specimens of Venetian glass for which he had a great love, costly instruments inlaid with silver and mother of pearl, for he played the guitar and lute well; then again on some heavily embroidered cloth you would see a tin-plate with bits of cheese-rind, or a quart of beer in an ugly mug, and the room would be filled with thick, strong-smelling, cheap tobacco which he had sent to him from Holland, and smoked in a small black clay pipe the whole day through. "In his pictures, however, everything was so neat, clean, and accurate that at the first glance there was not much to distinguish them from those of the old masters--Netscher, Mieris, and Gerard Dow. But when you looked closer you saw they betrayed a most eccentric vein, various displays of a humour, which, however, chiefly delighted to disport itself in caricature or parody. This was not the fashion then as now, and therefore in Munich, where the pathetic or the simply naïve was still in the ascendant, Jan van Kuylen's too often profane performances did not go down well. The first picture that he exhibited there was one of Paradise, where Adam, a gaunt, lean, yellow-visaged fellow, was digging the ground in the sweat of his brow, while Eve darned an old jacket, and glanced up in evident ill-humour at the forbidden fruit, while the first person of the Trinity looked smilingly over the hedge. The picture was at once removed, for naturally the clergy took umbrage at it. And indeed Jan did not fare much better with the second, which also showed the cloven foot. He called it the Temptation of St. Anthony. It is true that this new version widely departed from the simple honest absence of all propriety with which the worthy Teniers has illustrated the legend. A young peasant woman--evidently returning from a wedding or christening feast, as she was carrying a basket filled with meat, cakes, and a bottle of wine--had let herself be induced by the cool of the evening hour, and probably her own heavy head, to take a nap in the shade of the wood. St. Anthony, a very sturdy youth, with his cowl thrown back, had evidently been coming unsuspectingly along, and at the sudden sight stood rooted to the spot, looking now at the young woman, now at the basket of good things, and manifestly waging a violent warfare with his conscience, during which he scratched his head in absurd perplexity. The expression of his face was so irresistibly droll, that on this occasion even the clergy could not avoid winking at it with a smile. "But I have not yet mentioned the strangest part of it all: this Saint in two minds, and the Adam in the picture of Paradise, were both exact portraits of the painter himself. And this added immensely to the drollery of the thing. For in point of fact my friend's appearance was a perfect study for a humorist. He might have been painted entirely in different shades of yellow, his complexion of the tender tone of a fresh Edam cheese, his hair and beard like overgrown dusty stubble, his grey eyes almost hidden by thick pale eyelashes. And to make the matter more complete he always dressed himself from top to toe in sand-coloured cloth for winter, in nankeen for summer, and was fond of bringing forward and ridiculing his own personal peculiarities by the most far-fetched comparisons. So, too, in his pictures, where he regularly and as prominently as possible introduced himself moderately caricatured, but always in positions that were half-comic and half-sad, half-expressive of self-contempt, and half of resignation. It seemed as if he wished to show that he did not take in ill-part, but rather was the first to laugh over, the practical joke played him by the step-dame Nature. "Well, it was Whit Monday, my wife had a party of her friends to coffee, and the buzz and hum of female voices--which I could hear through double doors--drove me out. As it was a beautiful afternoon, with everything in its early freshness, and plenty for me to study on the banks of the Isar, I determined to invite Van Kuylen to take a walk. He was living at that time in Theresa-meadows, in a small house with a room to the north, that he had fitted up for a studio. You entered it by a little garden, in which of course the inevitable tulips were not now wanting, but which equally abounded with lilacs and jessamine. Next you turned into a small court where a fountain was playing, which the eccentric artist had adorned with a misshapen Triton, the work of his own hands, for he dabbled in modelling. Then you came to the studio door, which was seldom open, for Jan painted away with unwearied diligence from morning to night, and neither sought amusement nor society. "I was, therefore, surprised on the present occasion, to find the door open, and for a moment thought he must have gone out, and that his maid might be busy arranging the room, when I heard his voice saying to some one, 'If you are weary, we will leave off for to-day, and besides it is a high festival. Let us hope your father confessor will not be angry at our being engaged with such worldly subjects, instead of keeping it holy!' "No answer was returned, or at all events none that I heard. I was amazed. To have a model sitting with an open door was no more usual or befitting at that time than it is now. And that the strong smell of the Dutch tobacco should not come through that door, bordered on the miraculous. "When, however, I drew a step nearer, I soon saw why my good Jan had given up smoking, and though I was only a landscape painter, I did not at all wonder at him. For such a model was worth while losing one's head for, to say nothing of one's pipe. "The colours on the face of the young girl who sat there in the best light, as motionless as a picture, with a red damask curtain behind her, were really so brilliant, that they exceeded all probability, and made me perfectly stupid with amazement. Such a white satin-skin, just tinged with faintest rose-colour, and here and there with blue, such vividly red lips, such velvety brown eyes and silky hair of the same colour growing rather low on a superbly arched brow, I have never before nor since seen, except, indeed in pictures, where they make little impression because they are exaggerated. Nature can certainly venture upon much that Art can never safely aspire to. When I had somewhat got over the first shock of this sensational style of nature-painting, I saw that in the drawing, too, the very best possible had been done; done with a grandeur and solidity which were almost prodigal, for it is not wise to expend every resource, colour and form, both in perfection, on any one figure. Even a sculptor must have confessed that only in the best antiques had he seen anything of the kind. Above all I was amazed at the contour of the cheeks, the noble, massively-rounded chin, the half-opened lips that seemed to breathe out a very overflow of life, and the perfect shape of the straight, scornful little nose, which was just a trifle too broad, perhaps, for modern taste. It was only the eyes that afforded any room for fault-finding, if after seeing those calm and melancholy stars beaming on one, one had the heart for it. At least I found out later that the line of the eyelids might have been more curved, and they themselves a degree broader. "For the first ten minutes I stood there actually spell-bound, did not even say 'Good-day,' and was--as people often stupidly call it--all eyes. And indeed no one spoke. Van Kuylen, his extinct pipe in his mouth, had merely given me a side nod, and continued painting hard. The motionless beauty queened it before her red curtain on an old satin ottoman with gilt lions' heads, her eyes fixed upon the great half-darkened window, her hands--which were very slender and white, but not small--carelessly folded on her lap. She wore a common dark-coloured cotton gown, with an old tulle frill crammed in at her throat, but had neither ear-rings, rings, nor ornaments of any kind. "Beside her on a low stool, sat a little girl of about seven, slowly and reluctantly knitting away at a coarse blue stocking. "At length I found it necessary to make some remark. "'I am disturbing you, Mynheer,' said I, though for a quarter of an hour past I had seen that he did not permit himself to be disturbed by me. We painters used to call him Mynheer in jest. "'Send me away at once,' I went on, 'if I am in any way inconvenient either to you or the young lady. Though indeed when one has hit upon such a discovery, it is but a man's Christian duty to share it with his neighbours.' "Van Kuylen muttered a Dutch word or two between his teeth; the girl looked gloomy as though I had said something to offend her; the child with the stocking yawned heartily, and dropped a dozen stitches. "'My good friend,' I at length resumed in Dutch, in which he had taught me to jabber a little, 'tell me honestly whether you wish me at the Devil, or whether I may remain a little longer to stare at this really quite unreasonably exquisite face that your lucky star has led you to--Heaven knows how--and which, to speak plainly, is infinitely too good for you. Such a subject--begging your pardon--is not appropriate for your foot-square canvas, and your finickin genre-brush. Life-size, indeed, and faithfully and humbly copied--as it pleased God to make her--in the manner of the old Venetians, that would be a different thing. But I know you too well, with your worthy visage; you would want to be peeping down upon her from some window-corner or other, or giving scope to some of your antic humour, and that would be an insult to such a paragon of Grecian perfection, with whose face that wretched cotton gown is no more in keeping than a modern crinoline with the Juno Ludovisi.' "I had no scruple in thus crudely speaking my mind to him; he was rather fond of pungent personal remarks, and did not remain long in my debt. "He rose to get something that he wanted for his work, and answered without removing his empty pipe from his lips: 'I can well imagine your mouth watering after such an exceptional morsel. You would like, perhaps, to paint her as another pigeon-breasted Diana emerging from a pool under a German oak-tree, and setting horns on the brow of an Acteon who has stolen his legs from the Apollo Belvedere? The girl seems to you good enough for that, does she not? But that's not to be done. You will never get her to consent to any mythological ambiguities. Do you suppose I have ever seen an inch more of her than what she is gracious enough to shew us both at this present moment? And even for this I have had to run after her long, and almost despaired of her ever sitting to me at all. But hunger is the best of go-betweens. And so I have had to give in to all her severe conditions. The door is always to stand open, the little school-girl is always to sit there, and if I ever venture to visit her at her own abode, there is to be an end of us both! Of course I agreed to everything she chose; I was so besotted by her face, I could have committed one of the seven deadly sins just to see her once in this light, sitting on that seat, and so to be able to study her to my heart's content. As to what I am to make of it afterwards that is immaterial. But if I secretly hoped gradually to melt the ice between us--at all events to a kind of brotherly friendship and regard--why, I was much mistaken. It is no great wonder after all. I am not to her taste, and I think none the worse of her for that. But there have been others who accidentally turned in--this is the third sitting--who were thoroughly discomfited, very showy audacious gentry--handsome Fritz, and Schluchtenmüller, and our Don Ramiro, with his languishing tenor voice. They were all tinder at once, but after a little burning and glowing had to retire, extinguished as if by a gush of cold water. Is it not so, Miss,' said he suddenly in German to the silent beauty, 'it is perfectly useless to pay you compliments? This gentleman--who is only a landscape-painter it is true, but still a connoisseur in women--would willingly express his wonder and admiration. But I have told him that you would rather not hear anything of the sort.' "'You are right,' she replied with the utmost indifference. 'It is the fact, I know, and I cannot alter it. But God knows if I had had anything to do with it, I should never have chosen the face He has given me.' "Her manner of saying this perfectly amazed me. It had not a touch of that mock modesty, which says the very reverse of what it thinks, in hopes of being contradicted. No, it expressed a weary, but unalterable contempt for the gift of beauty; it was the tone of one who has to drag a sack of gold through a desert, and sighs from the very core of his heart, 'I would give it all for one morsel of bread.' "Then, too, her way of expressing herself, showed more culture than you usually find amongst girls who hire themselves out to be painted. It was easy to see that the fair creature had some strange story connected with her. "'Nay, nay,' said I, 'if you had chosen your own face you would not have shown bad taste in the matter. And though, indeed, beauty is transient, while ugliness endures, and there may be inconveniences, or even dangers in the impressions it makes on those who see you, still you would hardly convince me, young lady, that you are seriously annoyed at having such a face. You would be quite unique if it were so.' "'You may think what you like,' she replied negligently, and her lovely full upper lip assumed a scornful expression. 'I know perfectly well what men are. If a poor thing is vain of her little bit of pink and white, _that_ does not suit them, and if she is not vain at all, but rather curses the beauty which has cost her so dear, why that will not please them either! But after all I have nothing to do with setting other people right, it is enough that I know what I know.' "After this unflattering declaration came a long pause. Mynheer van Kuylen sat at his easel, and attempted by the tenderest glazing to convey the smoothness of that skin, and the lustre of those moist eyes; the child had laid down her stocking, and was turning the pages of a picture-book, and by way of putting a good face on my embarrassment I lit a cigar. "'You have no objection, Miss?' I enquired in my most ingratiating tones. "She slightly nodded, and in so doing gave a sigh, and her delicate nostrils quivered. "'May one venture to ask your name, Fräulein?' I resumed after a while. "'My name is Katharine,' she replied in the same curt, out-spoken way. 'But all who know me call me Kate. As to my parent's name that would not interest you.' "'Miss Kate,' I said, 'I notice from your manner of speech that you do not belong to Munich." "'No.' "'Your accent has something Rhinelandish about it.' "'Very possibly.' "'Have you any reasons for objecting to speak of your home?' "'Why do you ask?' "'I should like one of these days to go and see whether there are many faces there like yours.' "'Only one,' she replied in the most matter-of-fact tone. 'But that is painted on glass in St. Catharine's Church.' "'Then you sat for it?' "'No,' returned she; 'it was just the other way.' "I looked at Van Kuylen to see whether he could make anything of this strange speech, but he seemed so taken up with his work as not even to hear our conversation. "'You must not be offended with me, Miss Kate,' said I after an interval, 'if I put a few more questions to you. Your answers are so many riddles. I am not prompted believe me by mere curiosity, but by sincere interest in knowing what circumstances can have led you to leave your home, and after so good an education, and with so beautiful a face, to adopt here--' "'You mean that I seem to have been brought up for something better than to make money of my looks. That may be. But this is what things have come to, and since it is my face that has brought me into trouble, it must help me out of it--at least so far as it can do creditably.' "A cloud passed over her eyes; she looked before her even more steadfastly than her wont, with an expression between anger and sorrow that rendered her more enchanting than ever. We were silent. Suddenly she resumed-- "'I really do not know why I should make any mystery about my story. There is no disgrace in it, and you two gentlemen would only imagine something far worse. Besides you both look thoroughly good and trustworthy,' (Van Kuylen gave a short cough) 'and if you were ever to hear any slander about me I could appeal to you. Babette, dear,' turning to the little girl, 'go into the garden and make yourself a very smart wreath of lilac and jasmine--do not gather any tulips. It is only,' she went on in a low voice as soon as the child had left, 'because there is no need the people I lodge with should know everything, and that little creature--young as she is--has already very long ears, and repeats whatever she picks up. Not, indeed, that I need to be ashamed of my past, but that they would look upon me as crazy if they knew all its ins and outs, whereas as things stand now, they are sorry for me, believing that I have only had some common unfortunate love-affair, and therefore consider myself unworthy that the sun should shine upon me.' "She was once more silent, and seemed to have forgotten all about her intended narration. There was a Sabbath stillness all around; we only caught through the open door the sound of little Babette's heavy shoes on the gravel walks, and the twittering of birds in the meadows. Van Kuylen had risen and gone to a carved cupboard, in which he had a habit of keeping all sorts of odds and ends; he now brought out of it a wicker-covered flask of curious shape, filled three small glasses from it, and presented them on an old china-tray, first to the young girl, then to me. After we had both declined, he tossed them all three off in succession, and then sat down before his easel, not painting, but resting his head on his hand. "'What surprises me,' said I, breaking silence at length, 'is that I have never met you before, Miss Kate. Yet I am a pretty constant lounger in our streets, and not unobservant; indeed, my dear wife reproves me for looking over-boldly under the bonnets of pretty girls. You must live like a mole in some underground dwelling, or you never could have escaped me.' "'Nay,' said she with a slight smile, the first which had lit up her melancholy; 'I walk out every day. I cannot sit still. I find time hang so heavy, as I am not skilled in work. But then I wear a very thick veil, the everlasting staring is so hateful to me, particularly in a strange place. There was only one evening, when standing before a bright shop-window, that I did venture to throw back my veil--at that very moment Herr van Kuylen chanced to pass, and since then he has often and often recognized me, though I am wrapped up like a nun. Besides I always have Babette with me. I should be afraid of going out alone, for though it is now more than a year since I left home, I still feel so desolate and forlorn, and my heart aches so, that I am often tempted to jump into the first deep water I come across, and get rid of myself, and my whole useless existence.' "Her smile had vanished, and instead, tears stood in her eyes. "'Were you not then beloved in your home?' I enquired. 'So beautiful and sweet a child must--' "'Loved! Yes, indeed, if only there had been sense in their affection. I was loved sometimes too much, sometimes too little. If I had had another face it would all have been right enough. But they expected all sorts of wonders, and out of sheer vanity must make me unhappy. There were six brothers and sisters older than myself--I am the youngest and last--and all the rest, who had quite common-place human countenances, are now contented and well provided for, married unnoticed folk of whom no bad or good is said, and about whom no one troubles himself to enquire. But as for me, no sooner was I out of my swaddling-clothes than I was pronounced a little wonder of the world, and all the aunts and cousins lifted their hands in amazement at the sight of me, and told my mother no princess need be ashamed of having brought such a child into the world. And there was something wonderful in it, too. My father was a poor schoolmaster, my mother a sexton's daughter, neither of them particularly handsome; only through my maternal grandmother, pretty hands and feet, and beautiful long hair, had come into the family. But as it happened, while I was coming into the world, Count F----, the patron of our church, put up a magnificent new window in St. Catharine's, representing the Saint kneeling by the wheel, a palm-branch between her folded hands, and painted in such beautiful vivid colours, people were never tired of looking at it. Our whole village, Catholics and Protestants, crowded to see it, and for weeks nothing else was spoken of, at least in our house. My eldest brother, who already drew very well, copied it at once, but my good mother especially saw the picture--as she afterwards told us--constantly before her day and night, whether her eyes were open or shut; and when I was born, she insisted upon it that I must be baptised by the name of Katharine. It was not long before they all took to calling me "the fair Kate," and all agreed that I had stolen my face from the picture on the window. "'You may suppose that when I first came to understand this, trotting about as a little child, I had no cause to regret it. Everybody coaxed and praised me, and if the kissing and stroking was at times rather too much of a good thing, yet on the whole it had its advantages. As the last of the batch, too, I was better treated in every way than my brothers and sisters, nor had I anything to endure from their jealousy, for they really, as well as my parents, did consider me a thing apart, a special gift and grace of God to the family, reflecting some glory on its other members. It was a thing, of course, that I--so far as our poverty permitted it--should be well dressed, have the best food kept for me, and receive more instruction than the rest. My father used to devote his two hours of leisure to me; I must needs learn French and pianoforte playing, and it was evident to all that not only must I take no share in the house-work, but that my delicate fingers must not be spoilt by sewing or knitting. I only wonder that I did not become more idle and vain than I actually was. But indeed to me, too, it seemed so much a thing of course that I did not give it any particular thought. Apricots have different flavours to wild pears, and cost different sums. That is all very natural. One man has a hundred thousand dollars, another a voice in his throat that bewitches people, a third is so learned that all take off their hats to him, and _I_ was "the fair Kate," with whom everybody fell in love. What the exact value of _that_ was--I mean the falling in love--I did not know; I had not found out that I too had a heart, I was not even very fond of my own family, because I found it tiresome to be always so much made of, and as to falling in love with myself, that couldn't well happen, as I had been used to my bit of red and white, and all the rest that people made such a fuss about, from a child. "'I had only one playfellow that I cared at all for, and for the very reason that he was rather cross than kind to me; a youth different to the rest, but neither particularly handsome or lively, and one of the poorest. His father shipped charcoal up and down the Rhine, and worked very hard; his mother was a quiet sickly woman, always at home or in the church, with a sorrowful face that made me feel ashamed of my smart clothes. Her son, too--he was about five years older than I, and had often to help his father--would look more crossly than ever out of his eyes if he met me on a Sunday, when my mother had decked me with all sorts of colours. He made no remarks, but he always avoided me on those occasions, and childish as I was, and vain, too, of being the fair Kate, this never failed to give me a pang. I would contrive to get into my every-day clothes to creep down about twilight to the banks of the Rhine where his cottage stood, and I was quite happy if Hans Lutz would only be good-natured to me and say, "Now you look like a human being again, and not like a doll." He had a way--silent as he was--of amusing me better than anybody else, would cut me out little boats of bark that rode at anchor in a little harbour that he built; he could play me my favourite airs on a reed-pipe, and it was often night, and I had to be scolded away before I would consent to part from him. "'You see already what that was leading to. I could no longer do without him, although others held him cheap as being inferior to them all, because he had had the small-pox and went about in the coarsest and most thread-bare jacket. I almost think there was some vanity in it. I seemed to myself to be a princess condescending to the charcoal-burner; then again in my better hours I noticed that I had an especial respect for him, more indeed than for any other human creature, and that I never respected myself so much as when he had given me a kind word. "'Our years of childish play were nearly over; he was fifteen, I ten, when a legacy came to his parents, not, indeed, enough to set them up with carriage and horses, but to make them much more comfortable than before. The father gave up the charcoal-loading business, and became--I really do not quite know what--a sort of factor or agent. The eldest son, my Hans Lutz, was sent off to a school for artisans; he was to be an engineer, and was indeed made for it. His younger brother, who was about my own age, remained at home and took to violin playing, in hopes of gaining admission into the Ducal Chapel; they had a distant cousin there who played the bassoon. "'Time went on: at first I missed my companion dreadfully, I did not know what to do with myself on Sundays, and found out fully how much he had been to me. However, I gradually got accustomed to his absence, to going about again dressed like a doll, to being serenaded by the students who passed through the town, or to reading poems and love-letters which were thrown in to me through the window, but which I never answered. For my mother was pretty strict with me, and after my first Communion, I was never allowed to leave the house alone. I believe she was afraid that one of the mad Englishmen, who stared at me worst of all, would carry me off, or that the Rhine water-sprites would draw me down out of envy and spite. Now and then real wooers would make their appearance, very respectable people, quite able to support a wife. But they had a pretty reception! My father was not going to part with me on such easy terms; he would hear of nothing under a Count, as I overheard him telling my mother, or else a man so rich as to be able to lay down my weight in money. It was all one to me, the privilege that I enjoyed of being the beautiful Kate, and treated as the most remarkable and important person in our district quite satisfied me, and since the departure of Hans Lutz I did not so much as know that I had a heart. "'He never wrote to me, never sent me a message. It was only seldom that I heard from his mother how well he was doing, how industrious he was, and how much he was praised by his instructors. I used to wonder that he never came over for a visit. The distance from Carlsruhe was not so great after all, and however sparing of his time or his money, he might, I thought, have made the effort if he cared about seeing me again. "'But the most wonderful thing of all, and to me wholly incomprehensible, was that he _did_ once come over, spent a whole long day with his parents, and seemed to think that there was nothing else to be seen in the neighbourhood. I never so much as got a distant glimpse of him, nor did he leave a single message for me. Naturally I was very much offended, and determined if I ever saw him again to make him rue it. A year or so later there came an opportunity of doing this. I was just seventeen years old, he, therefore, was two-and-twenty, when it was rumoured that he had passed through all the schools with great honour, and was now looking out for some post or other which he was sure to get. That he should in the first instance pay a visit to his parents, stood to reason, but he had not fixed the day and hour. I was, therefore, not a little startled one afternoon, when sitting with my sister in the wood behind the old castle and sketching the view,--for I, too, took drawing-lessons, though I had no particular talent--just when I was about to pronounce his name and to ask Lina if she knew the day of his return, I saw a tall, slender, dark young man emerge from the bushes, take off his hat, and prepare to go down the hill without a word. I knew him instantly; he had still his old face, only with the addition of a dark beard, and he was much better-looking. The marks of the small-pox had almost disappeared. "Good Heavens!" cried I springing from my seat, "it is you, Hans Lutz! How can you startle one so!" "I beg your pardon," he said, in a formal polite way, "I had no idea that I should be disturbing young ladies here; I will no longer intrude upon them," and therewith he again took off his hat, the abominable man, and went straight away as if he had only met an old woman picking sticks, and not the playfellow of his childhood, the paragon of beauty whom other people took long journeys to admire, and who had such a fine lecture to read him, too. "'I do believe I should have burst into tears if I had been alone, but before Lina I restrained myself, only saying, "He has indeed grown haughty and rude," and tried to go on with my drawing. To no purpose. I could not put in another stroke, my eyes swam so in tears. "'And in the midst of all my disappointment and vexation, the worst part of it was that I could not be angry with him, that I would have done anything to get a friendly look from him; and my shame at this weakness made me so thoroughly unhappy, that at that moment, spite of my much-extolled beauty, I seemed to myself the most wretched human creature in the whole world. "'I could not go on keeping up appearances much longer, but threw my arms round my good sister's neck, and with many tears confessed to her how deeply hurt I was, and that I must find out the reason of his estrangement, or my heart would break. The kind soul comforted me as well as she could, and when evening came, helped me to invent a pretext to induce our mother to let us both go down together to the river, to the very place where in former days our little harbour used to be. There Lina left me alone, found out that she had something to do at Hans Lutz's home, and whispered into his ear that I was waiting outside under the willow, and had something to ask him. At first, as she told me afterwards, he had looked very gloomy, and left her in doubt as to what he would do. Then he seemed to relent, and a little later I saw him coming down the road straight towards me, and I do not yet know how I had courage to stand still and wait for him. "'But at least I was rewarded for my courage. For he was by no means as chilling as before, he even gave me his hand and said, "It is very kind of you, Katharine, still to remember an old playfellow, and what is it you have to say to me?" "Nothing," I said, "only that I wanted to know what I had done to offend him, or whether anybody had been gossiping about me that he should treat me as if I was not worth a word or a look. That was all I asked to know, and then I would go away again immediately." Upon which he told me in his quiet way as if it did not signify to _him_ in the least, that he had heard I had grown into a vain conceited little princess, held my head very high, did nothing but look in the glass, or let myself be stared at by foreign fools, and as he was not the man to come in to that, and had, indeed, other things to do than to be always swinging incense before such a Madonna, he thought I should have no loss of him, and that it would be better for us both if he kept out of my way. "'All that he said to me, and still more the way in which he said it, hurt me so cruelly that I had not a word to answer, but burst into a flood of tears that I could not check, that got worse and worse, till I was shaken by such a convulsion of sobs that I thought I must have died on the spot. When he saw this, he was suddenly transformed; he embraced me, and in the tenderest voice said a thousand things that at first, owing to the confusion in my head, I only half understood. He told me he had behaved so rudely merely to guard against his own heart, that through all these years he had had no other thought but me, and had only kept away in order not quite to lose his senses, and that if it were true that I cared at all for him--well, you can imagine the rest! That evening we pledged ourselves to live only for each other, and when at last Lina came and drew me away, that our parents need not scold, I had quite forgotten that I was the _fair_ Kate, and only thought that a _happier_ Kate was not to be found in all Rhineland, or anywhere under the sun.' "When she had got so far, she rose and went to the door, as if to look after the child, who was quietly sitting on a garden-seat, and weaving her garland. When Kate turned round to us again, I noticed the traces of tears. Van Kuylen, however, did not seem to observe them; he had got hold of an old cork and was carving away at it, his cold pipe still in the corner of his mouth. "'And how was it,' said I after a while, 'that fortune deserted you, and that what began so well had so melancholy an issue? I find it hard to believe that he was not true to you!' "'_He!_' returned she with an indescribable tone and expression. 'If it had only all depended upon him! But you see the misfortune was just this, that I was such a wonder of the world they needs must make the most of me, however unhappy I myself might be. My elder sisters--if Hans Lutz had taken a fancy to one of them, why he would have had her with all the pleasure in the world, and indeed the husbands that they did get were not fit to hold a candle to my lover. But _I_, that he should aspire to _me_, he who was neither a Count nor made of money, that was such audacity that he could hardly be supposed to be right in his mind. True he did not himself think of marrying at the present time, all that he wanted was our betrothal, and then a couple of years to try his fortune in, and I--to wait ten years for him would have been as nothing to me. But you should have heard my father! The Emperor of China, if some crazy sailor were to apply for his daughter's hand, could not put on a more majestic aspect, or pronounce a more compassionate "No." He was not even angry, he treated the whole thing as a mere stupid jest. It was only when my mother--who well knew how my heart stood--ventured to address him on the subject, and to represent Hans Lutz as not after all a quite despicable suitor, that he was roused to indignation and silenced her at once. As for me, when I declared that I never would have any one else for my husband, I was locked up, and sat for eight days like an imprisoned princess in the best room, only visited by my mother and sister. To be sure I still had my pretty face, but what was that to me, I was made to feel that I myself had no right to it. "'I sent through Lina, a letter to Hans Lutz, declaring that I would remain true to him, and begging for God's sake, that he would not punish me for my father's vengeance and anger. To which he wrote me back word that he had no hope, that he was going far away, perhaps to America, and did not know that he should ever return. I was to give up all thought of him, and he formally returned both my word and my ring. For well he knew what would be the end of it all; my parents would look me out some husband after their own heart, and at last I too should get tired of waiting, and so he would not bind me, and add to all other sorrow, the weight of a broken promise on my heart. You may well imagine with how many tears I read that letter, when Lina told me that the writer was already no one knew how far away, and had not wished her to give it me till after his departure. "'After this all went on apparently in the old way, with this exception, that though I was still "the fair Kate," and estimated as such, there stole over me a silent and unconquerable detestation of my own face, since it had cost me my dearest happiness. But for my father, who was bent upon cutting a figure with me, I should never have come down from my upper room, and as it was I only did so when I could not possibly help it. I never sat in the open window except with my back turned, no power on earth could get me on a steamer where the English stared so, and when artists came to draw or paint me, I never _would_ sit still, let my father be as angry as he liked. "'But all my indoor life, and fretting and grieving did nothing for me; I grew handsomer day by day, and since I had become indifferent to what I wore, I seemed to be more admired than ever, most people having probably thought before with Hans Lutz that I was an over-dressed doll. But no letter came from the one I loved best, and no news of any kind; and so from three to four years passed by, and I found that life is a most wretched pastime when one has not got one's heart's desire. "'Then, besides, there were constant disputes at home, for every fresh offer of marriage was a new bone of contention. There were many of these suitors--though, indeed, none of them were Counts--to whom my father would most willingly have given me; there was a rich Russian, who swore he would jump into the Rhine if he did not get me, but afterwards preferred to drown himself in Champagne, and went about Wiesbaden with ladies of all kinds. Then there was a young baron, who was master of the horse to some prince, and was wild about horses as well as about me, and there were numbers of worthy well-to-do people who were all intolerable to me because I secretly compared them with my Hans Lutz. My sister Lina was long ago married and happy, and I still sat useless at home, and as my father was not the best of managers, and my mother was sickly, we were often straitened enough, and while one rich suitor after another went away rejected, want began to stare us in the face. Now nothing sours the temper so much as not having enough to eat, and what with unkind words and spiteful remarks, you may believe I spent wretched days, and cried my eyes red at night. "'At last my father lost all patience, and when another suitor appeared who seemed to him worthy to carry away the jewel of beauty, since he was able to bid high for it, he declared to me either I must consent, or he would make me feel the whole weight of his anger. What he exactly meant by that I really did not know, but I was glad of a change myself, for I could no longer endure my father's anger and my mother's grief. So I said that I would give my hand to Mr. So-and-so, provided no message came from Hans Lutz in the course of the next three months. This contented my parents, and made the bridegroom more than blessed; he was actually idiotic with rapture, said the craziest things to me, and in spite of my misery, it made me again feel proud and childish to find that I had such power over any human being. He was a young and very rich tanner from the neighbouring town of M----, not so bad as to face or figure; indeed he passed for a handsome man; but it made me positively ill if I had to sit by him longer than a quarter of an hour, first because his love rendered him so silly and mawkish, and then because he had a habit of deluging himself with scents, probably to get rid of the smell of the tan-yard. I will not weary you with the history of this horrible engagement. I get goose-skin all over at the very recollection of it; the visits here, there, and everywhere; the congratulations at which I had to smile when I would much rather have cried; the day when he took me over his house and factory, and I thought the smell of the dyes and skins would have suffocated me. Well, it went on as long as it could go on, that is till it came to the point. On the day before the wedding day, my bridegroom gave a party to my favourite friends and my parents at his own house; the actual marriage was to be solemnized at my parent's house. He was so inordinately happy, foolish, and scented, that I suddenly said to myself, "Better suffer anything than please such a simpleton as this," and that very night when they were all asleep, I actually left the house, only taking with me a few necessaries in a bundle, and leaving behind a letter to my parents saying they must forgive the sorrow I had caused them, but that marry I could not and would not, and so in order to be no longer a burden to them, I had gone off to my aunt at Speyer, and would see whether I could not do something to support myself. "'I was helped in my flight by the brother of my Hans Lutz, who happened to be on a visit to his parents at the time, and would have gone through fire and water for me. He took me safely to where I wanted to go, to my aunt Millie's, her real name was Amelia, but so we children always called her. She was an old widow-woman, lived upon her small means, and had always been very fond of me, though she used to shake her head at the way in which my family idolised me. When I told her all that had happened she neither praised nor blamed me, but wrote to my parents and tried to bring them round. That, alas, was in vain. My father answered very curtly that if I did not marry the young tanner I was no child of his; my mother tried persuasion. I now found out that it was only my unfortunate beauty that they had really loved, that a red-and-white mask stood between my own parents' hearts and that of their child. Out of sheer admiration and worship, they had less fondness for me than for any of their other children. "'But for this would they not have found time in the course of the whole year since I have left them, to comprehend that what I had run away from could not have made me happy, and that I was not necessarily a bad daughter, because unable to gratify them in that respect? But no, they have remained as hard as stone, hard as no one could be to any living creature who had a soul, but only towards a soulless picture such as they had long considered me, and as such set me up for show. It is true that while I remained at Speyer they might have hoped that I should change my mind. But my stay there was but short. My old aunt was accustomed to a very quiet life. Now when a beauty suddenly made her appearance in the house, whom all young men followed, and that visits and enquiries became incessant, and this person and that were always bringing me an offer from some one or other, it was too much for the good woman to bear. She told me one day that I could not remain any longer with her, but that she had found me a very good situation with a baroness who lived on her estates near Munich, and wanted a governess for her two little daughters; and as I had been well educated, could speak French and play the pianoforte, my aunt had arranged it all, and I was to set off the next day but one. "'I was very much pleased at this; I longed to begin life on my own account, and earn my own bread. But this too was to be a failure, and again there was no one to blame but this hateful face that I cannot get rid of. Well, to make a long story short, the baroness and the children took to me and I to them, and during the first days when we were alone, everything went well. Then came the baron from the city to pay us a visit, and instantly the sky changed; he behaved, indeed, very politely, only that he made the usual face of amazement which I am so sick of, and that all people make who see me for the first time. I, indeed, am accustomed to it, take no notice, and go my way quietly, but the gracious lady, who had not seen that expression on her husband's face before, could not take it so easily, and the end of the matter was, that on the following day, after a very lively discussion between the master and mistress of the house, I was sent for to her boudoir, and told that she much regretted being unable to keep me, but needed the room that I occupied for a young relative who had suddenly announced herself for the whole winter. However, she was conscientious enough to give me, without my demanding it, my salary for that whole winter. "'There I was again on the wide world! I had a great mind to buy myself a black mask, like the lady with the death's head, and hide my face once for all, that it might not get me into any further trouble. "'And indeed if I could only have foreseen what I had yet to endure I should have done so, or something madder still. I should have become a Catholic just to go into a nunnery. "'Three times in this town I have had to change my rooms because people would not leave me alone. I can assure you, if I had stolen or forged, or done any other disgraceful thing that I feared might come out, I could not live in greater anxiety and uncertainty than now, when I have no one to stand by me in the right way and guard me from wicked men and my unfortunate fate: but I will spare you all details; you can imagine them. And then to have nothing to do, and not rightly to understand anything, to read half the day, the other half to wonder what is to become of me when my money and my patience come to an end, as they must. The people with whom I lodge at present--Babette's parents--have all been sorry for me since they saw that I was no worthless runaway creature, but had only been afflicted with that church-window face. But what can _they_ do? I help a little in the house, I have learnt some sewing, as the man is a regimental tailor; I teach Babette to read and write, but the good souls are too poor to keep a governess. So this last March when I had had to give up a situation in a jeweller's shop--of course on account of my face--I was obliged to write again to my parents, and ask them to take me back. No doubt they thought they need only remain hard for a little time in order perfectly to soften me. They wrote me word, therefore, that the tanner was still waiting for me, and that all would be forgiven if I came to my senses at last, but if I did not do so, I might just remain where I was. My aunt Millie sent me a little money, but not much; she has herself been swindled latterly out of great part of her means. And so there I had to sit again, my hands in my lap; and if I accidentally saw myself in the glass, I was so angry and wild with the unlucky face that looked back at me, that I should have scratched my eyes out if only my nails and my courage had had strength for it. "'Meanwhile the tailor's wife had often advised me to make a maintenance by sitting as a model. A relation of hers lived that way, who was no real beauty, but only well-grown. Looks were a gift of God like everything else, and if a singer hired out her beautiful voice for gold, why should not I let the same face that had brought me into trouble help me out of it again? But to all such propositions I always returned the same answer; I knew that nothing could be so bitter to my lover as to hear that I had let myself be looked at for money like a show at a fair, and had gone to serve as lay figure first to one and then to another. That I knew he would never forgive. "_He_ forgive, indeed," said the woman, "he ought to think himself very happy if you forgive him for having taken himself off, and never making a sign since." However, I remained quite resolute, till at length I was at the last gasp, and did not know how I was to pay my next month's lodgings. If Herr van Kuylen had not come forward--whom I could trust to have no bad intentions--God knows I have many a time walked through the English garden, and thought if I took a cold bath there, it would be the best and quickest way of escape! "'And now forgive me for telling you such a long story from beginning to end. But you have done me a real kindness by listening without laughing or shaking your heads. For most people will not believe that one can be unhappy except through his own fault, and least of all unhappy through what is considered the greatest good fortune. Babette,' said she to the child, who just then brought in her wreath, 'take up your knitting and put the book back in its place. We must go, it has struck five, and your mother will be waiting.' "Van Kuylen jumped up as if some one had shaken him out of sleep. "'Will you come to-morrow at the same time, Miss Kate?' said he, without looking at her. "'To-morrow my landlady goes to a wedding,' she replied, tying on a little black bonnet that framed her face most exquisitely. 'I must stay at home with the children, but the day after to-morrow if it suits you--' "He silently bowed, and prepared to help her on with her dark woollen shawl, which, however, she declined. She muffled herself up so completely in it that her slender form was hardly apparent, even to an artist's eye; then she tied on an almost impervious black veil, and curtsied to me with a bewitching blush. I smiled and heartily shook hands with her. 'I am much indebted to you, my dear young lady,' said I, 'for having acquainted me with your singular story. I am a married man, and, thank God! still in love with my wife, so that there can be no fear of jealousy in our case; therefore, if ever you need counsel or help, my house is--so-and-so--and I should be delighted if you had confidence in us and allowed us to render you some slight service. For the rest I cannot look upon the matter so despairingly. Who knows whether you will not have to apologise to your face for all the hard words you have bestowed upon it? He who wins the first prize in a lottery may have indeed some perplexities in consequence, but for all that the first prize is no bad thing, and makes up to us for many a drawback. Everywhere there is light and shade'--and so forth, for I do not suppose that the cheap wisdom with which I sought to console the poor child would be tolerable repeated. "Indeed I was aware even at the time that it did not produce much effect. On the contrary the beautiful face grew sad and weary, as if she was at confession, and she went away without saying another word; only I heard a sigh under the thick veil, which fell, and produced a total eclipse. "I was alone with Van Kuylen, and for a short time we each went on silently puffing out thick clouds, for the little Dutchman lit his clay-pipe the moment the beautiful girl disappeared. "'Well, Mynheer,' said I at last, 'I must congratulate you; you are a lucky dog.' "'I!' he returned, with a short ironical laugh. 'Through what sort of glasses do you look upon the world that you can utter such a prophecy?' "'Through my own unaided eyes,' returned I. 'Are you not indeed enviable enough in this, that you have caught in your net the shy bird after which so many have followed in vain. If you only set about it rightly, the bird will grow so tame that you will be able to cage it at last.' "He turned away: he did not wish me to see the vivid red that suffused his yellow face. "'You don't know her,' he muttered, 'she is quite different to all others, and if I were the fool you take me to be--' "'You would be no fool at all,' I continued, exciting myself as I went on. 'You need not of course repeat it to my wife, but by St. Katharine I swear to you, Master Jan, that were I in your place I should not long play St. Anthony's part. I would do everything on earth to deliver that poor child from her purgatory--' "'And to lead her into a Paradise where such an Adam--get off with you,' said he, with a very unpolite gesture. "But I knew how to take him; I drew nearer and placed my hand on his shoulder. "'If it is disagreeable to you, I will not say another word, but can you suppose that a certain Hans Lutz--' "He sprang from his low seat and ran distractedly up and down the studio. "'Don't make me mad,' he cried. 'If you have noticed that I am over head and ears in love with the girl--as far as _that_ goes there is no disgrace in it; but I am not such an insane idiotic ape as to imagine for a moment that my respectable visage will drive the sweet child's first love out of her heart, and that a mere settlement in life will not decoy her you have yourself heard. Why then come and blow upon the coals with the bellows of your common-place philosophy? Am I not already wretched enough, in that I plainly see how hopeless the whole matter is, and yet cannot leave off gazing at her by the hour, just to burn in that cruel face of hers upon my memory? And now, forsooth, you must come and prate of solid possibilities, and congratulate me, and--the devil take it! It is just as if you were to hold the pin on which a living cockchafer is impaled in a candle, and make it red-hot.' "He threw himself down on a low ottoman in the corner with such vehemence, that he broke off the neck of a costly Florentine lute lying there, without even noticing it. "I would now gladly have recalled my thoughtless words. "'If the case is really so, Mynheer,' said I, 'I own there is nothing to congratulate you upon. But I do not understand why a man like you should so utterly despair. You have no tannery, but you are a famous artist; you do not smell of scents, but as a man should, of strong Porto Rico; and all the rest is mere matter of taste. Women are women, and it is impossible to reckon upon their fancies. That she is not exactly set upon an Adonis is evident--' "I might have gone on for some time putting forth these platitudes, with the best intentions, if he had not suddenly turned upon me with a quite phlegmatic air, and asked me--not without a quiver in his voice--what o'clock it was, and whether the 'Muette de Portici' was not going to be performed that night. I then saw plainly how things stood, swallowed down my annoyance at having so stupidly interfered in so tender a matter, and took leave under the pretext that my wife was waiting for me to pay a visit. "A visit on Whit Monday afternoon when no one is at home! but so one stumbles on from one discrepancy to another. "Accordingly the series of my mortifications was not yet over for that particular day; for when I had got home to my good wife, and given her a true and faithful account of where I had been, and what I had seen and heard, and finally (though indeed her silence in listening foreboded no good), added: 'It would be a real comfort to me if I could do something for the pretty child, and might it not be as well to offer her our spare room as it chanced to be empty,'--a small matrimonial tempest burst at once, which I had passively to endure. My wife had, indeed, long been upon the point of telling me that this Van Kuylen exercised the worst influence over me, and was the most unfit companion; a frivolous bachelor who had no respect for holy things, and had already infected me with his mocking and blasphemous spirit. She had supposed, when she married a landscape painter, that her house would at least be free from such a disreputable set as models generally are, lost to all sense of decency and shame, and of whom the most horrible stories were heard. And now I had returned from that trumpery Dutchman, not only with my clothes reeking of the very worst tobacco-smoke, but in such a wholly perverted state of mind, and with such entire forgetfulness of what was due to a virtuous young wife, that I could actually propose to her to receive into our family this suspicious person, who had turned my head with her bit of prettiness and her dubious adventures. Rather than consent to such a step, she would take her innocent children in her arms, and at once leave the field clear; for it was too plain to see from the fervour with which I had proposed this fine plan, what must eventually come of it. And so saying, she caught up our little Christopher who had tripped in, with such a passionate burst of tears, and pressed his small fair head so closely to her breast, it seemed as if she would fain save the poor harmless child from the evil eye of a sinful father who had irrevocably made over his soul to him who shall be nameless. "I had no small difficulty in allaying the excitement of my dear better-half; she was generally patience and self-abnegation itself, but there is one point on which women are not to be trifled with, which makes hyenas of them, as Schiller says, and I inwardly called myself a confounded ass for having displayed my aesthetic enthusiasm for the beautiful girl in so wrong a quarter. "Of course I took good care not to revert to the dangerous subject, but remained at home the whole of the next day, and devoted myself to painting an old oak-forest, as if the riven and rugged bark of the secular trees was far more bewitching than the smoothest satin-skin of a maiden of twenty, and a gnarled oak-branch more ensnaring than the exquisite little Venus-like nose of our poor persecuted beauty. "The next day I even accomplished a greater triumph over myself, in that I withstood the temptation of looking in--quite accidentally, of course--at Van Kuylen's studio, there to play the part of comforter to a distressed child of humanity. I was certainly a little absent-minded all the afternoon, and as we walked to Nymphenburg, our children pushed along in the perambulator by the maid, failed to get up any very animated conversation. I apologised somewhat lamely for it, on the plea that I was studying atmospheric effects, though indeed there was nothing very noticeable in the sky. But my wife found it much pleasanter than if I had indulged my bad habit of too earnestly studying the faces of the girls and women we passed. There is indisputably about the sex this one weakness, that they have themselves no conception of a purely artistic standpoint, and therefore never allow for it in others. "At last after four or five days, I found it intolerable to my manly self-respect, thus suddenly to withdraw from my worthy Dutchman, merely because he was in my wife's bad books. Consequently, after washing my brushes, I set out just about twilight, when I knew that though he could paint no longer, he was sure to be at home; and in this was most perfectly justified in my own eyes, since I could not possibly be expecting to find the fair Kate there, but only my small and unjustly calumniated friend. "And to be sure I saw from a distance the shining of his lamp through the window: nevertheless I had to be told by the old servant that her master was gone out. Neither did I fare any better on the following day when I knocked at his studio during his hours of work. I called out my name as loud as I could, but he wouldn't open. When I enquired from the old servant whether he was occupied with a model, she shook her head, and shrugged her shoulders; then tapping her forehead with a very significant gesture, she sighed and said, 'Things had not been right with the good gentleman for some days past; he ate and drank nothing to speak of, walked up and down his bed-room half the night, and spoke to no one.' I asked whether the young lady who was with him on Whit Monday had been there since. The answer was that she had not, but that he still went on painting her, out of his head, and the good woman herself had already thought that love might have something to do with her master's silence and absence of mind. "The truth flashed in upon me too plainly, and I tacitly reproached myself with having poured oil on the flame by speaking of his attachment to the lovely being as something quite reasonable and by no means hopeless. Truly, if we always reflected the serious mischief our jesting words might make, we should be at least as cautious in uttering them, as we are in ascertaining upon what we are about to throw the burning end of our cigar. "Meanwhile there was nothing to be done. I knew my eccentric Mynheer Jan too well. If he had taken it into his head to eat a whole Edam cheese for his breakfast, no one could have dissuaded him. I made two other attempts to get at him, but in vain; and one evening when I accidentally met him by the 'Aukirche'--we had almost run up against each other--he was off like a shot, and all my calling, and scolding, and running after him did no good; he _would_ not have anything to do with me. "By-and-bye I came to take the matter more quietly, and to say to myself, 'If he can do without thee, thou canst get on without him.' This mood of mine won me approving looks from my dear wife. I willingly allowed her the triumph--of which, by-the-way, she did not boast ungenerously--of believing that her remonstrances had weaned me from that soul-destroyer, Jan, and brought me back to the paths of virtue and landscape-painting. When my oak forest was done, we broke up our tent in the town, to pitch it, as we annually did, in the mountains. I wrote a kindly note to wish my friend good-bye, but got no answer in return. And so most of the summer passed away without my knowing whether he were dead or alive. The fair Kate seemed to have been swallowed up by an earthquake. Of all my friends and colleagues, who were generally not long in tracking out anything rare, none had discovered the slightest trace of our poor wonder of the world. "When, however, the middle of September came, and I had got a little tired of painting studies, and perhaps, also, of the monotonous fare of our country abode, and began to long for a return to the amenities of town life, I became conscious of a lively desire to know what had become of my Dutchman and his beauty. My first walk in Munich was to his studio, where I found the nest empty indeed, but left upon his little slate my name and a hearty greeting. After that I went with my wife to the exhibition, for where one has been so long face to face with nature, it is a pleasure to see how art has been getting on in the meantime. But what was my amazement, when the first picture my eyes fell upon, was nothing else than an unmistakable genuine Van Kuylen, in which his unfortunate studies of Kate were turned to account in his well-known manner, and certainly so questionably, that I at first pretended not to notice it, in order to get my wife safely past. But she with her lynx-eyes instantly made out the whole story. "'But do look,' she said, in a tolerably calm voice, in which, however, I could detect a satirical tone; 'here is a picture by your Dutch painter of holy subjects, and on a larger scale than any we have seen before. I must say, if the subject were not so objectionable, it would go far to reconcile me to him. It seems to me that he has made great progress: one might almost call this picture beautiful; not only the colouring, but the whole composition has something grandiose, historical as you call it, a style--' (You may see that the little woman had not consorted with artists for the last six years for nothing, and could deliver her art-criticisms as confidently as any newspaper writer, only rather more intelligently.) 'But I believe,' she continued, 'that the Bathsheba who is there undressing to take a bath in a very shallow reservoir, is your marvellous creature from the Rhine. At all events, she does not look like any of the other studies in the room, and the little King David who peeps from an upper window, and naturally shows us the beautiful cheese-coloured face of the painter, looks at the lady with a genuine artist's eye, such as I have seen in other people's heads when staring under the bonnets of pretty girls,' (with that, a side glance at her faithful husband.) 'Well! I must say she is not bad-looking, if he has not idealised his model too much; but was I not right to refuse to take that persecuted innocence into our house? A pretty snake, indeed, I should have warmed in my breast! _She_ helpless! I think one who lets herself be painted thus, knows very well how to help herself. And really I do not know which I ought to wonder at most, at my good unsuspicious husband, who was so easily taken in by an experienced adventuress, or, if indeed he were not so entirely harmless in the matter, at his sanguine hope of humbugging me. At all events I am very glad that things have taken this turn.' "After this attack and these imputations clothed in the most discreet and proper language, to which I had not so much as a word to answer, my domestic guardian angel drew me hastily away, as if fearing that dangerous person might even in her picture exercise some witchcraft over me. And really there was nothing out of the way in the idea, for all that my eccentric friend possessed of taste and love of beauty, had been expended on the figure of the young woman, who, already undraped to the hips, sat on a low stool in the act of taking off her little shoe. While so doing she turned to the left the well-remembered profile, which was drawn with the tenderest contour, not a single feature altered, and a striking likeness; her hair, which seemed to have been just loosened, fell in bewitching confusion over her lustrous neck. Her back and arms were so beautifully drawn, that I knew not how to give the good 'genre' painter credit for them. But what specially attracted me was the sad impassive expression with which the fair being bent her head, and cast her long-lashed eyes on the ground. King David up there in his balcony did not appear to me at that moment to be such a great sinner after all; or at least the extenuating circumstances under which that abominable letter anent Uriah was written, came before me more impressively than they had ever done in the presence of any painting of the subject before. "I confess that I spent the rest of the day in a somewhat perturbed mood; my old creed, namely, that women _were_ women, was once more confirmed, and the apparent exception turned out to be an illusion. Whether it were through vanity, or distress, or mere apathy, the beautiful girl had not maintained her inviolability. But although it is very pleasant to be proved right, and though I ought, besides, to have rejoiced that the poor _innamorato_ should in this not unusual way be healed of his madness, and probably at this moment happily betrothed, if not already a husband, there nevertheless lurked a certain uncomfortable feeling in my mind, and I caught myself involuntarily shaking my head as though there were something not quite right about it. My quick-witted wife seemed to discern what was going on within me, but as though the subject of my musings were too low and common to bear discussion, she never referred to the picture, and treated me with a gentleness and consideration befitting a penitent; in the spirit, in short, of the beautiful axiom, 'If a man have fallen, let love bring him back to duty.' "On the following morning I was anxious to go to work, with fresh energies, at a new picture which I had already mentally composed; but I discovered that there was something wrong with me--there was still that story to unravel. What I should have liked best would have been to have gone at once to Mynheer Jan, and heard the truth, but he never got up before ten o'clock in the morning; so I lounged off again to the exhibition, that I might study the picture I had too hurriedly looked at the previous day, and was not a little annoyed at being reminded by the closed door that it was Saturday, the day when the pictures are hung and the public excluded. The official told me that Herr van Kuylen's picture had been taken back to his studio in the course of the previous evening. "To while away the hours till ten, I turned off through the arcades, and betook myself to the English garden, where I never found time long. It is so celebrated that I need not praise it; but I venture to say there are not many, even among our good old Munich inhabitants, who know it at the time of its very greatest beauty, and that is early on an autumn, or late-summer morning, when it is as solemn and deserted as a primeval forest, and you can wander along the lofty avenues of shade without meeting a human creature. The gold-daisied meadows are luxuriant in the sun, the trees have lost none of their gorgeous foliage, the sun-light falls, I might say, in _pasto_ on the mirror-like ponds, and the magical dreamy silence thrills with the quiet rushing of the Isar, and the light and noiseless hopping of birds and squirrels from branch to branch. There was no one to be seen on the lonely benches, unless, perhaps, a student preparing for his examination, or some poor poet meditating his love-songs. As to my colleagues the landscape painters, I have never met one of them here. "Accordingly as I said, I was lounging on this particular morning in the well-known paths, but not in a particularly good mood for making studies, for Van Kuylen's picture, and what could have happened to enable him to paint it, was constantly running in my head. When I had dreamingly sauntered on to the vicinity of the famous waterfall, which the grateful inhabitants prepared at so much expense as a surprise for King Ludwig, I saw a lady on the bench upon the little hill overlooking it, sitting motionless, and having nothing about her to excite my interest, till all at once it struck me that she had a black veil down. I thought, however, 'she has some reason for not wishing to be recognized except by the one for whom she is waiting, and I will pass quickly by,' when a strange impulse led me to turn round and give her another look. The veiled figure made a little start, as though it recognized me, but the next moment sat as motionless as before. But there was a something in the turn of the head which seemed to me so familiar, that I involuntarily turned back a step or two, and--'Good Heavens! It is you, Miss Kate,' I cried, 'and what brings you here?' and I held out my hand in cordial greeting. But she did not take it, and seemed on the point of running off. 'Stop,' said I, 'I have not bargained for this,' and in a friendly way I detained her. 'One is not to fly from an old friend in this manner, but to tell him where one has been for so many months past.' Meanwhile some uncomfortable terror was creeping over me, partly by reason of her strange silence and her looking about her as if for a way of escape, and partly because I had seen her hide a bottle under her shawl. It was, therefore, so plainly my duty not to leave her, that even my wife must have allowed it. "'I shall not go away, Miss Kate,' I began, 'till you restore me a little of that confidence you showed at our first interview. You know I have only friendly intentions. You have something on your mind; it is vain to deny it; and I believe there is no one who can be so unselfish a confidant and adviser as I. Come, my dear young lady, let us seat ourselves on this bench. And now tell me why you seemed so shocked at seeing me again, and what sort of a cordial you are carrying there, and hiding from me. Fie, fie, Miss Kate, are you going to take to drinking secretly in your early youth?' "She made no reply, but allowed herself to be led back to the bench, where I seated myself beside her. "In order to give her time to compose herself, I began to talk of quite indifferent subjects: of the weather, and how beautiful it was here by the waterfall, and of how I had spent my summer, purposely dwelling a good deal upon my wife and children, as it always makes a good impression when doctors and spiritual pastors are affectionate husbands and parents. "She seemed to be deaf to everything. There was no help for it, then, I must take the bull by the horns. "'Miss Kate,' I said, 'is it long since you have seen Herr van Kuylen? My first expedition yesterday was to his house, but as I found no one at home--' "She started at the sound of his name. Aha! I thought, there is something wrong here. "'He must have been very industrious these last months,' I continued, as unconcernedly as I could; 'I myself have only seen one picture of his in the exhibition, but--' "No sooner were the words spoken than from beneath the veil of the silent girl beside me, there burst such heart-rending sobs that I jumped up in horror. "'For God's sake!' I cried, 'what is the matter with you? Here is a secret that will break your heart if you don't give it words. Tell me--explain to me--' "'Let me go,' she cried out passionately, and again tried to make her escape. 'I am so unhappy that nobody can help me, and even if you do really wish me well--still it is too late. Nothing remains for me now but to--' "Die--she would have said, but her sobs choked her. Meanwhile I had availed myself of the opportunity to get hold of the bottle, which she had put down on the bench beside her. With one quick gesture I at once hurled it into the little cascade below us. "'So then,' said I, 'that was it! You are a little fury, Kate, and in your present heroic frame of mind, you were on the point of drinking off that little bottle, and making me your executor!' "She shook her head. 'You are mistaken,' she said, 'it was not poison, it was only common _aquafortis_, not intended for internal use. If you must know everything, I was only going to wash my face with it.' "'Kate!' I cried in horror. 'Are you mad?' "'Not at all,' she gravely replied. 'The expedient would be rather rough, but efficient. I should then get rid of this accursed face which has been the cause of all my misery, and now, too, at length--of my shame.' "These last words were scarcely audible, her face being hidden in her hands. I misunderstood their purport, and consequently did not at once know what to reply. "It was she who solved my perplexity. "She suddenly left off sobbing, and looked me full in the face with a singularly resolute expression. "I could therefore contemplate her at my leisure, and found that if possible she was more beautiful than ever, her features still more delicate and refined, the tears on her fair cheeks--altogether she was the most enchanting and touching spectacle that a man could behold. "'You think a good deal of what you have done,' she said in her quietest tones. 'However if it is not in this hour it will be in some other; carried out my purpose will surely be, for I am sick of life. If you knew all you would certainly not blame me, but in the main you do know; you have been yourself at the exhibition, you have there seen how a wicked and cruel-hearted man has dared to behave to a poor, virtuous, unhappy girl who would have nothing to say to him.' "'What!' I cried, and the solution of the mystery flashed across me; 'he has then--you have not sat to him once for it?' "'I!' she cried, with all the offended dignity of a little queen. 'I do not so much as know what it looks like. I have only been told of it by my landlady, who has not herself seen it, but an officer, to whom she carried back a uniform yesterday evening, said to her: "Your lodger, the pretty girl, who is so vastly coy whenever one comes to propose anything to her, and always locks herself up, does not seem to be so inaccessible to civilians; there she is at the exhibition, painted just as God made her; to be sure Dutch ducats are more valuable than our uniform buttons." At this the tailor's wife asked further questions, and told me again all that she learnt. She herself is quite furious, and never would have believed it of Herr van Kuylen. And all because I had refused to go again to his studio after he had come the third day of Whitsuntide to pay me a visit, when he knew I should be alone with the children, and made me an offer of marriage in French that Babette might not understand him; for which very reason I answered in German that I did not mean to marry, and that he knew very well why, and that now after his declaration I could no longer sit to him as he must perfectly understand. But he seemed to understand nothing, he was like a maniac, and I had great difficulty to get him out of the room at all, for he always broke out anew, now with jests, now with the most fearful adjurations. Since then I have never spoken a word to him, nor let him in when he knocked at my door, and in the street I always got out of the way so speedily, that he could have no hope at all. And then what does he go and do? Out of revenge and wickedness he puts me as it were in the pillory, so that every one may point their finger at me, and I no longer dare look up in the presence of respectable women. Oh, what men are! And I had thought that he, at least, was an exception, because he did not prate, and had a kind of appearance which was not likely to lead any one into folly and shame for his sake. Now I have had to pay for my stupid confidence by the misery of my whole life.' "Then again she burst into tears. "I now attempted to comfort her, and also to defend my friend Jan, by representing to her that painters think very differently on these matters to what ladies do; that he had most certainly not done it out of revenge; and that she could lose nothing in the eyes of any rational beings if this picture--like all the rest of Van Kuylen's--were destined for the gallery of some Amsterdam merchant, who knew as little of the existence of 'the fair Kate,' as she did of his. "But it was all in vain. With the active imagination of all self-torturers, she pictured to herself that the picture might be engraved or lithographed, and then hung up in the windows of all the print-shops, and in all the public-rooms of the hotels along the Rhine, and that then everybody would say, 'Only see what our coy little schoolmaster's daughter has come to! A pretty face may lead a person great lengths indeed!' and what would her parents and sisters think of her--and suppose that such a print ever got as far as America, and came one day to the eyes of Hans Lutz. No, no, she would much rather--having rendered herself unrecognizable so far as she could--leap into the Isar, than day and night imagine such fearful things. "'Do you know what?' said I at length. 'All these desperate lamentations and resolutions have no practical sense in them, and do not lead us any nearer the goal that you wish to reach--the nullifying as much as possible the mischief done. Be reasonable, Miss Kate, and accompany me at once to our common friend, who has certainly no idea how evil-disposed you are towards him. There you can at all events obtain a written assurance from him that he painted the picture in question entirely out of his own head, that you never sat to him except for a most unexceptionably decorous portrait, and even then were not alone with him. I will also try to induce him either to remove the likeness of the lady Bathsheba to you, or to put an honest drapery over her back. Come now, will not this be much more to the purpose than your spoiling your complexion either with the water of the Isar, or _aquafortis_? Only think what people would say about it; that you had done yourself a mischief out of an unfortunate attachment to our little Dutchman to whom you had sat!' "This last quite too appalling idea seemed to remove all her objections; she saw that a rational measure taken now, need not prevent her doing the most despairing things by-and-bye, and as an empty cab happened to be coming up the great avenue, we both got into it, with the intention of at once bringing Van Kuylen to book. "During the whole of the way she was silent, only answering Yes and No to my questions. Indeed I did not say much either, and pushed myself back as far as I could into the corner of the half-open vehicle; for we had to pass through the street in which I lived. If my good wife should chance to be looking out of the window, or were out walking, and met her husband driving with a veiled lady! As I have said she is one of the best of women, but all have a spot where they are vulnerable, and appearances would have been decidedly against me; for what could induce a landscape-painter to engage a female model in the English garden, and to get into a cab with her?--his own family may well suffice _him_ as lay figures! "Meanwhile we had safely arrived at Van Kuylen's house in the meadows. "An empty cab waiting in the street showed we had been preceded by some other visitor. As we passed through the little garden and approached the studio, we plainly heard the sound of voices within. "'Sit down for a few moments on this bench, Miss Kate,' said I, 'I will just listen whether I know the other voice, and whether there seems any prospect of the person soon going away.' "So saying, I went up to the door, which certainly was closed, but as it was only a very thin one--in winter another door was added--one could distinctly hear every word, unless, indeed, the speakers lowered their voices intentionally. "The girl was far too excited and impatient to think of sitting down; she came and stood immediately behind me. "'I have already explained to you,' we now heard Van Kuylen say, 'that I am not going to sell the picture, and as for the copy you wish for, I never copy any of my pictures. I am only too glad when I have once got myself expressed, however poorly it may be, and I lack the mercantile genius necessary for picture-multiplying.' "'If you yourself do not intend to repeat it,' said a rather rough manly voice which was entirely strange to me, 'perhaps you will allow another to copy it for me, or at least let me have a photograph of it.' "'I am sorry,' repeated Van Kuylen, 'that I cannot consent to have that picture reproduced in any way. The circumstances are quite peculiar,' and then he murmured something that we did not catch. "'He is making short work of him,' said I, turning round to the girl. 'It is our time to appear on the scene,' I was going to add, but the words stuck in my throat. Pale as death, with wide-staring eyes, as though she saw a spectre, I do believe the poor child would have fallen if I had not thrown my arm around her and supported her in the very nick of time. "'What is it? What is it?' I cried. 'Let me take you in to Van Kuylen's sofa. Are you ill?' "She, however, shook her head in silence, and made a sign signifying, 'Hush! I must listen,' and now we heard the stranger speak again. 'I must request you at least to answer me one more question. Had you a model for the female figure?' "'Certainly,' replied Van Kuylen, 'I never paint a stroke but from nature.' "'Then you must know this girl intimately; you know where she lives, and can tell me--' "'Give yourself no further trouble, sir,' interrupted Van Kuylen. 'I can well understand that this picture may excite other than artistic admiration, but as for telling who sat to me for it--no, sir. My studio is no bureau of enquiry, and besides--' then came some more muttered words. "'Forgive me,' said the stranger, his voice all the more raised; 'I can comprehend that under the peculiar relation in which you seem to stand to your model--' "At this moment the girl tore away from me like lightning, rushed to the door, and before I could try to hold her back, had burst in, and now stood--the most exquisite little fury that ever defended her good name--between the two men. "I followed her instantly, and was just opening my mouth to interpose, when I heard the stranger give a hollow groan, and saw him reel back a step or two. I looked at him more closely. He was really a fine-looking man, remarkably well-dressed in black, with a resolute somewhat sunburnt face, in which I at once detected a few slight marks of small-pox. "'Excuse me,' I stammered out in much embarrassment; 'I have the honour, Mr. Hans Lutz--' "But Kate did not let me finish my speech; one quick glance at the picture, which stood on an easel in the middle of the studio, had sent all the blood back to her face. 'That is scandalous,' said she, going straight up to Van Kuylen, who with his straw-coloured face and nankeen attire cut a most unfortunate figure on this occasion. '_That_, then, is your gratitude to me for making an exception in your case, and consenting to sit for my portrait to you; and because I would consent to nothing else, you would degrade me in this way before the whole world, and represent me as a bad bold girl who lets herself be seen for money, and has no objection to her shame being openly exhibited! Declare now once for all before these two witnesses, whether you have ever seen me as I am painted there, whether I was ever alone with you, whether I did not show you the door when you came to me at my lodgings and begged and entreated me to be your wife.' "Her eyes flashed, and now that she was silent, her nostrils quivered, and I noticed that she pressed her clenched fist closely to her side, as though she feared she might be tempted to commit an assault upon the little yellow man. "I for my part, marvelled that he took it all so calmly. "'I find out now,' he said at length with the utmost phlegm, and laying down his pipe, 'who it is I have before me. You are no doubt the engineering gentleman of whom the young lady has already told us. I congratulate you on your return, which will probably set all things to rights. If they went wrong it was your own fault. A person who allows so long a time to pass without being heard of, cannot be surprised at others coming forward in his absence. For the rest, I am prepared to give the lady whatever spoken or written assurance she may require. The best explanation, perhaps, will be found in _this_! "So saying he went to a corner of the room, where all sorts of sketches and unfinished pictures were heaped up together, and after a short search, produced a study painted on paper, a female figure in the precise position of Bathsheba, and although the face was merely an outline, one saw at a glance that a quite different model must have sat for it--a coarse common-place person with black hair whose back and shoulders were widely celebrated amongst artists. "'I thank you,' said the stranger, who seemed somewhat to have recovered the unexpected meeting. 'I believe every word you have said, but I hope you will not consider me too importunate if I repeat the request that the picture may be mine. You understand--' "'I understand it all,' drily returned Van Kuylen, while lighting his clay-pipe with a large match; 'and as I have something to apologise for, and very much wish that the lady should not eternally resent my inconsiderate freak, I give you the picture for your new establishment. And now--you will excuse me. I have some business which cannot be postponed. A good journey to you.' "Before one of us could find a word to reply, he made us an abrupt bow, and passed through a door leading into the interior of the house. "We three who remained behind stood there in utter helplessness. I felt that I was one too many, and was planning how best to leave the pair alone, when suddenly the lovely girl came up to me, held out her hand, and with apparent composure said: "'Farewell, dear sir; I thank you for all the kindness you have shown me. I will now go home and trouble you no further.' "With that she turned round without casting one glance at her sun-burnt lover, and moved towards the door. "'Katharine!' cried the young man, rushing towards her. "'Leave me!' said the incensed beauty. 'We have no longer anything to do with each other. One who could believe _that_ of me--who could suppose that I should ever degrade myself so far--' "'Listen to me, dear Kate,' I interposed, for I saw that both the proud high-tempered creatures were just in the mood to part as suddenly as they had met; 'if you really believe that I am a friend to you, do try to follow me and consider the question more calmly. Just put yourself in the place of your Hans Lutz, (you will forgive me, my dear sir, for using your Christian name though we have not even been introduced,) and ask yourself whether a lover is very likely to retain his five senses, when he chances to enter a picture-gallery, and sees the girl of his heart turn her back upon him in that fashion. And yet supposing you had really been Frau van Kuylen, and your husband _had_ painted you behind your back, as our greatest artists have been wont to do with their wives and mistresses, that would have been nothing so very out of the way either. Instead, therefore, of treating the matter so tragically, you ought rather to thank God for having brought things so happily round; to be reconciled to your lover; to my poor friend, who after all is the one to be pitied, for he goes empty away; and to your own face with which you were so very angry. It has, indeed, been an infliction to you, but at last it is to it that you are indebted for the happiness of having Mr. Hans Lutz again. For if Mrs. Bathsheba had not stolen your bewitching profile, who knows whether your lover would ever have come on your track here in Munich, and finally carried off picture and original both!' "Such was the gist of my address, and my eloquence had the happiest results. There ensued a most affecting reconciliation, an embracing, kissing, and handshaking, whereof--as regards the last at all events--I had my due share, and in another five minutes I saw the happy pair drive off in the cab, radiant with delirious bliss, and had scarcely time to invite them to pay a visit to my house, and to call after the driver to go through the English garden, that being the best scene for such an idyll. "Van Kuylen did not show himself again. But as I slowly followed the cab, and turned round once more, I thought I saw from the upper window of the small house, a resigned cloud of smoke eddy up from a white clay-pipe. He had not spared himself the pain of looking after the lovers from his lonely watch-tower. "I need not say that I instantly went home, and accurately repeated the whole remarkable story to my dear wife. Alas! I failed to produce the desired effect thereby. There lurked in the soul of that excellent woman a prejudice against a girl who presumed to be so beautiful that all men ran after her, and even the steadiest landscape painters took in her an interest--fatherly, indeed, but dangerously warm. The suspicion that all might not have been so very right after all, seemed to gain confirmation, when day after day passed without bringing the happy pair to pay their promised visit. My wife went about again with a well-known air of magnanimously suppressed triumph, and treated me with such compassionate indulgence, that it almost drove me wild. But what was to be done? I must needs put up with it, and had only the choice of passing as a bad judge of character, or a secret sinner. "However, in a fortnight's time the tide turned. I was sitting quietly over my work about noon, when in ran my little Christopher, and called out to me that I was to come instantly to mamma, that there was a most beautiful lady there with a gentleman, and that they had asked for me. There they were then, husband and wife, on their marriage trip through Italy to New York. On the day I had last seen them they had set out homewards to present themselves to their parents, and as Hans Lutz--his real name was Johann Ludwig Weinmann--was making a quantity of money over there in America, it was probably much the same to the father of the fair Kate, whether the result was attained by railway-making and bridge-building, or the tanning of leather. My good wife had at first--she afterwards confessed to me--sat rather monosyllabically there, but when I came in, and neither the young woman nor I blushed, nor exchanged any sign whatever of a private understanding, she finally resumed her equipoise, and was obliged to believe in me: more--in the course of the next half-hour she fell so completely in love with the beautiful world's wonder, she did not know how to let her go, and finally parted from her with the tenderest embraces. Later she said to me, 'It really is a very good thing she is gone to America.' "The same evening brought another leave-taking, but only in the form of a letter. My good mynheer sent me a note, in which he after his own fashion, and with divers humorous marginal illustrations, announced his journey to Italy. He enclosed a small pen-and-ink drawing as a keepsake; which was very highly finished and in all respects a genuine Van Kuylen. Before a hut in a primeval forest sat a young pair under the shade of palms, bananas, and bread-fruit trees, a couple of fine children playing about their feet, the wife occupied with needle-work, the husband reading to her. Above them on the branch of a majestic tree squatted a small thin ape who was just about to throw a date into the beautiful young woman's lap. Whom the faces of the wedded pair resembled, and who had sat to the artist for the odd, pinched, resigned countenance of the ape it were needless to particularise." END OF THE FAIR KATE. GEOFFROY AND GARCINDE. GEOFFROY AND GARCINDE. About the time of the second crusade, there lived near Carcassonne in Provence, a nobleman, Count Hugo of Malaspina, who after the death of his fair and virtuous wife, sent his only daughter Garcinde, then ten years old, accompanied by her foster-sister Aigleta, to be educated at the convent of Mont Salvair, and recommenced himself, spite of grizzling hair, a wandering bachelor life. He was a stately knight, and popular both with men and women, so he had no lack of invitations to merry-making tournaments, and banquets at the castles of the wealthy nobles, far and near. But, however, his delight in military exercises and minstrelsy grew cool with years, so that he left the palm in both to be carried off by younger aspirants, developing, at the same time, an increasing love for wine and dice, and falling from his former character of a wise manager of himself and of his substance, to that of a degraded night-reveller, who even occupied the castle of his fathers as tenant to his creditors, and had nothing left to call his own but his unstained knightly courage, and the heart of his child. In order not to grieve that child, Count Hugo took the greatest care to prevent the rumour of the low state of his finances reaching the convent. He was in the habit of twice a year visiting his daughter, and the young girl, who up to this time had devoted all the power of loving she as yet had to her father, and admired him as the ideal of every human and knightly virtue and perfection,--did not fail to notice that the eyes of the fast aging man, had for some time back lost their open and joyous expression, that his cheeks were sunk, and his lips habitually compressed. But as she knew the way to cheer him, and for the time to make him forget the world outside the cloister-walls, she naturally attributed his depression to his solitude, and lovingly urged him to take her back, and keep her near him. At which the Count would sigh, gloomily shake his head and declare that it would not be consistent with her fair fame to live in a castle inhabited by men only, without better protection than he could offer. He could not, therefore, remove her from the cloister until she should exchange the companionship of the pious sisters for that of some worthy husband. This was not pleasant hearing to the intelligent girl, for although her life had not been otherwise than happy with the nuns, who were cheerful and busy, and though she had had, moreover, the companionship of the bright-eyed Aigleta--a lively girl and full of whatever fun was possible in a convent--yet Garcinde yearned to know and enjoy something of the world without, and above all to devote her loving heart entirely to her father. But he persisted that the honour of his house allowed of no other arrangement than the present, and after every conversation on the subject--as though stung by some secret vexation--he would abruptly take leave of his lovely child, who on such occasions sat in the turret of the convent-garden wall, lost in thought, and gazing on the road her father had taken. Thus year after year passed by: the Count's daughter had long out-grown childhood, and the good nuns, reluctant as they might have been to part with their charge, yet began to wonder that nothing was said about marrying her. For they had no idea that Count Hugo, shrinking from confessing to a son-in-law that he was a beggar, spoke as little about his daughter as though she had been changed in her cradle, and a fairy bantling placed there in her stead. Now it happened that early one morning, when no one was expecting him at his own castle, the Count returned quite alone on his roan mare, and gave a faint knock as a man mortally sick might give at a hospital-gate. The porter, growling over the untimely guest who roused him from his morning sleep, looked through the grating in the iron court-door, and was so startled by what he saw, that his trembling hands could scarcely draw the heavy bolt in order to admit of his master's entrance. For the face of the Count was pale as that of the dead, and his eyes hollow, fixed, and expressionless, as if, instead of having returned from a merry-making at the castle of his rich neighbour, the Count Pierre of Gaillac, he might have been emerging from the cave of St. Patrick, or from a still more terrible place where he had spent the night with spectres. He threw the bridle of his horse (the animal was covered with foam, and greedily drank the rain-water on the ground,) to the alarmed domestic, and uttered one word only, "Geoffroy." Then he ascended the winding-stair to his lonely room, shaking his head when the servant enquired whether the Count would have any refreshments, and whether he should wake up the other retainers. The porter, who had never seen his master in such a plight, would have been slow to recover from the shock he had received, had not the horse, with a shrill neigh of distress, sunk on the ground. With some difficulty he got it to its feet again, and led the utterly exhausted animal to the stable, where he rendered it every care; then still talking to himself, and calling upon all saints and angels, he ran to the Geoffroy whom the Count had demanded. The youth who bore this name dwelt in a lonely ivy-grown turret close to the moat, and as the dawn had hardly broken, he still lay in the sound sleep beseeming his health and early years. He was only twenty, a nephew of the Count's, the offspring of the unfortunate love between the high-born Countess Beatrix and a wandering minstrel, who knowing the proud spirit and the customs of the house of Malaspina, had no way of winning, except persuading her to elope with him. Count Rambaut her father, when he discovered the disgrace that had befallen his family, took no one into his counsels but his son Hugo; and father and brother rode forth by night to follow the track of the offenders. In seven days time they returned, walking their horses, a closed litter between them, in which the young Countess lay with snow-white face, more like a waxen form than a living woman. Her brother had killed her lover, her father had cursed the dying man. From that time she never spoke another word to either of them, but lived a widow in a detached turret, where she brought her boy into the world. She made no complaint, but resisted all attempts at reconciliation, though on their father's death, her brother, who had always been deeply attached to her, endeavoured by all the means in his power, to conciliate her. He himself bore her son to the font, and when he married, he imposed upon his wife the duty of daily visiting the lonely one, who never of her own accord left her self-elected prison. Both ladies had now departed this life; the young man Geoffroy--he was named after his father--was brought up almost as the Count's own son, and truly the proudest might have gloried in such a son. He was a beautiful youth, broad-shouldered, dark-complexioned, with great earnest eyes, and a sweet sad mouth almost feminine in form, which seldom smiled. For although he had in abundance all that a young heart could desire, gay garments, finely-tempered weapons, horse, falcon, and leisure enough for every knightly practice, and though, too, from his earliest infancy no one had ever spoken an unkind word to him, or reproached him with his birth, yet for all that a shadow hung over him. Unless he were wandering in the forest--which bordered on the moat, and was reached by a narrow bridge in ten paces or so--he would keep himself apart from all joyous company, in the same room where his mother had brought him into the world, as though there were no other place on earth where he had a right to be. In his mother's lifetime he had planted the little tower about with roses, and he still kept her chamber, bed, and wardrobe, just as she had liked them to be. He for his part had but few wants, and always held himself prepared to leave even this corner where he was tolerated, at the first insulting word. However, no one thought of such an event less than did Count Hugo, whose heart the boy had entirely won, for he had transferred his love for his sister, to her fatherless child. But as spite of all the kindness and care shown him, the son could never force himself to return the friendly grasp of the hand that had slain his father, all that the Count could do was to leave his nephew in perfect freedom. He never required any service from him, thanked him as for a favour conferred if Geoffroy tamed a falcon, or broke a horse for him, and when his means began to fail, he would rather himself dispense with a necessary than that Geoffroy should be disappointed of a wish. However, he never took him with him on a visit, not that he wished to deny this illegitimate sprout of the family tree--especially since his unfortunate mother was no longer there to blush for him--but rather that he did not wish the youth to witness his own reckless mode of life, or to be corrupted by the loose manners and dissolute society of the neighbouring nobles. Therefore it was that the nephew, who had never received an order from his uncle, was surprised to be thus suddenly disturbed at so unusual an hour by the porter, who breathlessly told him what had happened, and summoned him to the castle. He did not, however, delay to dress and obey the call. When he entered the chamber, dimly lighted by the dawning day, he saw the Count sitting at a table with a taper before him, by the aid of which he had evidently been writing a letter. He now sat motionless, his head resting on his hands, which were buried deep in his grey hair. Geoffroy had to call him three times before he could rouse him from his trance, then when he saw the haggard face and lifeless eyes he, too, was shocked, although he did not love his uncle. But he made an effort, enquired whether he was ill, and whether he should ride to Carcassonne to fetch a leech. "Saddle a horse, Geoffroy," returned Count Hugo, slowly rising, folding the letter he had written, and sealing it with his signet-ring. "You must take this letter to-day to the Lady Abbess of the Convent of Mont Salvair, and to-morrow she must send me off my daughter Garcinde, for I have something to say to her. And as I myself cannot reach her--my ride this night has done me harm, and my gout admonishes me to get into bed rather than into the saddle--I could wish that you should escort your cousin, and see to her safe journey hither. Take a servant with you who will bring back, on a baggage-horse, whatever may be personally needed, till the abbess can send the rest. The convent will lend Garcinde a horse. I have requested this to be done in my letter. You will rest for a night half-way, at the farm of La Vaquiera, my daughter being unaccustomed to riding, and the summer heat great. On the evening of the third day I shall expect to see you here." The youth received the letter, lingered for a moment on the threshold as though some question were burning on his lips, then merely said, "It shall be done, my lord," and with a slight inclination, took his departure. When he got outside the door, he fancied that he heard himself recalled, and stood still a moment to see whether it really were so, but hearing nothing further he ran down the winding-stair, got his horse out of the stable, gave the requisite orders to one of the few servants that remained about the fallen house, and as the man was sleepy and slow in his movements, ordered him to follow after, while he himself sprang through the gate past the wondering porter, to whose questions as to what the Count wanted, and whether it really were all over with him, he merely replied by a shrug of the shoulders. The reason of his haste in fulfilling his mission, was a fear that the Count might change his mind and call him back, for during the eight years that his cousin had been away from her father's house, whenever a message had to be sent to her, he was never the one appointed to carry it, and there seemed to be a deliberate purpose to prevent their meeting. It is true that when they were both children there had been no one of whom the little Countess was so fond as of her silent, proud-spirited playfellow, the wandering minstrel's son, who at that time already led a strange and solitary life in the small tower where his mother had died. The servants had concluded that it was on account of young Geoffrey that Sir Hugo had sent his daughter to a convent, instead of taking a duenna into his house as many a widower had done, so as not to be separated from his child; and now here was the cousin sent to bring back the young lady, who had meanwhile, according to common report, grown up into unparalleled beauty. Had some suitor made his appearance on the previous evening, so that it was no longer necessary to guard the girl against an unsuitable attachment? Or had Death on his spectral horse accompanied the Count on his last night's ride, so that all earthly considerations having now fallen off from him, he merely thought of making his peace with God, and leaving his child free to be happy or unhappy in her own way? There was no solving the mystery. As soon, however, as the turrets of the Castle of Malaspina were out of sight, Geoffroy threw away all care and sadness, and only suffered pleasant thoughts--rare guests in his mind--to go forth to meet the playfellow of his childhood, whose delicate face with its laughing white teeth and large dark eyes, shone out as plainly before him as though he had seen them but yesterday. The day was cloudless, the woods resounded with the song of birds, the beautiful fields of Provence spread before him golden with the ripening corn, and for the first time life appeared to him to be indeed a heavenly boon. He took to singing the song with which his father had won his mother's heart; he had found it in a music-book with the words written in the margin by her own hand. "Le donz chans d'un auzelh, Tue chantava en un plays, Me desviet l'autr'ier De mon camin--" He knew not why this particular song should come to his mind: he had never till now thought of it but with sorrow, but to-day he sang it with clear voice and joyous heart. As he approached the convent at evening, his mood became quieter, and his brow clouded. With fast beating heart he knocked at the gate, and delivering the letter through a grating to a lay-sister, awaited a message from the abbess. Before long the answer came, saying the command of the Count would be obeyed, that with the dawn of morning both the young girls would be given over to the messenger's charge, and that meanwhile he might spend the night at the house of the convent bailiff, who was accustomed to receive strangers, and dwelt in the vineyards of Mont Salvair. The night, however, seemed long to the youth, for his trusty friend sleep came not as usual to speed it away; he envied the servant (who had only arrived about midnight with the baggage-horse,) the influence of the strong convent wine, and the deep unconsciousness that followed. In Geoffroy there was something awake which was stronger than wine or fatigue. Once more it was day: they saddled their horses, took leave of the bailiff, and rode to the gate of Mont Salvair, there to await the youthful Countess. They were not there long before the door opened, the abbess came out, her train of nuns behind her, and in their midst the young Garcinde and her foster-sister, who were about to enter upon life and liberty, while the sisters returned to their pious bondage. There were so many tears and sighs, embraces and benedictions, that Geoffroy had still to wait some time before he could see the face of his cousin, now lost to him under one veil after another. But one glance of her black eyes, and the sheen of her fair hair, had wrought such an effect upon him, that he stood by his horse in utter confusion of mind, and hardly heard the abbess, who enquired in evident wonder whether he were really the messenger who yesterday brought Count Malaspina's letter, and to whom his daughter was to be confided. The servant, who was standing by with folded hands and open mouth, staring at the holy women, had to nudge the youth with his elbow before he came to himself, and reverentially bowed assent to what he had only imperfectly heard. "Sir Hugo himself," he said, his eyes still fixed on his cousin's fair hair, "had been prevented coming. He had charged him to ride slowly, and to spend the night at La Vaquiera." By mentioning this prudent plan, he hoped to remove any scruple the abbess might have in confiding the maiden to so young an escort. He seemed however, to have produced a quite contrary effect, for after one perturbed heavenward look, the noble lady turned away to some of the older nuns, and began in a low voice to take counsel with them. Then when the bailiff had led out the horses for the young women, and while some of the lay-sisters helped the servant to load the baggage horse with clothes and provisions, a lively face emerged from the living hedge of black and white veils. It belonged to Aigleta, the child of Garcinde's nurse, who had grown up to be a blooming maiden, and who now approached the mute messenger, holding out a small but vigorous hand, and exclaiming, "In God's name be welcome, Sir Geoffroy! Is it you?" After which she went up to the abbess and whispered a word or two in her ear which seemed to dispel all anxiety. The pious lady depended too fully on the lessons of wisdom and virtue, which her charge had imbibed with conventual milk, to hold it possible that she should give her heart to a nameless illegitimate cousin, especially at a time when, in all probability, a distinguished alliance awaited her. Accordingly she clasped Garcinde--who burst into tears--in her motherly embrace, herself helped her to mount the old convent grey, while Aigleta was lifted by Geoffroy on to a spirited pony, and with much sobbing and waving of hands and handkerchiefs, the small cavalcade was at last sent off from the old arched gate of Mont Salvair, through which the band of the Brides of Heaven slowly and mournfully returned. But the young travelling-companions, too, proceeded on their way more silently and thoughtfully than might be expected, when a knightly youth, on the fairest of summer days, guides two fair maidens mounted on fresh horses upon their first expedition into a smiling world. After a hasty question as to how her father was, Garcinde had not again addressed Geoffroy, influenced, perhaps, by the curt although reverential manner in which he had seemed to avoid entering into further details. But Aigleta, who for her part had not allowed the departure from Mont Salvair to weigh the least upon her spirits, took up a livelier tone, and after a sigh of gratitude for being at last delivered from the pious monotony of cloistered life, began to give Geoffroy an amusing account of its course from day to day. She was an excellent mimic, and counterfeited the voices of the different sisters, their mild whispers, and downcast eyes, their unrestrained laughing and screaming as soon as they were unobserved, their petty spiteful quarrels, their cloying affectionateness to each other, ready at a moment's notice to turn into deadly enmity. In the midst of all this she introduced the solemn bass voice of the abbess, exhorting to peace, and painting the dangers of the world; and finally she concluded with a wild medley of pious and godless speeches, in which the nuns were supposed to express their feelings on the departure of the young Countess, their envy, their fear that Satan with all his crew might be waiting for them outside the gates; lastly the prayer of the abbess for their deliverance from all dangers, especially from the temptations of bold knights, and suspicious young cousins. Garcinde who had been riding a yard or two in advance, now cut short this burst of spirits, and with her gentle voice--without, however, turning towards Aigleta--rebuked her frivolous tone. It was sinful, she said, after all the love and kindness they had enjoyed, to expose to view the weaknesses of the poor and sadly limited life, and she at least should never forget that when orphaned, she had found there a second home. Whereupon the pert girl, who in Geoffroy's presence did not at all approve of having this well-merited sermon addressed to her, only replied with a couple of proverbs, "Each bird sings according as it is fed," and-- "To tell the simple truth I ween, May be unwise, but 'tis not sin." But she was all the more vexed and put out because the handsome youth by her side treated her as so perfect a stranger, while she for her part remembered him so well, and how glad she used to be when their childish games were so arranged that "Jaufret"--so they called him then--should be on her side to deliver her from a dragon, or to wake her by a kiss out of magic sleep. And while she now engaged the servant in commonplace talk, she could not help stealing frequent glances at her other companion, noticing how handsome and manly he had become; how with a slight turn of the wrist he could rein in a fiery horse, and yet had such a sad and earnest beauty in his eyes as would have become the very saints in the church of Mont Salvair. What could make him so silent, she kept wondering; and if she were below the attention of so noble a gentleman, how was it that he abstained from all attempt to find favour in the eyes of his lady-cousin? All this perplexed her so much that she gradually left off talking, and entirely forgot the slight anger she had felt at the admonition received. Meanwhile the youth on his side, who had so impatiently watched for this day, wished, as the sun rose higher, that it had never dawned upon him at all, instead of looking down on his joy and sorrow with so heartless a splendour. It is true that from his boyish years he had preserved the image of his cousin as his ideal of all beauty and loveliness, but the spark had smouldered on as a quiet memory in a well-guarded portion of his heart; but now at the first greeting from her lips, at the perfume that floated over to him from her hair, this spark burst out into a mighty flame, and he suffered tortures such as he had never known before. And then her apparent estrangement from him increased his anguish, for although he did not know whether it were disinclination to him personally, or the calm contempt of the Count's daughter for her father's poor retainer which closed her lips and kept her eyes averted, he had leisure enough in these silent hours to estimate with miserable accuracy the social gulf between them, and the duty of crushing every foolish hope. Then, again, his thoughts turned to conjectures as to what possessor he would have to make over the jewel entrusted to him, whether her hand would be given away without her heart, or whether her father in the gloom of sickness had so yearned for his only child, as suddenly to recall her to his deserted home. Even were it so, would his case be less hopeless if he had longer time to learn the full preciousness of the treasure which must at length be surrendered to another? Thus he sank more and more into a profound melancholy, so that even Garcinde, who was not herself joyous, remarked it, and asked him whether he were suffering, whether he would rest and refresh himself with a draught of wine? Geoffroy, crimsoning to the roots of his hair, excused himself for his absent mood, accounted for it by a sleepless night, and did all he could to appear more cheerful. And at noon when they halted in a wood beside a spring to recruit themselves with the provisions with which the pious sisterhood had laden the baggage-horse, his spirits in a measure revived, while Aigleta, who had long got over her fit of sullenness, recovered the audacity of her mood, and flavoured the mid-day meal with the drollest freaks of fancy. Garcinde sat in the shadow of a tall black-thorn, and patiently endured that the little witch who could not rest a moment, should adorn the whole party with garlands, even to the servant and the grazing horses, singing merry songs the while, not always of spiritual import, at which even the servant laughed, so that the young Countess rose with a grave air, removed the wreath from her brow, and proposed that they should ride on again. The last to rise from the green grass was Geoffroy; to him the spot seemed a Paradise where he would willingly have dreamed his days away, yet when he lifted his cousin into her saddle, he did not dare to bestow on the little foot that she placed in his hand, anything more than the very slightest pressure. She turned her face away from him, and he was for an instant's space veiled in the flow of soft tresses that fell down to her girdle. Then she put her horse into a gentle canter. Thus they all rode on for a while, men and beasts refreshed by their hour's repose, and even Geoffroy carried his head higher, as though the red wine that Aigleta had given him in a cup garlanded with flowers, had put new life into his veins, and inspired him with energy to enjoy the bliss of the present hour. La Vaquiera, which they reached early in the afternoon, was a dairy-farm, beautifully situated between richest pastures and wooded grounds; until late years in the possession of the house of Malaspina, but staked and lost at play, by the Count to a neighbouring noble, Pierre de Gaillac, who had, however, something else to do than to look after herds of cattle and flocks of sheep in this quiet corner. The farmer himself and his wife, who lived here with a troop of shepherds and milkmaids, and whom Sir Hugo greeted as usual whenever he rode past, had not a notion that they no longer held under him, and they received his daughter--whom they well remembered in her childhood--with all the reverence and attention due to their young mistress. They had only a small house, as the servants slept in the stables, but they at once gave up their one sleeping-chamber to the two girls, and themselves found a resting-place in the kitchen. Geoffroy had to put up with a loft reached by a ladder, fortunately an airy one having plenty of fresh hay. It was late, however, when he betook himself to it, for the best part of the starry night had been spent in such earnest and serious converse, that his impetuous feelings were somewhat subdued, and spite of the vicinity of Garcinde, he made up for the lost sleep of the night before. The two girls, on the contrary, although they too--what with the long ride and the strong wine--owned to being very tired, yet enlivened themselves during their unrobing, by much of that seeming confidential talk common to maidens who share the same couch, and yet would fain conceal their heart's secrets from each other. For girls believe there is no better way of holding their tongue on one subject than letting it run on unguardedly on every other. "Why have you been so little glad all day long, and are you sure you are not still angry with me for all the nonsense I have talked, out of sheer delight at getting back into the world?" said Aigleta to her friend, while helping her to braid and bind her hair. "Not so, dear heart," replied her thoughtful companion, letting her delicate arms drop into her lap. "I envy you your light-heartedness, I do not censure it. But my heart is heavy. Oh, Aigleta, I used to have such happy dreams of returning to my father, of breathing free air, and seeing the world as it lay beyond the hill of Mont Salvair. And now--" "Does not the world seem to you fair enough, the sky blue enough, the meadows green enough, the stream clear enough to reflect back your beauty?" laughed Aigleta. "How can you mock at my anxiety and gloom?" returned the Count's daughter. "Just think--on the very day when I re-enter the world, my dear father is absent from me. I cannot grasp his hand or hear his voice. Oh believe me, there is something mysterious, dark, perhaps appalling, that is kept back from me, the foreboding of which has--spite of all the sunshine--darkened for me this much longed for day." "Nonsense!" said Aigleta. "Shall I tell you where the cloud lay that threw its dull shadow over you? On the brow and in the eyes of that simple Sir Jaufret. Deny it as you will I know what I know, and have not got eyes in my head for nothing. And have you not, indeed, every right to be offended with his uncourteous, indifferent manner? Fie! To make such a melancholy face when one has the good fortune to serve as knight to two sweet young ladies, one of whom, moreover, is a high-born countess and his own first cousin! And this evening, too, when we walked round the pastures, could he not have found something more lively to talk of than the stars above us, and whether we went to them after death, and horrid subjects of that kind? I think he might have found some stars nearer at hand, and only to talk about dying we need not have left Mont Salvair! He is certainly--as one can see--likely to die of love, but that is no excuse. Such gloom may do very well for poems when he writes you them, but while you were together and alone--for as for me, I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep--" "What art thou prating about, foolish one?" said Garcinde, trying to look angry, although a sweet emotion sent the blood tingling to her cheeks. "Dost thou not know why he is so grave and sad, and never, indeed, will be quite happy all his life long? Not though that he need take his birth thus to heart. If he would only go to the court of some foreign prince, and there gain renown, no one would reproach him with what he could not help; and he might win wealth, and land, and fame, and be a fit wooer for any count's daughter. But even though he be a dreamer, and does not understand his own advantage, he is not so foolish as to turn his thoughts towards me, for well he knows my father would never give me to him. Nay I rather think that he hates me as being my father's daughter--above him in position--though I for my part would always behave to him as in our childish days, and do everything in my power to renew the old intimacy." "Hm," said Aigleta, as she unlaced her bodice, "it may be that you are right, and yet I wish he hated _me_ in the way he hates _thee_. I should desire nothing better, but I am a servant's daughter. Who would give himself the trouble to look and see whether I deserve love or hate? And yet I think," and so saying she shook her thick hair over her white shoulders, "it might be well worth their while too, and whether high-born or not, you shall see, _Domna Comtessa_, in the net of these black hairs. I shall catch gay-plumaged birds as well as you with your gold threads, and even if that black crow Jaufret keeps out of them--" "Any one who heard you speak," interposed Garcinde, "would think that you came from some quite other place than a convent. But now we will go to sleep. I wish morning were come and that I had embraced my father." They lay quiet for an hour, yet neither of them closed an eye; the bed at the farm was certainly harder than their Mont Salvair couch, but that alone would not have troubled the repose of girls of eighteen. They both held their breath, and kept motionless, till Aigleta suddenly sat up and said, "I never believed the nuns when they said the outer world would steal away our rest; and now see, we have hardly put our foot outside their gates, and already sleep flies from us. And yet we are not even in love, I at least am not. Oh, Blessed Lady of Mont Salvair, what _will_ happen when it comes to that! You of course will have some distinguished husband, and then lovers as many as you will, but I--suppose one took my fancy whom I could not have--I believe I should set a wood on fire and jump into the midst of it!" "What are you dreaming about?" answered Garcinde, without raising her head from the pillow. "Do you suppose that I would take a husband whom I did not love, or that my father would give me to any one against whom my heart rebelled? Do you not know that he loves nothing on earth so well as me, and could have no greater sorrow than to see me suffer? Go to sleep--the wine has got into your head. I think you have been let out of the convent too soon." "Amen," said the merry girl in the deep voice of the abbess; then she laughed out loud, but left off talking, and was asleep before her young mistress. The next morning the horses had stood saddled and pawing the ground in the courtyard, for a good hour before the girls appeared on the threshold. They nodded familiarly to Geoffroy, and chatted a little with the good people of La Vaquiera. Then they spurred their horses in order to get over the four hour's ride to Malaspina, before the mid-day heat. Again but little was said on the way; the youth, spite of his sound sleep, was still paler and sadder than on the previous day; even Aigleta seemed lost in thought, bit her full lip, and now and then sighed. Moreover they had difficulty to keep up with the young Countess, who urged her horse as though the wild huntsmen were on her track. Once she turned to Geoffroy, who kept near her for fear the over-urged palfrey should make a false step. "Do you think my father will ride to meet us?" she enquired, and anxiously waited for his answer. "I should think so," replied the youth without daring to look at her, for his mind, too, was full of gloomy forebodings. When they first came in sight of the Castle of Malaspina, Garcinde suddenly drew bridle, and shading her eyes with her hand gazed for several moments at the well-remembered ancient pile. The road wound like a bright narrow ribbon through the short-cut grass, and they could see every pebble on it. But of any horseman crossing the drawbridge and hastening to meet them, nothing was to be seen; even when they came so near that the warder blew his horn, everything remained unchanged, and there was no sign of the festal reception of which the girl had dreamed. The porter appeared in the open gateway, and behind him a few shabby-looking retainers, who stood round as if confused, and for the first time aware how high the grass and nettles grew between the flags in the courtyard. Geoffroy had made some pretext for remaining behind, for his heart bled at the idea of witnessing such a return home. For although the innocent, inexperienced girl could not take in the whole extent of the change--as she had only a childish recollection of the place, and it was not written over the gateway that scarcely the bare walls remained in her father's possession--yet the paucity of domestics, and their thread-bare attire, might well startle her; and above all, that her own parent had not the heart to welcome his beloved child in front of the ancestral dwelling! "Is my father ill?" she cried, as without awaiting help she leapt from her saddle. "It is only a sharp attack of gout, lady," replied the porter, glancing up at an arched window that looked into the court, as if expecting that at least his master would beckon from thence to his daughter, even though his ailments might prevent his descending the stairs. But the window was empty, and a blush suffused Garcinde's face as her glance, which had taken the same direction, came back unsatisfied and distressed. "I will go upstairs to him, Aigleta," she whispered, "wait here till I call you." She went, the others descended from their horses and made them over to the servants. Geoffroy after exchanging a few rapid words with the porter: "Anything new?" "All as it was," took his own horse to the stable, unbridled him, and then crossed the courtyard on his way to his little turret without taking any notice of Aigleta, who, lost and forsaken, sat on a stone bench amongst the menials, and could have wept heartily over so disappointing a return to the much desired home, had there not been too many lookers on. She saw the young man take his way to the well-known rose-embowered tower, but his head hung down so dejectedly that she did not venture to address him, or ask him to let her go with him to their old play-ground. As for him, he seemed to have forgotten that he was in the world, or that he walked among men. Although he had only had a little bread and wine in the early morning, and it was now past noon, he had no thought of eating or drinking, but sat in his turret-chamber on his mother's bed, motionless like one struck by lightning, his widely-opened eyes fixed on his father's song-book, which on his entrance he had taken down from the shelf and opened out on his knee. Yet he did not seem to be reading, but rather listening to some words that his own heart was setting to the music, whether glad or sorrowful none could have guessed from his stony aspect. All at once, however, he started back into life, and his dark face flushed deeply; he sprang so hastily from the bed that the song-book slipped from his knee and fell open upon the flags, then he held his breath, and listened to some sound in the garden of roses below. Yes, it was her step, no other human being's was like it, and now her hand was upon the turret-door, now she crossed the dark and narrow hall, now she opened the inner door and stepped over its threshold into his small chamber. As she entered, his eyes involuntarily fell, and he sought to disguise his emotion by lifting from the floor the parchment-book that lay between her and him, and now that he raised his eyes to her he started, horror-stricken. For her face but lately blooming with youth and health, had so changed in one short hour that she seemed to have traversed years of hopeless grief. "I disturb you, cousin," she said in a voice from which the music had fled, "but I come to you because I think you are my friend--perhaps the only one I have. Let me sit down, I am mortally weary. No, not on the bed; my dear aunt died there. Oh, Jaufret, if I only knew that it would be my death-bed too--and that my heart would grow still the moment I lay down there--God is my witness I would throw myself upon it at once!" She sank down on the seat that he offered her, hiding her face in her hands, and tears streaming between her white fingers. "For God's sake, cousin," he cried, "you break my heart. What has happened? What has your father said?" Then she removed her hands from her face, pressed back her tears, and looked steadfastly at him. "I will not weep," she said, "it is childish. If all is true that I have heard, tears are too weak for such sorrow. But I want to hear it from you, cousin. Is it indeed the case that the Count of Malaspina is a beggar, and that his daughter has nothing to call her own except the clothes she wears? You are silent, Jaufret. Be it so then; what should I care for that? I have long had a foreboding that there was trouble before me, and as to poverty, I have seen _that_ in the convent, and know it, and it does not affright me. But shame, Jaufret, shame--" "By the blood of our Lord," he exclaimed. "Who dares to say that shame threatens you so long as I can bear a sword, and lay a lance in rest?" She did not appear to hear him. Then after a pause in which she, as if unconsciously, drew her rosary through her hands, she shudderingly enquired, "Do you know the Count de Gaillac?" The youth started as though he had trodden upon a snake, he muttered a curse between his teeth, and convulsively clutched the silken coverlet. "You seem to know him," the maiden continued, "and I know him too. About two years ago a hunting-party came to Mont Salvair, a great gathering of knights and fair dames. They all sat themselves down to feast in the wood that bordered the convent garden, and we from our shrubbery could see what was going on; the drinking, the banqueting; and could hear the songs that the Count's mistress--a tall, proud-looking woman--sang to her lute. Oh cousin, what dreadful human beings there are! Even then I felt a terror come over me, and was glad when the abbess came to drive us out of the garden, and set us down in the refectory to our spinning-wheels. There nothing was heard but the whispering of the nuns, every one of whom knew something of the wildness and godlessness of the Count de Gaillac. For they know everything in the convent, know all about the outer world and its ways, otherwise they would die of tedium. Then the abbess came in, told me that the Count was standing at the grating, and desired to see me, as he was the bearer of a message from my father. I do not know how I had strength enough to rise, and walk across the long hall to her; then, however, she took my hand in her mother-like clasp, and whispered, 'Remember that thou art here in a consecrated place; here the evil one himself could have no power over thee.' So saying she led me to where the godless man with his hawk's eyes in his wolf's face, was waiting behind the grating, the handsome, bold-looking woman by his side. They were laughing loud when we appeared, but suddenly grew silent. I heard the Count say something in Italian to the lady that I perfectly understood, but could not contradict. What his message to me was I never knew, but it cut me to the heart to hear him name my father, and call him his best friend. A cloud darkened my eyes,--when I came to myself again, they were gone. The abbess never alluded to this visit, and forbade the nuns ever to name Pierre de Gaillac before me. Thus I never heard of him again, till to-day, when my own father has told me that on one wretched night, after gambling away the remnant of his possessions to this man, he had staked the hand of his daughter upon the last throw of the dice, and lost that too." A sound forced its way from the young man's breast, a hollow cry of horror and of rage, but his limbs seemed paralysed, and his tongue bound, for he did not speak a word, and there was such stillness in the small chamber, that the grinding of the sand beneath his feet was plainly heard. "You hate my father," the girl at length continued with downcast eyes but calm voice. "Oh, Jaufret, I have known this for many years, and it has grieved me enough. But what I have now told you ought not to increase your hatred, for if there be one miserable being on earth, who in the burning torture of his soul already endures hell-fire, and expiates his sins, believe me, cousin, it is the Count of Malaspina, who would gladly change places with the dropsical cripple at his castle gate, if only he could undo what he has done. He writhed as though impaled at the stake, and buried his face in the pillows that I might not see him while he told me how it all came about; how they clouded his mind with hippocras; how at every throw they pressed the goblet into his hand, till at length the mocking laughter of the Count seemed to awake him from a dream, and he gazed with sheer horror at the abyss into which he had hurled his last possession, the happiness of his child. He did everything he could to propitiate his malicious enemy and conqueror, nay he offered to be his serf, his bondservant, if only he might pay the fearful debt thus. But the Count had merely laughed and said, 'A Jew's bargain indeed you would make with me, my friend, to offer me a plucked old cock for a plump young hen. I have more servants to feed than I care for, but a young wife I do want, for you know that I am getting old, and I am not so fond of my mistress as to wish to leave her my lands and castles after my death. Moreover, I fear she might make me a very bad return, and before my eyes were closed, drink with some younger fellow to my approaching end. But your daughter has been chastely and piously brought up, and will convert me--grey in sin as I am--to an orderly life. Therefore I would not take all the treasures on earth in exchange for her small hand, which can alone open the door of Heaven to me; and so I charge you by your honour that within three weeks you bring her to celebrate the marriage here in Gaillac. I on my part, as my gift on the morning after the nuptials, will make over to you all the woods and lands that I have won from you of late years, in order that your child need not provide for you like a beggar, but that you may live out your old age in state and comfort.' And so saying he called for his servants to light him to bed, and left my father alone." At this moment Geoffrey made a gesture as though about to speak; but she rose quickly, advanced towards him, and laid her small, cold, trembling hand beseechingly on his clenched fist. "Cousin," said she, "do not speak yet. I know what you would say: that it would be better to go forth as a beggar from home and hearth, and to wander through the wide world, than to endure disgrace, and give up body and soul to a demon. But consider that my father has nothing on earth besides his honour, his sacred, inviolable, knightly word, and that it would ill become me, his daughter, to counsel him to break it. At the same time, I feel that if there were no other means of fulfilling the pledge given, and paying this debt than by giving my hand to this abhorred suitor, I should prefer what is honourable in the sight of God, to what men call honour. But let us hope, my friend, that this last alternative may be spared me. I propose to write a letter to the man who has us in his power, and you--if you are really my friend--you must take it this very day to Gaillac, for until I know the answer I cannot lay me down to sleep. But do you rest here awhile and take some food. I will go and write the letter; they always commended my skill in writing at the convent; God grant that it may stand me in good stead now! See, I leave you much calmer than I was when I came, although you have not spoken one word of comfort to me; but here in this place where we were so happy as children, here where it seems as if no bad spirits had power over me, here--I cannot persuade myself that the hideous dream is true, and the father's honour pledged to the child's disgrace." She paused for a moment, but when the youth bent before her with a deep sigh, and pressed her hand to his lips in token that she might depend upon him, she laid her other hand affectionately on his shoulder, and took leave of him, saying, "Aigleta will bring you the letter. Farewell, dear friend, and God go with you," and then on the threshold of the door, folding her hands after kissing the image of the Virgin on the wall, she repeated in a low voice the following prayer: "Maires de Crist, ton filh car Prega per nos, quens ampar E quens gardo de cazer A la fin en desesper." Then she left him alone. * * * * * A day and night passed away, and yet another day and night. Geoffroy did not return. Sir Hugo never missed him; he was, indeed, accustomed to the youth going his own way, and weeks often passed without his seeing him, and at the present time he hated the sight of any human being. He would sit for hours in one place in his room. The food carried in to him remained untouched, but he drank wine greedily, as though seeking forgetfulness from it; forgetfulness of himself, of the past, and the future. On the evening of the first day, when Garcinde had gone to see him, he could not even face his own child, but when she approached him, and gently threw her arm over his shoulder, his whole frame was convulsed, and slipping from his chair on to the stone floor, sobbing he clasped her knees and pressed his brow against her feet, so that she had difficulty in raising him and leading him back to his couch. Since then she avoided his chamber, for if she had tried to comfort him by telling him the reason of Geoffroy's absence, her own desponding heart would have contradicted her words. The third morning she woke early out of a painful dream, and called to Aigleta who shared her couch: "Do you hear nothing, dear? I thought I caught the sound of horses' hoofs beyond the drawbridge--no, I was only dreaming. Oh, Aigleta! if I have also made _him_ unhappy--sent _him_ to his ruin. But hark! the sound comes nearer--I hear the gate creak on its hinges--it is he. Mother of God! What does he bring--Life or Death!" She had sprung up and thrown a cloak around her. Aigleta, too, hastily rose and bound up her hair; the rosy morning light shone into the room, and coloured the pale, worn face of the Count's daughter. She would have gone to meet Geoffroy had her knees supported her; as it was she was standing in the middle of the room when he entered. He, too, was pale, and as he bent before her, it struck Aigleta that he did not raise the leathern cap which covered one-half of his brow. But Garcinde saw nothing but his eyes which sought to avoid hers. "You bring no comfort?" she said. "I knew it." Then seating herself on a bench in the window, she listened impassively to what he narrated with a faltering voice. He reached Gaillac that same evening, for he had not spared his horse. When he was ushered into the hall where the Count was, he found him at supper, a couple of his riotous companions with him, and the one of his mistresses who just then was highest in his favour. On a low stool at his feet crouched a mis-shapen dwarf, who played the part of fool and fed his dogs. The beautiful bold woman sat by his side, and poured him out red wine into a silver goblet, putting her lips to it before he drained it at a draught. "They all looked at me," said Geoffroy, "as though I arrived very opportunely to divert their dulness by some novelty or other, for none of them appeared in spirits except the fool, who with shallow jests that waked no laughter, went on throwing fragments of food to the dogs. I delivered your letter without speaking a word, and while the Count unfolded and read it, I could not but think how she who wrote it would have been received at such a table. The thought made the blood rush to my head, and such a giddiness came over me that I was obliged to lean upon my sword. One of the guests who noticed this ordered that wine should be brought me, for I must be weary and thirsty after my rapid ride, but I shook my head and said I would only await the answer, and then return at once. Meanwhile the Count had read the letter, and made it over in silence to his neighbour; she had scarcely run her eyes over the first few lines before she burst out into loud laughter. 'A sermon!' she cried, 'God's death! You are going to get a saint for a wife,' and then she began to read the letter aloud, line for line; and the words that would have made stones weep and moved the gates of hell, waked only mocking echoes here. Blasphemies and impious jests broke out, interrupting the reading. Then the woman rose, and casting a proud look upon the Count, said with curled lip, 'The saint may come and welcome. I was averse to her, thinking she might turn your heart from us all and rule here alone, but now that I have read her letter I am not afraid of her. You, Pierre de Gaillac are not the man to wear a hair-shirt and a prickly girdle. You are accustomed to the fires of hell, and the air of heaven would but chill you. In hell, however, there is more joy over one who sickens of penance and returns to his evil ways than over ninety-and-nine lost souls. Whereupon I empty this goblet to the last drop, and call upon you to pledge me.' She drank, the Count drew her closer to his side, and whispered something into her ear that made her laugh loud. They all seemed to have forgotten the messenger who had brought the letter; the letter itself was handed to the others, and when it came back to the Count, the dwarf snatched at it and cried, 'You have not read it rightly, godmother. Now listen how it ought to be sung to move you all to laughter,' and he began to read it once more aloud in the manner in which they chant litanies in church, wagging head and hands like a preacher giving out the blessing, and if they had all laughed the first time, they knew not now what to do, they held their sides and groaned out responses. At last rage got the better of me. I sprang upon the shameless fellow, tore the letter from him, and struck him such a blow that he rolled over backwards, and upset the silver vessel that held the food for the dogs. 'If I am to obtain no answer,' I cried, 'worthy of the lady who has sent me here, I will at least silence the daring mouth that has mocked at a noble virgin, and dragged the words of a pure and lofty soul through the mire!' "For a moment there was silence. I even thought I might pass through the hall unhindered, but I had reckoned without my host. Servants rushed in, the guests raged and railed at me, the dogs howled, but the Count still sat in his place, pale as death, and motionless with fury, and the woman by his side shot fiery looks at me. When--a quarter of an hour later--I found myself on damp straw behind a bolted door, a wound in my head, and darkness before my eyes, I thanked my Saviour that I was delivered from the neighbourhood of those brutal men, and could no longer hear them blaspheme the name dearest to me. I do not know how I passed the night and the following day. I think I must have slept through them, but about the middle of the second night, I was gently waked by a soft hand passing over my face, and the light of a small lamp shone into my eyes. It was the Count's mistress who stood before me there, and signed to me to be silent; gently she led me up the broken stairs, through empty passages and halls to a narrow door of which she had the key. 'I cannot let you starve to death in unbroken darkness down there,' said she. 'Outside you will find your horse and something to eat at the saddle-bow. Fly! if ever thou needest a friend come to Carcassonne, and ask for Agnes the Sardinian. You will easily find me out.' She waited an answer, perhaps she had even dreamed of a tenderer farewell, but as I was silent she opened the door, and again passed her hand over my blood-stained hair. 'Poor youth,' said she, 'thou deservedst a better fate.' Then I leapt into the saddle, and spurred my horse hard, and thus I rode on without stopping, for in the night air my senses gradually awoke and the fever of my wound left me. And here I am--and this is all the answer that I bring back." So saying he bared his head, and showed his brow--a thick curl of his hair lay upon the wound and seemed to have stanched its bleeding. Then Garcinde rose from her seat and advanced towards him as though she had something to say, but she stopped short and remained speechless with downcast eyes before him. Aigleta was the one to speak. "I will go and bring linen and salves to dress the wound properly," said she; then she looked at her friend as though she had some quite other thought, secretly sighed, and left the two alone. And scarcely had she turned away when Geoffroy fell on his knees before the fair and silent mourner, and cried as he seized her hands' and pressed them passionately to his heart: "Command me--what shall I do? For my life is worthless to me unless I can offer it up to thee. Never should I have betrayed the sweet pangs I endured, if sorrow had not overshadowed thee. But now thou art no longer the Countess, the proud daughter of Malaspina, at whom I gazed as at a star far above me. Thine is a poor unfortunate tortured heart which will not despise another heart which devotes itself to thee for life and death. Oh, cousin! loveliest love, say but one word, and I mount again the horse that still stands saddled in the courtyard, to ride back to Gaillac, and plunge this dagger into the breast of the enemy of thy honour and peace, in the midst of all his boon companions, even though his dogs should tear me to pieces the next moment!" Then she bent down towards him, and for the first time a smile played over her pale face. "Jaufret," said she, pressing her lips to his blood-stained brow; "the fever of thy wound shows in thy speech. Go and lie down, and let Aigleta--who understands such tasks--wash away the blood and dress thy wound, and then refresh thyself with sleep and food. For by our dear lady of Mont Salvair I accept the life you offer me. I am no rich countess to disdain such a gift, and yet I am rich enough to repay it. While you were relating your adventure--hideous and cruel enough to destroy all hope--I was considering what I would and could do. But this is not the time for talking. See, here comes your doctress, I make you over to her, and you must do all she tells you, and if you are tractable and obedient, be sure, cousin, you shall not rue it! See that he sleeps and gets strong, Aigleta," she said to her friend, who nodded, and looked as though she understood more than was uttered. Meanwhile, the youth who still gazed at Garcinde in utmost perplexity, had risen from his knees, and loosed her hands. He could not understand how she could be so composed since he had brought her no hope. But half from the exhaustion of his wound, and half from his blind confidence in her strong and lofty nature, he parted from her with a lightened heart, and followed Aigleta who had now lost all her gaiety. "What can she be planning?" said he to the girl, as they both went down the stair together. "Who can tell--obey and sleep," said Aigleta with a quick hoarse voice, and then turning her head away, she added, "The Lord gives to those He loves in sleep." She led him into his turret hermitage; she saw to his wound, which was indeed but slight, and already disposed to heal; she furnished him with all that he could need for refreshment, and then seeing that his eyes were growing heavy she left him. She herself, however, did not instantly return to Garcinde; she still lingered among the roses, made a nosegay, pulled it to pieces again, and when at last she returned to the castle, her eyes were red, and she washed them long with cold water that no one should observe it. Geoffroy only slept a few hours: then he awoke a new man, with brow cool, thanks to Aigleta's salve, and heart on fire, thanks to the mysterious hope-encouraging words of his cousin. Like a wanderer on whom the fairy of the woods has bestowed the wishing-rod, by which at the hour of midnight he may find and possess himself of a treasure, and who dreams away the intervening time, so the youth sat hour after hour, gazing only at the sunbeam which slowly moved along the stone floor, and listening only to the song of the birds around his turret. No one came to disturb him: the servants lay yawning in shady corners of the court, the horses were stamping in the stable to shake off the flies; both girls had locked themselves up in their castle chamber, and did not appear all day. Once only through his narrow window did he catch sight of Sir Hugo, who stepped out on the balcony before his chamber, and looked down into the castle moat as though considering whether it would not be better for him to dash himself to pieces there. His hair and beard had become white as snow, his face was worn to a shadow; soon he vanished again like a restless ghost. And now the sun went down, and the moon rose above the wood, and silvered the rose-garden around Geoffrey's tower. The birds were silent, but the bull-frogs in the moat seemed to croak the louder, and in the distance a nightingale's song was heard. It was so light in the tower that the youth could read every letter in his parchment book, but he knew not what he was reading. Another hour passed away, and yet another, and then light and rapid steps along the narrow path woke the listener out of his trance. He rushed to the door and threw it open wide, and saw with amazement not only the one that his heart foretold, but her friend also beside her on the threshold. They greeted him with a silent nod, and it was only when they had passed into his narrow chamber that Garcinde shyly spoke, "You see that I keep my word, cousin, but have you not in the course of the day changed your mind? Do you not regret what you said to me this morning?" and as he looked at her with mute enquiry she blushingly continued: "That you loved me, Jaufret, loved me more than your life, and would devote that life to me in sorrow until death. You may speak out your heart openly, this faithful friend knows all. She knew even earlier than I did myself that my heart belonged to thee, as thine to me. Oh, Jaufret, even at La Vaquiera, when we spoke by night about the stars, what made me so still and so sad was that I kept saying to myself, Is there no place amongst those countless orbs where he and I may belong to each other? Must I lose him whom I have only just regained? For I foresaw too clearly that my heart and my hand would not long remain my own. And God is my witness I was resolved to obey my father, had he betrothed me to any worthy husband, however distasteful he might have proved. But to fall a victim in an unholy hour to the mere chance of the dice, that cannot be God's will, though he has commanded us to honour father and mother; for I have in dreams seen my mother weeping over me, and I know that were she still living, she would go with me into poverty rather than give me to such a husband. And therefore am I come to thee, my beloved, and if thou art in earnest as I believe and know thou art, I will in this very hour before God and this witness, take thee for my husband, and fly forth with thee into the wide world. And sure am I that when our flight is discovered, my father will not mount his horse and follow us to punish the son as he did the father; he knows that he dare not judge, that a judge should have a guiltless heart. But we--where shall we fly? Are not all places home to us, so I am with thee, Jaufret, and thou with thy Garcinde?" With these words she gave him her little hand, but while he, in a transport of silent rapture, took it and held it fast, Aigleta stepped forward and said in her lively way, and with a smiling face. "Just look at this coy gentleman, Garcinde. Can this be the son of the man whose lips overflowed with sweetest sayings, and not a single poor word falls from _his_ mouth; even when one brings him the fairest of count's daughters, who whistles all the castles and lands of Gaillac down the wind, in order to beg her way through the world with this helpless lover. But come, come, we cannot wait till a miracle is wrought, and the dumb regains his speech. You must exchange rings, and pronounce the marriage-vow, and then go forth and far away, and I--poor forsaken one--have only to make the sign of the cross behind you; for to me you are dead and buried, that I know all too well. I shall--" Her voice broke down, spite of all her self-control and her effort to smile, and she had to stoop and pretend to adjust her shoe, that her tears might drop unnoticed. Geoffroy, meantime, had collected himself and now drew a ring from his finger. "Do you know it?" he said to Garcinde. "With this little ring my father betrothed himself to my mother, and as in his case it betokened the firmest constancy--a constancy that was sealed by death--I now give it to thee, my passionately loved bride, and swear in presence of the Holy Trinity, and before our true friend, I will never be the husband of any other woman than Garcinde of Malaspina." "And I will never be the wife of any other man than my Geoffroy," said the bride. "Amen. So be it," said Aigleta, in corroboration of their vow, laying--after the exchange of rings--their hands together. Then the pair knelt down before the picture of the Mother of God, and remained for a short season, in silent prayer. But when they rose again and sank into each other's arms, and with heart on heart, and mouth on mouth, ratified their holy vow, the witness slipped softly away. By-and-bye, they found her outside amongst the roses, of which she had woven two garlands. "No wedding without a garland," said she, and smiled, though her eyes were wet, while she crowned them both. Then the youth hurried to the stable and noiselessly saddled his horse and led him to the garden, where Garcinde lay on the breast of her friend, and whispered amidst her tears: "I know why thou weepest. God make thee as happy as thou hast been brave, and true to me." They set off quietly, Geoffroy leading the horse, who with dilated nostrils snorted at the moonlight, the girls following him over the bridge; then he lifted his young wife into the saddle, sprang up himself behind her, and waving his hand to Aigleta, spurred his faithful charger on. It did not feel the weight it bore too heavy, for with the exception of his sword and dagger, Geoffroy had taken nothing with him but his father's song-book, and Garcinde only a few ornaments which she had inherited from her mother, and which her father had never touched. Thus, then, they rode through the moonlit forest. They did not say much: every now and then when the horse was slowly crossing boggy ground, she would turn half round to him, and then he kissed her cheek, and her black eyes smiled while she whispered, "My dearest husband." She rested in his arms so sweetly, and the good horse trod so securely, that they hardly realised their circumstances--a hasty flight by night--a dark future before them--but enjoyed their bliss as though no shadow of care and danger hung over their love. But when they got out of the wood and reached the hill from whence Garcinde a few days ago had first beheld again her father's castle, she suddenly pulled the rein and turned the horse round. "What ails thee, sweet wife? And why dost thou halt here?" asked Geoffroy. She did not reply, but gazed over the wide plain towards the dark pile with its leaden-roofed turrets that shone in the moonlight. "What is it that you see, dearest?" asked the youth, who felt her tremble on his breast, as though a frosty chill had overtaken her on the warm summer night. "Let us look forwards, not back. Our happiness lies before us." But she only shook her head sorrowfully, turned away when he wished to kiss her, and said not a word. All of a sudden she had seemed to see in the deserted castle her father with a taper in his hand wandering from room to room, and crying, "Where is my daughter Garcinde? I have pledged my honour, she must redeem my pledge. Where is my child, and where is my honour? I was a beggar. I had nothing but my unstained name, and now that is lost. The last of the Malaspina has destroyed the good fame of the house, for she knows that I can no longer pursue her as in former years I should have done. I am old and sick, and a sinful man. Now, therefore, I must go down disgraced to the grave, for mine enemy will say I have connived at this, and that to avoid paying my debt, I have preferred even to give my last jewel to a beggar, than to the creditor I hated!" Then again this image vanished, and she now saw herself and her lover pursued on strange roads by an angry band, Pierre de Gaillac at their head, resolved to claim his bride from her ravisher. She saw her Jaufret fight with the energy of a despairing man, and yet at length conquered by numbers, shed his life's blood on the green grass, and she heard the mocking conqueror laugh, "So thou enviest me my gains at play, thou player's son; the creditor reclaims the debt the debtor would have withheld from him!" Then a deadly shudder passed over her; she thought for a moment that her heart had ceased to beat. All the joys of her young love seemed crushed by an icy hand. She knew now that what had appeared to her in her trouble a way of escape and an immeasurable bliss was a false dream; that she should but bring death and ruin to both the beings whom she supremely loved! "For the love of the Saints!" cried Geoffroy, who felt her cherished form grow heavy as a lifeless body in his embrace, "come to thyself again. What fearful thoughts hast thou in thy mind that thus thy lips move silently as though speaking with the departed? Give me the bridle and let us turn to life, to liberty. The spirits that hover over those towers will have no power over thee when once thou art the other side of this hill. Wilt thou make us both wretched? Wilt thou even--" He stopped when he saw the stony eyes of his young wife from which every beam of hope and joy had utterly vanished. But this did not last long, the convulsion was now over. She gave a deep sigh, turned on him eyes of yearning love, and said, while endeavouring to smile: "I have scared thee; forgive me, my beloved. What have we two to fear from any spirits that may hover over that house and envy us our bliss. Thou, my husband, and I, thy wife, eternally one, body and soul! But I have been thinking about our flight, that it is not the will of Heaven; and if we persisted, Jaufret, against my conscience, we should be punished, and should end as miserably as did thy father and my dear aunt. Trust to me, I have another idea which thou shalt know tomorrow early. Thou wilt praise thy wife when thou seest how she has contrived both to pay the debt to the creditor, and yet to be the wife of no man except her dearest cousin, to whom she has given herself in the presence of God. Lift me down from the saddle, I do not wish to ride any longer. If it pleases you, my husband, let us walk back through the wood, there are still many hours before day, and a fairer wedding-night no count's daughter could ever wish for. And now kiss me, so that I may again see a smile on thy lips; for truly this poor life is too short for us to spoil even one moment of it by care and gloom." He reluctantly did what she required of him; but when he took her into his arms and their lips met, he could not refrain from asking, "Oh Garcinde! What art thou thinking of? Hast thou not too much confidence in thyself, and wilt thou not if thy plan fails make us both eternally wretched?" But she smiled at him with bright eyes, laid her finger on his mouth, and said, "You are the happiest married man on earth, Sir Geoffrey; you have a wife who knows how to keep a secret. But now do not press me any further. What have we to do with the morrow? To-day are we already such old married people that we can find more important subjects to speak of than our love? Say, Jaufret, do I really please thee better than Agnes of Sardinia, and was her hand when she stroked thy hair not softer than mine? Nay, but thou must not embrace me so ardently here, the moon looks too boldly down, and after all she does not know that thou art my dear husband. Come into the wood, I am weary with our ride and would fain rest awhile. I know a bank where a brook runs through the moss, numbers of flowers bloom there, and I will weave them into fresh garlands, for those Aigleta made are quite crushed. Poor Aigleta! Dost thou know that she loved thee too well? But that cannot be helped now: no one can be the husband of two women; that is against God's law. And I, though I be not indeed better than she, I am the more unhappy of the two, or at least I should have been if thy heart, my beautiful love, had not been mine." With such words as these, which intoxicated the youth like strong wine, they went down the hill and entered the wood. Their gentle horse followed them of his own accord, and peacefully grazed near them in the flowery glade where they laid them down. Through the whole of the night the brook rippled and the nightingales sang, and the moon shone so brightly that no one could have thought of sleep, not at least two who had so much to confide to each other, and knew not whether there would be time for it on the following day. When the morning drew near, and the dew began to fall, and a cooler air swept through the wood, Garcinde arose and said, while a shudder passed over her, "It is growing cold, my husband. I think we ought to go home." "Where?" asked he, looking at her in amazement, but she smiled. "Only come," said she, "I will show you. Can I have any other home than thine?" With that she took his arm and led him out of the wood, and over the bridge back into his tower. "Here let me rest," said she, as she seated herself on his mother's bed. "Here I would fain sleep for an hour until the sun rises. But leave me alone, my beloved, otherwise we shall go on talking, and I shall not be able to close an eye. And give me your song-book too, I should like to read a verse or two before I fall asleep. And now, one good-night kiss, and then go! Oh, Jaufret, I love thee more than my life! Are we not two happy beings to have enjoyed such bliss that nothing can trouble us. And if we lived a hundred years, could time make us richer in joys when we have drunk from the cup of eternal blessedness?" Once more he embraced the lovely one, and kissed her long and fervently on her mouth. Then he left her alone. An hour later the cock crew. But it did not wake the youth who lay in the rose-garden, his cloak thrown over him, smiling in his dream as though he were inwardly happy, and murmuring the name of his young wife. Neither did it wake the sleeper in the turret-room, whose lips were half-open as though they, too, would pronounce a name, but all was still as death in the dim chamber. It was only when the sun had already risen over the tops of the trees, that Aigleta came by with weary eyes and pale face, listless and absorbed in her own thoughts. When she saw Geoffroy lying in the garden, she was horror-stricken as though she had seen a ghost, and it was only when she ascertained that he was breathing that she bent down to wake him. "You still here?" she whispered. "And where is--your wife?" He sprang up in haste, and without answering a word, rushed to his turret. When he opened the door, he gave a cry like a man mortally wounded, and fell upon the bed. There lay his young bride, one hand pressed to her heart, from which a little stream of blood still flowed, her other hand rested on the song-book, which was open at its last page, and the white fingers pointed to a newly written line that ran thus in the language of Provence: Lo deuteire paqua al crezedor tot lo deute. The debtor pays to the creditor all the debt. * * * * * It was noon before the servants ventured carefully to apprise Count Hugo of the heart-rending truth. He listened to the tidings as though he did not rightly understand their purport; even when they led him down to where his child, like a proud and beautiful statue of whitest marble, lay outstretched on the bed he knew so well, he gave no token of what he felt, spoke not a word, shed not a tear. All night he shut himself up with the dead. The next morning he ordered a bier to be prepared. He would redeem his word, he said, and carry the bride to her bridegroom. The servants silently obeyed. Geoffroy--who might else have put in his claim--lay in a raging fever, tended by Aigleta; his wound on the forehead had burst open afresh, and no salve availed to close it. When the procession came to Gaillac, Count Hugo at its head, the dead bride on a high bier borne by his servants, a great crowd of peasants and retainers behind, the bride's father sent a herald in advance to blow his trumpet three times, and cry with a loud voice, "The debtor pays to the creditor all that he owes him!" At this cry, Count Pierre de Gaillac appeared on the balcony of his castle; but when he saw the lamentable spectacle he turned away horrified, and violently signed to them to go back, that he would have no such wedding. Then he flung himself on his horse and rode far away, and only returned after many days a broken-down man who had forgotten how to laugh. Count Hugo, however, without giving one sign of grief, next ordered the bearers to carry the bier to a chapel that stood in the open country, and was dedicated to the blessed Lady of Mont Salvair. There on the land and property belonging to the Count de Gaillac, to whom he had to pay his debt, he buried the beautiful body of his child. And no one dared to touch a spade, for he determined with his own hands to prepare her last resting-place. When this ceremony had been performed amidst the tears of the crowd, all went away and left him. He remained alone in the chapel; no one knew whether he was praying or speaking with the dead. But when they went to look after him the next day, and to offer him food and drink, he was no longer living, and they buried him beside his child. Of Geoffroy the chronicle tells nothing further, except that in the autumn of the same year he joined the crusaders, and travelled towards Jerusalem, from whence he never came back. But any one turning over the old records of the Convent of Mont Salvair would there find that towards the end of the century, there was an abbess of the name of Aigleta von Malaspina--in religion named Sor Sofrenza (in modern French S[oe]ur Souffrance,)--who only at an advanced age entered into eternal rest. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: Sack that's torn will not hold grain. To poor men good advice is vain.] THE END. * * * * * * * * * PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER. 
32109	----	Transcriber's Note: 1. Page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/talesofcaravanin00haufrich TALES OF THE CARAVAN, INN, AND PALACE. TALES OF THE CARAVAN, INN, AND PALACE. BY WILLIAM HAUFF. WITH THE ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS. TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY EDWARD L. STOWELL. CHICAGO: JANSEN, McCLURG, & COMPANY. 1882. COPYRIGHT, JANSEN, MCCLURG & COMPANY. 1881. PRINTED BY DONNELLEY, GASSETTE & LOYD. TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. In introducing to American readers these charming and unique Tales, a few details may properly be given of their author's life and literary work. The record, though brief, is one of unusual interest. Wilhelm Hauff was born at Stuttgart, Germany, in 1802, and received his education at Tuebingen. He graduated from the University, in 1824, with the degree of Doctor of Philosophy; and for the following two years filled the position of tutor in a nobleman's family. It was during the leisure hours afforded by this occupation that he composed the greater part of the works upon which his fame rests. In 1826 he published his "_Maerchenalmanach auf das Jahr 1826, fuer Soehne und Toechter gebildeter Staende_," a translation of which is herewith tendered the American public, under the changed and abbreviated title of: "Tales of the Caravan, Inn, and Palace." In the same year, and closely following the "Fairy Tales," came "_Mittheilungen aus den Memoiren des Satan_," "_Der Mann im Monde_," a second volume of "Satan's Memoirs," and a collection of short tales. These volumes appeared in such rapid succession as to obscure for a time the brilliancy of the "Fairy Tales;" but later editions of them acquired a widespread circulation, while their popularity is so constantly on the increase as to suggest the thought that in time they may prove a formidable rival of the "Arabian Nights," in the regards of the young, the world over. The publication of "The Man in the Moon" gave Hauff a national reputation; but when his "_Lichtenstein, eine romantische Sage_" appeared, shortly afterward, the Wuertembergers hailed him as the coming Walter Scott of Germany. Whether he would have merited this fond and proud prediction of his countrymen, can not now be told. We only know that he seemed to recognize in the historical novel his true field of labor, and that he had already begun a second work of this nature, when he sickened and died, in the Fall of 1827, before he had reached his twenty-fifth birthday. Hauff stood on the threshold of his career as an author, in the dawning glory of his brilliant talents, when he was stricken down; yet his writings betray no sign of immaturity, and his collected works assure him a niche, high in the temple of literature. The art of investing localities with ideal characters who, in the reader's imagination, haunt the spot forever after, was a gift Hauff shared alike with his English brothers, Scott and Dickens. On crossing the Bridge of Arts, in Paris, at night, one familiar with his works is apt to look about for the tall and graceful form of the "Beggar Girl," with her lantern, and the plate held out so reluctantly for coins. Or, if he wander through the rugged Suabian Alps, Hauff's "_Lichtenstein_" will be the guide-book he consults; and through the valleys and over the hills to the _Nebelhoehle_ he will trace the flight of the stern Duke Ulerich, pausing maybe at the little village of Hardt to pick out if possible the piper's home, and to look sharply at every village maid, lest the kind-hearted little "Baerbele" should pass him unawares. Some of Hauff's poems became quite popular in Germany, and several of his songs may be heard to-day rising on the evening air from out the beautiful valleys he loved so well. Because of his genius and his early death, Hauff becomes associated in our mind with the English poets, Chatterton, Keats and Shelley; and in thinking of him we recall his own sad words-- "Oh, how soon Vanish grace and beauty's bloom; Dost thou boast of cheeks ne'er paling, Glowing red and white unfailing? See! the roses wither all!" Chicago, _October_, 1881. E. L. S. CONTENTS. PART I. Tales of the Caravan. THE CARAVAN, 11 THE CALIPH STORK, 15 THE AMPUTATED HAND, 30 THE RESCUE OF FATIMA, 49 LITTLE MUCK, 70 THE FALSE PRINCE, 91 PART II. Tales of the Inn. THE INN IN THE SPESSART, 119 THE HIRSCH-GULDEN, 126 THE MARBLE HEART (_First Part_), 151 SAID'S ADVENTURES, 182 THE CAVE OF STEENFOLL, 229 THE MARBLE HEART (_Second Part_), 260 PART III. Tales of the Palace. THE SHEIK'S PALACE AND HIS SLAVES, 295 THE DWARF NOSEY, 304 ABNER, THE JEW, 340 THE YOUNG ENGLISHMAN, 353 THE STORY OF ALMANSOR, 381 PART I. TALES OF THE CARAVAN. THE CARAVAN, [Illustration] Once upon a time, a large caravan moved slowly over the desert. On the vast plain, where nothing was to be seen but sand and sky, might have been heard in the far distance the tinkling bells of the camels and the ringing hoof beats of horses. A thick cloud of dust that moved before it indicated the approach of the caravan; and when a breeze parted this cloud, gleaming weapons and brilliantly colored garments dazzled the eye. Thus was the caravan revealed to a man who galloped towards it from one side. He rode a fine Arabian horse, covered with a tiger skin; from the deep-red trappings depended little silver bells, while on the horse's head waved a plume of heron feathers. The horseman was of stately bearing, and his attire corresponded in richness with that of his horse. A white turban, richly embroidered with gold, covered his head; his coat and Turkish trousers were of scarlet; while a curved sword, with a rich hilt, hung at his side. He had pulled the turban down well over his face; and this, with the black eyes that flashed from beneath the bushy brows, together with the long beard that hung straight down from his Roman nose, gave him a fierce and uncouth appearance. When the rider had approached to within about fifty paces of the vanguard of the caravan, he spurred his horse forward, and in a few moments reached the head of the procession. It was such an unusual occurrence to see a single horseman riding over the desert that the escort of the train, fearing an attack, thrust out their spears. "What do you mean?" cried the horseman, as he saw this warlike reception. "Do you, then, believe a single man would attack your caravan?" Ashamed of their momentary alarm, the escort dropped their lances; while their leader rode up to the stranger and asked what he wanted. "Who is the master of this caravan?" inquired the horseman. "It does not belong to one man," replied the guide; "but to several merchants who are returning from Mecca to their homes, and whom we escort across the desert, as it often happens that travelers are annoyed by robbers." "Then lead me to these merchants," requested the stranger. "That may not be done now," replied the guide, "as we must proceed farther on before coming to a halt, and the merchants are at least a quarter of an hour behind us; but if you will ride on with me until we encamp for our mid-day rest, I will then comply with your wish." The stranger made no reply, but produced a pipe that was fastened to his saddle-bow, and began to smoke, meanwhile riding near the leader of the vanguard. The guide knew not what to make of the stranger; he hardly dared to question him directly as to his name, and no matter how skillfully he sought to draw him into conversation, the stranger would only reply to such attempts as: "You smoke a fine quality of tobacco," or, "Your horse has a splendid pace," with a short "Yes, certainly." Finally they reached the spot where they were to camp for the noon. The guide posted the guards, but remained himself with the stranger until the caravan should come up. Thirty camels, heavily laden, and attended by armed guards, passed by. After these came the four merchants to whom the caravan belonged, mounted on fine horses. They were mostly men of advanced age, of sober and staid appearance. Only one seemed much younger than the others, and of more cheerful countenance and vivacious spirits. A large number of camels and pack-horses completed the caravan. The tents were pitched, and the horses and camels ranged around them in a circle. In the centre stood a tent of blue silk cloth. To this tent the leader of the guard led the stranger. As they entered through the curtain, they saw the four merchants sitting on gold embroidered cushions, while black slaves handed them food and drink. "Who is it you bring to us?" cried the young merchant to the guide. Before the guide could reply, the stranger said-- "My name is Selim Baruch, of Bagdad. On my way to Mecca I was captured by a robber band, and three days ago I succeeded in making my escape from them. The great Prophet permitted me to hear the bells of your camels in the distance, and thus directed me to you. Allow me to journey in your company. Your protection would not be extended to one unworthy of it; and when you reach Bagdad, I will richly reward your kindness, as I am the nephew of the Grand Vizier." The oldest merchant made reply: "Selim Baruch, you are welcome to our shelter. It gives us pleasure to assist you. But first of all, sit down and eat and drink with us." Selim Baruch accepted this invitation. On the conclusion of the repast, the slaves cleared away the dishes, and brought long pipes and Turkish sherbet. The merchants sat silently watching the blue clouds of smoke as they formed into rings and finally vanished in the air. The young merchant at length broke the silence by saying-- "For three days we have sat thus on horseback and at table without making any attempt to while away the time. To me this is very wearisome, as I have always been accustomed after dinner to see a dancer or to hear music and singing. Can you think of nothing, my friends, to pass away the time?" The three older merchants continued to smoke, seemingly lost in meditation, but the stranger said-- "Permit me to make a proposition. It is that at every camping-place one of us shall relate a story to the others. This might serve to make the time pass pleasantly." "You are right, Selim Baruch," said one of the merchants, "let us act on the proposal." "I am glad the suggestion meets with your approval," said Selim; "but that you may see I ask nothing unfair, I will be the first to begin." The merchants drew nearer together in pleased anticipation, and had the stranger sit in the centre. The slaves replenished the cups and filled the pipes of their masters, and brought glowing coals to light them. Then Selim cleared his voice with a generous glass of sherbet, stroked the long beard away from his mouth, and said-- "Listen, then, to the story of the Caliph Stork." THE CALIPH STORK. I. One fine afternoon, Chasid, Caliph of Bagdad, reclined on his divan. Owing to the heat of the day he had fallen asleep, and was now but just awakened, feeling much refreshed by his nap. He puffed at a long-stemmed rosewood pipe, pausing now and then to sip the coffee handed him by an attentive slave, and testifying his approval of the same by stroking his beard. In short, one could see at a glance that the Caliph was in an excellent humor. Of all others, this was the hour when he might be most easily approached, as he was now quite indulgent and companionable; and therefore it was the custom of his Grand Vizier, Mansor, to visit him every day at this time. As usual, he came to-day; but, as was unusual with him, his expression was quite serious. The Caliph, removing the pipe from his mouth for a moment, said-- "Why do you wear so sober a face, Grand Vizier?" The Vizier crossed his arms on his breast, bowed low before his master, and made answer-- "Sire, whether my face be sober or no, I know not. But beneath the castle walls stands a trader, who has such beautiful wares that I cannot help regretting that I have no spare money." The Caliph, who had long wished for an opportunity to do his Vizier a favor, sent his black slave below to bring up the trader. The slave soon returned with the man, who was short and stout, of dark brown complexion, and clothed in rags. He carried a box containing all manner of wares: strings of pearls, rings, and richly-chased pistols, cups and combs. The Caliph and Grand Vizier looked them all over, and finally the Caliph selected a fine pair of pistols for Mansor and himself, as well as a comb for the Vizier's wife. Now just as the merchant was about to close his box, the Caliph espied a small drawer therein, and desired to know if it contained still other valuables. By way of reply, the trader opened the drawer, disclosing a little box containing a blackish powder, and a paper covered with singular writing, that neither the Caliph nor Mansor was able to read. "These two articles," explained the trader, "came into my possession through a merchant who found them on the street in Mecca. I do not know what they contain, but, for a small consideration, you are welcome to them, as I can make nothing of them." The Caliph, who took pleasure in preserving old manuscripts in his library, even though he might not be able to read them, bought both the paper and the box, and dismissed the merchant. Then, curious to know what the manuscript contained, he inquired of the Vizier if he knew of any one who could decipher it. "Most gracious master and benefactor," replied the Vizier, "near the great mosque lives a man called Selim the Learned, who understands all languages. Let him be summoned; perhaps he might know these secret characters." The learned Selim was soon brought. "Selim," began the Caliph, "it is said that you are very learned. Look for a moment at this writing, and see if you can make it out. If you can read it, you shall receive a new holiday cloak from me; if you cannot, you will get instead twelve lashes on the back and twenty-five on the soles of your feet, for being misnamed Selim the Learned." Selim made an obeisance, saying, "Thy will be done, O Sire!" He then examined the writing long and attentively, suddenly exclaiming, "If this be not Latin, Sire, then give me to the hangman!" "Read what is written there, if it is Latin!" commanded the Caliph. Selim thereupon began to translate as follows: "_Man, whoever thou art, that findeth this, praise Allah for His goodness. He who takes a pinch of this powder, at the same time saying,_ MUTABOR, _will be able to transform himself into any animal, and will also understand the language of animals. Whenever he wishes to re-assume the human form, he shall bow three times towards the East and pronounce the same word. But take care that thou dost not laugh while thou art transformed, or the magic word would vanish utterly from thy memory, and thou wouldst remain an animal._" When Selim the Learned had read this, the Caliph was pleased beyond measure. He made the scholar swear never to mention the secret to any one; presented him with a beautiful cloak, and then dismissed him. Then turning to his Vizier, he said-- "I call that a good investment, Mansor. I am impatient to become an animal. Come to me to-morrow morning early. We will then go together to the fields, take a little pinch of this magical snuff, and then listen to what is said in the air and the water, in the forest and field." II. No sooner had the Caliph Chasid dressed and breakfasted on the following morning, than the Grand Vizier arrived, as he had been commanded to do, to accompany him on his walk. The Caliph put the box containing the magic powder in his sash, and after bidding his attendants remain in the castle, started off, attended only by Mansor. They first took their way through the extensive gardens of the Caliph, vainly searching for some living thing, in order to make their experiment. The Vizier at last proposed that they go farther on, to a pond, where he had frequently seen many creatures, more especially storks. The Caliph consented to the proposal of Mansor, and went with him towards the pond. Arriving there, they saw a stork walking up and down, looking for frogs, and occasionally striking out before him with his bill. At the same time far up in the sky they discerned another stork hovering over this spot. "I will wager my beard, Most Worthy Master," said the Vizier, "that these two storks will hold a charming conversation together. What say you to our becoming storks?" "Well thought of!" answered the Caliph. "But first let us carefully examine again the directions for resuming our human form. All right! By bowing three times towards the East and saying '_Mutabor_,' I shall be once more Caliph, and you Grand Vizier. But, for heavens sake! recollect! _No laughing, or we are lost!_" While the Caliph spoke, he noticed that the stork above their heads was gradually approaching the earth. Quickly drawing the box from his girdle, he put a good pinch to his nose, held out the box to the Vizier, who also took a pinch, and both then cried out: "_Mutabor!_" Their legs at once shrank up and became thin and red; the beautiful yellow slippers of the Caliph and his companion took on the shape of stork's feet; their arms developed into wings; their necks were stretched until they measured a yard in length; their beards vanished, while white feathers covered their bodies. "You have a beautiful bill, Mr. Grand Vizier," cried the Caliph, after a long pause of astonishment. "By the beard of the Prophet! I never saw any thing like it in my life." [Illustration] "Thank you most humbly," replied the Vizier, bowing low; "but, if I dare venture the assertion, Your Highness presents a much handsomer appearance as a stork than as Caliph. But come; if agreeable to you, let us keep watch on our companions over there, and ascertain whether we can really understand _Storkish_." In the meantime the other stork had alighted on the ground, cleaned its feet with its bill, smoothed its feathers nicely, and approached the first stork. The two newly-made storks now made haste to get near them, and, to their surprise, overheard the following conversation: "Good morning, Mrs. Longlegs! So early in the meadow?" "Thank you kindly, dear Clapperbill; I was just procuring a little breakfast for myself. How would a portion of lizard suit you, or a leg of a frog?" "Much obliged; but, I have not the least appetite to-day. I come to the meadow for quite another purpose. I am to dance to-day before my father's guests, and therefore wish to practice a little in private." So saying, the young stork stepped over the field in a series of wonderful evolutions. The Caliph and Mansor looked on in wonder. But when she struck an artistic attitude on one foot, and began to fan herself gracefully with her wings, the two could no longer contain themselves. An irrepressible fit of laughter burst forth from their bills, from which it took them a long time to recover. The Caliph was the first to compose himself. "That was sport!" exclaimed he, "that money could not buy. It's too bad that the stupid creatures were frightened away by our laughter, or they would certainly have tried to sing." Just here the Vizier remembered that laughing during the transformation was forbidden them. He communicated his anxiety to the Caliph. "Zounds! By the Cities of the Prophet, that would be a bad joke if I were compelled to remain a stork! Try and think of that stupid word, Mansor! For the life of me, I can't recall it!" "We must bow three times towards the East, calling: _Mu_-- _Mu_-- _Mu_." They turned towards the East, and bowed away so zealously that their bills nearly ploughed up the ground. But, O Horror! the magic word had escaped them; and no matter how often the Caliph bowed, or how earnestly his Vizier called out--_Mu_-- _Mu_, their memory failed them; and the poor Chasid and his Vizier remained storks. III. Sadly the enchanted ones wandered through the fields, without the slightest idea of what course they had better pursue in their present plight. They could neither get rid of their feathers, nor could they return to the town with any hope of recognition; for who would believe a stork, were he to proclaim himself Caliph? or, even believing the story, would the citizens of Bagdad be willing to have a stork for their Caliph? So they stole about for several days, supporting themselves very poorly on fruits, which, on account of their long bills, they could eat only with great difficulty. For lizards and frogs they had no appetite, fearing lest such tit-bits might disagree with their stomachs. The only consolation left them in their wretchedness was the power of flight; and they often flew to the roofs of Bagdad, that they might see what occurred there. For the first day or two, they noticed great excitement in the streets, followed by sadness. But about the fourth day after their enchantment, while they were resting on the roof of the Caliph's palace, they observed down in the street a brilliant procession. Trumpets and fifes sounded. A man in a gold-embroidered scarlet coat sat upon a richly caparisoned steed, surrounded by a gay retinue. Half Bagdad followed him, and all shouted: [Illustration] "Hail Mizra! Ruler of Bagdad!" The two storks perched on the palace roof, exchanged a glance, and Caliph Chasid said-- "Do you perceive now the meaning of my enchantment, Grand Vizier? This Mizra is the son of my deadly enemy, who, in an evil hour, swore to revenge himself on me. But still I will not give up all hope. Come with me, thou faithful companion of my misfortune, we will make a pilgrimage to the grave of the Prophet. Perhaps in that sacred place the spell will be removed." They rose from the palace roof and flew in the direction of Medina. But so little practice had the two storks had in flying, that it fared hard with them. "Oh, Sire!" groaned the Grand Vizier, after a few hours' flight, "with your permission I shall have to stop. You fly much too fast! And it is now evening, and we should do well to look out for a place on which to alight for the night." Chasid harkened to the request of his follower, and, perceiving a ruin that promised to afford a shelter, they flew down to it. The place they had selected for the night bore the appearance of having once been a castle. Beautiful columns rose out of the ruins, while several rooms still in a fair state of preservation, testified to the former splendor of the building. Chasid and his companion strolled through the passages, seeking some dry sheltered spot, when suddenly the stork Mansor stopped. "Sire," whispered he softly, "I wish it were not so unbecoming in a Grand Vizier, and even more in a stork, to fear ghosts! My courage is fast failing me, for near here there was a distinct sound of sighing and groaning!" The Caliph also stopped, and very plainly heard a low sobbing that seemed to proceed from a human being, rather than from an animal. Full of curiosity, he was about to approach the place whence the sounds came, when the Vizier caught him by the wing with his bill, and begged him most earnestly not to plunge into new and unknown dangers. All in vain! for the Caliph, who even under a stork's wing, carried a stout heart, tore himself away with the loss of a few feathers, and hastened into a dark passage. He shortly came to a door, through which he plainly heard sighs intermingled with low groans. He pushed open the door with his bill, but remained standing on the threshold in surprise. In the ruined room, lighted but dimly by a small lattice window, he saw a large owl sitting on the floor. Large tears fell from its great round eyes, while in passionate tones it poured forth its complaints from its curved beak. But when the owl saw the Caliph and his Vizier, who by this time had stolen up, it raised a loud cry of joy. Daintily brushing the tears from its eyes with the brown spotted wings, it exclaimed in pure human Arabic, to the wonder of the listeners: "Welcome, storks! You are a good omen, as it was once prophecied that storks would be the bearers of good fortune to me." As soon as the Caliph had sufficiently recovered from his astonishment, he made a bow with his long neck, brought his slender feet into a graceful position, and said-- "O owl of the night! from your words I believe I see in you a companion in misfortune. But, alas! Your hope that we can give you relief is doomed to disappointment. You will yourself appreciate our helplessness when you have heard our story." The owl requested him to relate it; which the Caliph did, just as we have heard it. IV. When the Caliph had concluded his story, the owl thanked him, and said: "Listen also to my tale, and learn that I am not less unfortunate than yourself. My father is king of India. I, his only and unhappy daughter, am named Lusa. That same Sorcerer, Kaschnur, who transformed you, plunged me also into misery. One day he came to my father and demanded me in marriage for his son Mizra. But my father, who is a quick tempered man, had him thrown down-stairs. The wretch found means, by assuming other forms, of approaching me; and one day, as I was taking the air in my garden, he appeared, dressed as a slave, and handed me a drink that changed me into this horrible shape. He brought me here senseless from fright, and shouted in my ears with a terrible voice: 'Here you shall remain, ugly, despised by every creature, until death; or till some man voluntarily offers to marry you in your present form! Thus do I revenge myself on you and your proud father!' Since then many months have passed. Lonely and sad, I live as a hermit within these walls, abhorred by the world, despised even by animals, shut out from all enjoyment of the beauties of nature, as I am blind by day, and only at night, when the moon sheds its pale light over these walls, does the veil fall from my eyes." The owl finished her story, and once more brushed away with her wing the tears which the recital of her sufferings had caused. The Caliph was sunk in deep thought over the story of the Princess. "Unless I am greatly in error," said he, "there is a hidden connection between our misfortunes; but where shall I find the key to this riddle?" "O, Sire," the owl replied, "I suspect that too, for when I was a little child it was foretold me by a soothsayer that a stork would sometime bring me great good fortune. And I think I know a way by which we can accomplish our own rescue." In great surprise the Caliph asked her in what way she meant. "The sorcerer who has done this wrong to us both," she answered, "comes once a month to these ruins. Not far from here there is a room in which he is accustomed to hold a banquet with many of his fellows. Many times have I heard them there. On these occasions they relate to each other their shameful deeds. Perhaps then he will divulge the magic word you have forgotten." "O, dearest Princess," cried the Caliph, "tell us, when does he come, and where is the banqueting hall?" The owl remained silent for a moment, and then said: "Do not take it unkindly; but only on one condition can I inform you." "Speak out! speak out!" exclaimed Chasid. "Whatever your condition it will be acceptable to me." "Well then, I am also desirous of being set free; but this can only happen by one of you offering me his hand." The storks were somewhat disconcerted at this proposal; and the Caliph beckoned his follower to leave the room with him. "Grand Vizier," said the Caliph, closing the door behind them, "this is a pretty piece of business! But you, now, might take her." "Indeed?" answered he, "and thus give my wife cause to scratch my eyes out, when I get home? Then, too, I am an old man; whereas you are young and unmarried, and therefore in a better position to offer your hand to a beautiful young princess." "That's the very point," sighed the Caliph, as he sadly allowed his wings to droop to the ground. "It would be buying a cat in the bag; for what assurance have you that she is young and beautiful?" They discussed the matter for a long time, until at last the Caliph, convinced that the Vizier would rather remain a stork than marry the Princess, concluded to fulfill the condition she had imposed on himself. The owl was greatly rejoiced, and confessed that they could not have come at a better time, as it was probable that the sorcerers would assemble there that very night. The owl then left the room with the storks to show them to the banquet-room. For a long time they walked through a dark passage, when finally there streamed out bright rays of light through a broken wall. As they came up to the wall the owl cautioned the storks to remain perfectly quiet. The gap in which they stood overlooked a large room, adorned on all sides with marble columns, and tastefully decorated; countless colored lamps made the place light as day. In the centre of the room stood a round table covered with various dainty dishes, and upon the divan that encircled it, sat eight men. In one of these men the storks recognized the trader who had sold them the magic powder. The person who sat next to him called on him to relate his latest deeds. The trader then told the story of the Caliph and his Vizier. V. "What kind of a word did you give them?" asked the other sorcerer. "A very hard Latin word--_Mutator_." When the storks from their place in the wall, heard this, they were almost beside themselves with joy. They ran so fast toward the outlet of the ruins that the owl could hardly keep up with their long legs. Once clear of the building, the Caliph said to the owl with much feeling: "Savior of my life and the life of my friend! As a lasting reward for what you have done, take me for your husband." Then he turned to the East. Three times the storks bowed their long necks to the sun just rising above the mountains, "_Mutabor!_" shouted they, and in a trice they were men again. Then, in the joy of their newly-returned life, master and follower were laughing and weeping by turns in each other's arms. But who could describe their astonishment when they turned around and saw a beautiful lady, richly dressed, standing before them? With a smile she gave the Caliph her hand. "Do you no longer recognize the owl?" she asked. It really was the Princess. The Caliph was so enraptured by her beauty and grace, that he declared his transformation into a stork had been the best piece of fortune that had ever happened to him. The three now set out together on their journey to Bagdad. The Caliph found in his clothes not only the box of magic powder, but his purse as well. He therefore bought in the next village whatever was necessary for their journey, and thus they soon reached the gates of Bagdad. There the arrival of the Caliph caused the greatest surprise. He had long since been given up for dead, and the joy of the people at getting back their beloved ruler knew no bounds. All the more was their wrath inflamed against the traitor Mizra. They rushed to the palace, and took the old sorcerer and his son prisoners. The Caliph sent the old man to the ruins, and had him hanged in the very room that had been occupied by the Princess when an owl. But to the son, who understood nothing of the art of his father, he gave the choice of death or a pinch of the powder. As the prisoner chose the latter, the Grand Vizier offered him the box. A generous pinch, followed by the magic word of the Caliph, and he became a stork. The Caliph secured him in an iron cage, which was placed in the garden. Long and happily Caliph Chasid lived with his wife, the Princess. His pleasantest hours were always those of the afternoon, when the Grand Vizier visited him. Then they often spoke of their adventures as storks, and whenever the Caliph felt unusually merry, he began to imitate the Grand Vizier as he appeared when a stork. He stalked up and down the room, set up a great clapping, waved his arms as though they were wings, and showed how the Vizier had turned to the East and called, "_Mu_-- _Mu_-- _Mu_--." All this was great sport for the Caliph's wife and children. But sometimes, when the Caliph clapped too long and cried, "_Mu_-- _Mu_-- _Mu_--" too often, the Vizier was wont to silence him with the threat that if he did not stop he would tell the Princess what their conversation had been before the door of her room in the ruin. As Selim Baruch finished his story, the merchants testified their approval thereof most heartily. "Of a truth, the afternoon has passed without our knowing it," said one of them, lifting the curtain of the tent. "The evening wind blows fresh; we could put behind us a good stretch of road." As his companions were of the same opinion, the tents were folded, and the caravan started on its way in the same order in which it had entered camp. They journeyed nearly all night, as the days were hot and sultry, while the night was cool and starlit. They came at last to a convenient camping place, pitched their tents and lay down to rest. But the merchants did not neglect to provide for the stranger as bountifully as if he had been their most honored guest. One gave him a cushion, another blankets, a third gave him slaves; in short, he was as well provided for as though he had been at home. The heated hours of the day were already upon them when they arose from their slumbers, and they therefore unanimously decided to remain where they were until evening. When night approached, the movement of the caravan was resumed, and its progress was continued until the following noon without impediment. After they had halted and refreshed themselves, Selim Baruch said to Muley, the youngest of the merchants-- "Although you are the youngest of us all, you are always cheerful, and could certainly give us a merry tale. Serve it up, so that we may refresh ourselves after the heat of the day." "I should be glad to relate something that would amuse you," answered Muley. "Still, modesty in all things is becoming to youth; therefore, my older traveling companions should take precedence. Zaleukos is always so serious and silent, ought he not to tell us what it is that clouds his life? Perhaps we should be able to lighten his sorrow, if such he experiences; for we would willingly treat him as a brother, even though he is not of our religion." The person thus addressed was a Greek merchant--a man in middle age, fine looking and of vigorous frame, but very grave. Although he was an unbeliever (that is, not a Musselman), he was much beloved by his fellow-travelers, as his whole conduct had won their esteem and confidence. He had but one hand, and some of his companions supposed that this loss was the cause of his grief. Zaleukos replied to the confidential inquiries of Muley: "I am much honored by the interest you take in me, but have no grief--at least none that you, with even the best intentions, could dispel. Still, as Muley seems to lay so much stress on my sadness, I will tell you something that will perhaps account for my appearing sadder than other people. As you see, I have lost my left hand. It was not missing at my birth, but I was deprived of it in the darkest hours of my life. Whether my punishment was just--whether, under the circumstances, my features could be other than sad--you may judge for yourselves when you have heard the story of the Amputated Hand." THE AMPUTATED HAND. I was born in Constantinople. My father was an interpreter at the Sublime Porte, carrying on at the same time quite a lucrative trade in ottar of roses and silk goods. He gave me a good education, devoting a part of his own time to my instruction, and also employing one of our priests to superintend my studies. At first he designed me to be the successor of his business, but as I developed greater talents than even he had expected, he changed his mind, and, by the advice of his friends, concluded to make a physician of me; inasmuch as a doctor, whose acquirements were greater than those of the quacks on the market-place, was sure of making his way in Constantinople. Many Franks came to our house, and one of them persuaded my father to allow me to go to the city of Paris, in his country, where the best medical education might be had gratuitously. He proposed to take me with him on his return journey, and the trip should cost me nothing. My father, who had traveled widely in his youth, assented to the arrangement, and the Frenchman told me I should have three months in which to get ready. I was beside myself with joy at the prospect of seeing foreign countries, and waited for the day of our departure with great impatience. At last the Frenchman finished his business, and prepared for the journey. On the evening before we started, my father led me into his bedchamber. There I saw fine apparel and weapons lying on the table. But that which attracted my attention most was a large pile of gold, larger than I had ever before seen. My father embraced me, saying-- "See, my son, I have provided these clothes for your journey. These weapons are also yours; they are the same that your grandfather buckled on me when I went out into the world. I know that you can wield them; but never use them except in self-defense, and then strike hard. My fortune is not large; look, I have divided it into three parts: one is yours, another is for my own support, but the third is a sacred trust, to be well guarded, and meant to serve you in the hour of need." Thus spake my good old father, while tears stood in his eyes, perhaps from a presentiment that he would never see me again. Every thing went well on the journey. We soon arrived in the land of the Franks, and six days afterwards we entered the great city of Paris. My friend rented a room for me there, and advised me as to the best disposition to make of my money, which amounted in all to two thousand thalers. I lived for three years in this city, and learned what a qualified physician should know; but I should be guilty of untruth were I to say that I lived there contentedly, for the customs of this people did not please me. I had but few good friends there, but these few were noble young men. In all this time I had heard nothing from my father. The desire to see my home finally prevailed over all other considerations. I therefore seized a favorable opportunity to return. An embassy from the Franks was bound to the Sublime Porte. I engaged as surgeon in the retinue of the ambassadors, and arrived safely once more in Stamboul. I found my father's house closed. The neighbors were astonished to see me, and told me that my father had been dead for two months. The priest who had instructed me in my youth, brought me the key, and alone and bereft I entered the desolate house. I found every thing as my father had left it, with the single exception of the gold that he had promised to leave me--that was missing. I asked the priest about it. He made a low bow, and replied: "Your father died as a holy man, leaving his gold to the church." This was incomprehensible to me, yet what should I do? I had no witnesses against the priest, and must console myself with the reflection that he had not also regarded the house and goods of my father as a legacy to the church. This was the first misfortune that happened to me, but from this time forth, stroke followed stroke. My reputation as a physician did not spread, because I could not stoop to advertise myself on the market-place; and, above all, I missed my father, whose recommendation would have secured me admittance to the wealthiest and most influential families, which now never gave a thought to the poor Zaleukos. Then, too, my father's goods found no sale, as the old customers disappeared after his death, and to gain new ones would require time. Once, as I was hopelessly thinking over my situation, it occurred to me that I had often seen countrymen of mine wandering through the land of the Franks, and displaying their wares in the squares of the cities. I remembered that their goods found a ready sale, because they came from a strange country, and that the profits on such merchandise were very large. My resolution was taken at once. I sold the homestead, gave a part of the sale money to a trustworthy friend to keep for me, and with the remainder bought such goods as were not common among the Franks; shawls, silk stuff's, ointments, oils, etc. I then took passage on a ship, and so began my second journey to the land of the Franks. It seemed as though fortune smiled on me again the moment we left the Dardanelles behind. Our voyage was short and fortunate. I wandered through the cities and towns of the Franks, and every-where found ready purchasers for my wares. My friend in Stamboul kept forwarding me consignments of fresh goods, and day by day my financial condition improved. When I thought I had made money enough to venture on some larger undertaking, I went to Italy with my goods. I have omitted speaking on one thing that brought me in quite a little sum of money; this was my knowledge of medicine. When I entered a town, I scattered notices announcing the arrival of a Greek physician, whose skill had restored many to health; and my balsams and medicines brought me in many a sequin. At last I reached the city of Florence. It was my intention to remain some time in this place, partly because the city pleased me, and partly for the reason that I wished to recover from the fatigue of my wanderings. I rented a shop in the Santa Croce quarter, and not far from it, in an inn, I found a suite of beautiful rooms that overlooked a terrace. I then distributed notices that advertised me as a merchant and physician. I had no sooner opened my shop than a stream of customers poured in, and although my prices were rather high, I sold more than others, because I was polite and affable with my customers. I had passed four days pleasantly in Florence, when one evening, after closing my shop, as I was counting over the profits of the day, I came across a note, in a little box, that I could not remember having put there. I opened the note, and found that it contained a request that I would come to the Ponte Vecchio that night punctually at twelve o'clock. I studied for a long time over the matter; but, as I did not know a soul in Florence, I concluded that somebody wished to lead me secretly to a sick person, as had happened more than once before. I therefore resolved to go; but, by way of precaution, I took along the sword that my father had given me. Shortly before midnight I started, and soon came to the Ponte Vecchio. I found the bridge deserted, and determined to wait until the person who had invited me there should appear. The night was cold; the moon shone bright, and I looked down at the waves of the Arno gleaming in the moonlight. The church clocks struck twelve. I raised my head, and before me stood a tall man, covered with a red mantle, a corner of which he held before his face. I was somewhat startled at first by his sudden appearance, but collecting myself immediately, said to him: "If you are the person who ordered me here, tell me what it is you desire?" The man in the red mantle turned about and said slowly: "Follow me!" I felt somewhat uneasy about accompanying this stranger, and replied: "Not so, dear sir, until you first tell me where I am to follow you; and you might also show me your face, so that I may assure myself that you mean me no harm." The stranger, however, assumed to be indifferent, and said, "If you won't go, Zaleukos, then don't!" This aroused my anger. "Do you think," exclaimed I, "that a man like me will allow himself to be made sport of by every fool? and that I should wait here in this cold night for nothing?" In three leaps I reached him, seized him by the cloak, and shouted still louder, at the same time laying my other hand on my sword; but the stranger had already disappeared around the next corner, leaving the cloak in my hand. By and by my rage subsided; I still had the cloak, and this should furnish the key to this singular adventure. I put it on and started to go home. But before I had gone a hundred steps from the bridge, somebody brushed by me, and whispered to me in French: "Take care, Count; it can't be done to-night!" But before I could look around, this person was far away, and I saw only a shadow flitting by the houses. I saw at once that these whispered words were meant for the owner of the cloak, and did not in any way concern me; but they shed no light on the mystery. The next morning I considered what would better be done in the matter. My first thought was to have the mantle cried in the streets, as though I had found it, but in that case the owner could have sent for it by some third party, and I should be no wiser for my pains. While I was thinking of this, I examined the mantle closely. It was of heavy reddish-purple Genoese velvet, with a border of Astrachan fur, and richly embroidered with gold. The splendid appearance of the cloak led me to think of a plan that I resolved to put in execution. I took the cloak to my store, and offered it for sale; but placed such a high price on it that I was sure it would find no purchaser. My purpose in this was to look everybody who asked about the furred cloak directly in the eye. I thought that as I had had a momentary glimpse of the figure of the unknown man after the loss of his cloak, I would know it among a thousand. There were many admirers of the cloak, whose extraordinary beauty attracted all eyes; but none of them resembled the stranger, and not one of them would pay the exorbitant price of two hundred sequins. It struck me as strange that when I asked one and another whether such cloaks were common in Florence, they all answered, "no," and assured me that they had never before seen such a rich and elegant piece of work. As evening drew near, a young man, who had often been in my shop, and who had already bid high for the cloak, came in, and threw down a purse of sequins, exclaiming: "Before God, Zaleukos, I must have your cloak, even if it beggars me." He at once began to count out his gold pieces. I was in quite a dilemma. I had only hung up the mantle in order that it might perhaps catch the eye of its owner; and along came a young fool to pay the monstrous price, but what could I do? I finally consented to the bargain, as from one point of view I should be well compensated for my night's adventure. The youth put on the mantle and left, but turned on the threshold and detached a paper that was fastened to the mantle, which he threw to me, saying: "Here, Zaleukos, is something that evidently does not go with the cloak." I took the paper unconcernedly, and found the following words were written on it: "Bring the cloak to the Ponte Vecchio to-night, at the appointed time, and you will receive four hundred sequins." I was thunderstruck. I had forfeited this chance, and, had not even attained my purpose. But not stopping to consider the matter, I gathered up the two hundred sequins, and rushed out after the man who had bought the cloak. "Take back your money my good friend," said I, "and leave me the mantle, as it is impossible for me to part with it." At first the young man looked on this as a joke; but when he saw that I was really in earnest, he angrily refused to comply with my demand, treated me as a fool, and thus we speedily came to blows. I was so fortunate as to snatch the cloak away from him in the scuffle, and was hastening away with it, when the young man summoned the police, and we were taken to court. The judge was surprised at the accusation against me, and awarded the cloak to my opponent. But I offered the young man twenty, fifty, eighty, yes, one hundred sequins, over and above his two hundred, if he would leave me in possession of the mantle. My gold accomplished what my entreaties could not. He took my sequins, while I carried away the mantle in triumph, contenting myself with the thought that even if all Florence considered me insane, I knew, better than they, that I should clear something by this transaction. Impatiently I awaited the night. At the same hour as on the previous night, I went to the Ponte Vecchio with the mantle on my arm. At the last stroke of the clock, a form approached out of the darkness. It was undoubtedly the man I had met the night before. "Have you the mantle?" I was asked. "Yes," replied I; "but it cost me a hundred sequins cash." "I know it," was the reply, "look here, there are four hundred." He walked with me up to the broad balustrade of the bridge, and counted out the gold pieces. They glistened brightly in the moonlight; their gleam rejoiced my heart. Oh, I dreamed not that it was the last joy it would ever experience. I put the money in my pocket, and attempted to get a good look at the stranger; but he wore a mask, through which dark eyes darted a formidable look on me. "I thank you, sir, for your kindness," said I. "What now do you require from me? But I say to you beforehand that it must not be any thing wrong." "Your anxiety is needless," replied he, as he placed the mantle on his shoulders. "I need your services as a doctor; still, not for a living patient, but for a dead one." "How can that be?" cried I, in astonishment. "I came with my sister from a distant country," began the stranger, beckoning me at the same time to follow him. "I lived with her here at the house of a friend. My sister had been ill, and yesterday she died suddenly. Her relatives will bury her to-morrow. But in accordance with an old custom in our family, all of its members must be buried in the tomb of their ancestors. Many who died in foreign lands were embalmed and brought home. I will permit our relatives here to keep my sister's body, but I must at least take to my father the head of his daughter, that he may see her once more." This custom of cutting off the heads of beloved relatives seemed horrible to me; still I thought best not to offer any objections, lest the stranger should feel insulted. I therefore told him that I was acquainted with the method of embalming the dead, and requested him to conduct me to the deceased. Still I could not refrain from inquiring why all this was to be conducted so secretly and at night? He answered that his relatives, holding his views on this subject to be wicked, would prevent him from carrying them out by day; but when the head was once removed, they could say little more on the subject. Of course he might have brought me the head himself but a natural feeling held him back from removing it. In the meantime we had reached a large and magnificent house, which my companion pointed out to me as the end of our night's pilgrimage. We passed by the principal gate, entering by a smaller one, which the stranger closed carefully after him, and ascended a spiral staircase in the darkness. It led into a dimly lighted corridor, from which he gained a room which was lighted by a lamp suspended from the ceiling. In this room was a bed, on which the body lay. The stranger turned his head away, apparently making an attempt to hide his tears. He pointed to the bed; ordered me to do my work well and quickly, and walked out of the door. I took out my instruments, which as a physician I always carried with me, and approached the bed. Only the head of the dead girl was visible, but this was so beautiful that I was seized with the deepest pity. The dark hair hung down in long braids; the face was pale; the eyes were closed. I first made a slight incision in the skin, as is the practice with surgeons when they are about to remove a limb. Then I selected my sharpest knife, and with one stroke cut through the windpipe. But what a tragedy! The girl opened her eyes, closing them again instantly, and with a deep sigh, now, for the first time, breathed out her life, while at the same time a warm stream of blood gushed from the wound. I was sure that I had taken the life of this poor creature; for that she was now dead was beyond question, as there could be no recovery from this wound. [Illustration] I stood some moments almost stupefied at what had taken place. Had the man in the red mantle betrayed me, or had his sister been lying in a trance? The latter conjecture seemed the most plausible. But I dared not say this to the brother of the girl; therefore I resolved to take the head completely off. But one more groan came from the dying girl, a spasm shook her form, and all was over. Overcome with horror, I rushed out of the room. But the lamp in the corridor had gone out, and there was no trace of my companion. In the darkness, I was compelled to feel my way along the wall to reach the stairway. I finally found it, and descended, slipping and stumbling. Nor was there any one below. I found the door unlocked, and breathed freer when I once more stood upon the street. Urged on by terror, I ran to my rooms, and buried myself in the cushions of my couch. But sleep fled from me, and the approach of morning warned me to compose myself. It seemed altogether likely to me that the man who had betrayed me into doing this atrocious deed would not inform on me. I resolved to go on as usual with my business, and if possible to assume a cheerful manner. But a new circumstance, that I now noticed for the first time, increased my terror. My cap and girdle, as well as my instruments, were missing, and I was uncertain whether I had left them in the chamber of the murdered girl, or had lost them in my flight. Unfortunately the first supposition seemed the more probable, and thus the murder would be traced to me. I opened my shop at the usual time. My neighbor, who was a talkative man, came in to see me as usual in the morning. "What do you say to the horrible tragedy that happened last night?" was his greeting. I acted as if I knew nothing about it. "What, is it possible that you don't know what the whole city is talking about? Not know that the most beautiful flower of Florence, Bianca, the Governor's daughter, was murdered during the night? I saw her yesterday, looking so happy as she rode through the streets with her lover; and to-day was to have been her wedding day." Every word was a stab in my heart. And how often did I suffer these pangs, as one by one my customers repeated the story, each making it more horrible than the other! And yet none of them could make it as terrible as it had been when presented to my own eyes. About noon an officer from the court stepped into my shop, and requested me to send the people away. "Signor Zaleukos," said he, producing the articles I had missed, "are these things yours?" I hesitated for a moment whether I should deny all knowledge of them; but as I saw through the half open door my landlord and several acquaintances who could have borne witness against me, I determined not to make the matter worse by a lie, and acknowledged the ownership of the articles. The officer bade me follow him, and led me to a large building, which I soon recognized as the prison. There he showed me to a room, telling me that I should occupy it for the present. My situation seemed desperate when I came to think it over in the solitude of the prison. The thought that I had committed murder, even though it was done accidentally, kept returning to my mind. Neither could I hide from myself the fact that the glitter of the gold had captivated my senses, or I should never have rushed so blindly into this affair. Two hours after my arrest I was led out of my chamber. Passing down several steps, we entered a large hall. Twelve men, most of them of advanced age, sat at a long table, covered with a black cloth. On the side of the hall were ranged rows of benches, filled with the aristocracy of Florence. High up, in the galleries the spectators were crowded close together. When I was brought before the black-covered table, a man of dark and sad aspect arose. It was the Governor. He told those assembled that he, being the father of the murdered girl, could not preside over this case, and that he would vacate his seat, for the present, in favor of the oldest senator. The oldest senator was a man of at least ninety years. He was bent with age, and his temples were fringed with thin white hairs; but his eyes were still brilliant, and his voice was clear and strong. He began by asking me if I confessed to the murder. I besought him to give me his attention, and related fearlessly and in distinct tones what I had done. I noticed that as I proceeded, the Governor first turned pale and then red; and when I had finished, he sprang up in a rage. "What, wretch!" he exclaimed to me, "it is your intention, then, to impute this crime, that you committed in a spirit of avarice, to another?" The presiding senator reproved him for this outburst, and reminded him that he had of his own accord renounced his right to direct the trial; nor did it appear, he said, that I contemplated robbery, as, by his own admission, nothing was stolen from his daughter. The senator declared to the Governor that he must give an account of his daughter's past life, as this was the only means of judging whether I had spoken the truth or not. At the same time he would close the court for that day, in order, as he said, to get some further information from the papers of the deceased, which the Governor should turn over to him. I was led back to my prison, where I passed a miserable day, occupied with the eager wish that some connection might be established between the man in the red mantle and the deceased. Full of expectation, I entered the hall of justice on the following day. There were several letters on the table. The aged senator asked me whether they were in my hand-writing. I looked at them, and found that they must have been written by the same hand that wrote me the two notes I had received. I expressed this belief to the senators, but they paid no attention to my opinion, and answered that I both could and did write those notes myself, as the signature at the end of the letters was certainly a Z, the initial letter of my name. And then the letters contained threats against the deceased, and warnings against the wedding which was about to take place. The Governor seemed to have made some strange disclosures about me, as I was on this day treated more sternly and suspiciously. To justify myself, I called for all the papers that were to be found in my room. But I was told that search had already been made there, and nothing found. When the court broke up, my hope had entirely vanished; and when I was led back to the hall on the third day, the verdict was communicated to me. I had been convicted of willful murder, and sentenced to death. To this, then, I had come at last! Deprived of every thing that was still dear to me on earth, far from my home, I should die innocent of crime, and, in the bloom of my youth, under an ax! I was sitting in my lonely prison on the evening of the day that had decided my fate, with my hopes all dissipated, and my thoughts earnestly turned on death, when my prison door opened, and a man entered, who regarded me long and silently. "And thus I find you once more, Zaleukos?" said he. I had not recognized him by the dull gleam of my lamp, but the tone of his voice awoke old memories in me. It was Valetty, one of the few friends I had made during my studies in Paris. He said that happening to come to Florence, where his father, who was a man of prominence, lived, he heard of my story; he had come to see me, to learn from my own lips how I had come to commit so terrible a crime. I told him the whole story. He seemed very much astonished, and implored me to tell him, my only friend, the whole truth, and not die with a lie on my lips, I swore to him by every thing that was sacred that I had spoken the truth, and that the only burden on my conscience was that, dazed by the glitter of the gold, I had not perceived the improbabilities in the stranger's story. "Then you did not know Bianca?" asked he. I assured him that I had never seen her before. Valetty then told me that a deep secret hung over the deed, that the Governor had passed sentence on me very hastily, and there was a rumor among the people that I had known Bianca for a long time, and had murdered her out of revenge for her approaching marriage with another. I remarked to him that all this might apply to the man in the red mantle, but that I was unable to prove his participation in the deed. Valetty embraced me, weeping, and promised to make every effort to save my life. I had but little hope, yet I knew that Valetty was a wise man and experienced in the laws, and that he would do his best to save me. For two long days I remained in uncertainty. At last Valetty appeared. "I bring you consolation, even though it be painful," said he. "You will live and be set at liberty; but with the loss of a hand." Joyfully I thanked my friend for my life. He told me that the Governor was inexorably opposed to opening the case again, but that finally, in order not to appear unjust, he agreed that if a similar case could be found in any books of Florentine history, then my punishment should be regulated by the punishment there recorded. Valetty and his father had thereupon looked through the old books by day and night, and finally found a case the exact counterpart of mine. The punishment there awarded was stated thus: "His left hand shall be amputated, his goods confiscated, and he himself banished forever." This was now to be my punishment; and I had to prepare myself for the painful ordeal that awaited me. But I will not dwell on that terrible hour when I stood on the public square, laid my hand on the block, and felt my own blood stream over me. Valetty took me to his own house until I had recovered; then he generously provided me with money for my journey; as all that I had acquired in my years of labor was forfeited to the State. I traveled from Florence to Sicily, and there embarked on the first ship for Constantinople. My hopes were turned upon the money I had given into the keeping of my friend; I also asked permission to live with him, but he astounded me with the question, why I did not occupy my own house? He informed me that a strange man had bought a house in my name in the Greek quarter, and had told the neighbors that I would soon be there to take possession of it. I immediately went there with my friend, and was warmly welcomed by all my old acquaintances. An old merchant gave me a letter, left by the man who had bought the house for me. The letter was as follows: "Zaleukos, two hands will be always ready to provide so tirelessly for you that you will not feel the loss of one. The house that you see, and all it contains, is yours; and every year you will be given enough to place you in the ranks of your wealthiest countrymen. May you forgive him who is more unfortunate than yourself." I suspected who had written this; and the merchant replied to my question that he had taken the man to be a Frank, and that he wore a red mantle. I knew enough to own to myself that the stranger was not entirely destitute of noble sentiments. I found my new house fitted up in the very best manner, and there was also a shop stocked with wares finer than I had ever owned before. Ten years have passed since then; yet, more from habit than necessity, I continue to make these commercial journeys. I have never since visited that country where I met with my misfortune. Every year I receive a thousand gold pieces. But though it rejoices me to know that the unfortunate stranger has some noble traits of character, it is impossible for him to cure the sorrow of my soul, which is perpetually haunted by the terrible vision of the murdered Bianca. While the Greek merchant had told his story, the others had listened to him with the deepest interest. Selim Baruch, particularly, had shown much emotion, having sighed deeply several times, while Muley was sure that at one time he had seen tears in his eyes. The merchants commented for some time on the story. "And do you not hate the stranger who so basely endangered your life and caused the loss of so important a member of your body?" asked Selim Baruch. "There was a time at first," answered the Greek, "when my heart accused him before God that he had brought this sorrow on me and poisoned my life. But I found consolation in the religion of my fathers, which commands me to love my enemies. And then he must be more unhappy than I." "You are a noble man!" exclaimed Selim Baruch, as he pressed the Greek's hand warmly. The leader of the guard here interrupted the conversation. He entered the tent with an anxious air, and reported that it would not do for them to retire to their couches, as this was the place where the caravans were usually attacked; and, besides, his sentinels believed they saw several horsemen in the distance. The merchants were greatly disturbed at this news; but Selim Baruch, the stranger, expressed surprise at their consternation, and thought that they were so strongly guarded that they need not fear a troop of Arab robbers. "True, Master!" answered the leader of the escort; "if it were only such fellows, one could lie down to sleep without anxiety. But for sometime past the terrible Orbasan has appeared occasionally; and therefore it behooves one to be on his guard." Selim desired to know who this Orbasan might be, and one of the merchants answered him: "There are all sorts of reports current among the people about this wonderful man. Some believe him to be a supernatural being, because he has often overcome five or six men in a fight. Others hold that he is a brave Frank, whom misfortune has driven into these parts. But from all accounts this much is certain: that he is an infamous robber and thief!" "But still you will hardly be able to maintain that," retorted Lezah, another of the merchants. "Even though a robber, he is a magnanimous man, and has shown himself such to my brother, as I could relate to you. He has made orderly men of his whole band, and while he roams over the desert, no other band dare show itself. Neither is he a common robber, but simply levies a tax on the caravans, and whoever pays this willingly may travel on without further molestation, for Orbasan is the Ruler of the Desert." Thus the merchants discoursed in the tent; but the guard, who was stationed around the camp, began to be uneasy. A considerable troop of armed horsemen was seen at a distance of half an hour's ride, and seemed to be making directly for the camp. One of the guard therefore went into the tent to announce that they would probably be attacked. The merchants conferred with one another as to what was to be done: whether they had better ride out and meet the attack, or await it in camp. The two eldest merchants were in favor of the latter course; but the fiery Muley and Zaleukos chose the first, and called on Selim to follow their example. But Selim quietly drew a small blue cloth, covered with red stars, from his girdle, tied it to a spear, and ordered one of the slaves to fasten it to the top of the tent, saying he would pledge his life that when the horsemen saw this signal they would draw off quietly. Muley placed no faith in the result, but the slave fixed the lance on top of the tent. In the meantime all those in camp had seized their weapons, and looked for the horsemen in intense expectancy. But they had apparently caught sight of the signal on the tent, as they suddenly changed their course, and moved off from the camp in an opposite direction. The merchants gazed in wonder, now at the vanishing horsemen, and then on Selim. But he stood before the tent, looking out unconcernedly over the plain, as if nothing unusual had happened. At length Muley broke the silence. "Who are you, O mighty stranger?" cried he. "You that tame the wild hordes of the desert by a signal." "You rate my power much higher than it is," answered Selim Baruch. "I provided myself with this token when I fled from captivity. What it signifies, I do not know myself; only this much I do know: that whoever travels with this sign stands under powerful protection." The merchants thanked Selim and called him their deliverer; and really the number of the horsemen was so great that the caravan could not have resisted them very long. With lighter hearts the merchants laid down to rest; and when the sun began to set, and the evening breeze blew over the plains of sand, they broke camp, and resumed their journey. The next day they camped within a day's march of the end of the desert. When the travelers had gathered once more in the large tent, Lezah the merchant began to speak: "I told you yesterday that the dreaded Orbasan was a magnanimous man; permit me to prove it to you to-day, by the recital of my brother's fate. My father was Cadi at Acara. He had three children, of whom I was the eldest. My brother and sister were considerably younger. When I was twenty years old, my father's brother sent for me. He made me heir to his property, with the condition that I should remain with him while he lived. But he reached a good old age, so that I could not return home until two years ago, having learned nothing in the meantime of the dark cloud that had overshadowed our family, and how graciously Allah had dispersed it." THE RESCUE OF FATIMA. My brother Mustapha and my sister Fatima were of nearly the same age. He was at the most, but two years older. They were devotedly attached to one another, and together strove, by every means in their power, to lighten the burden of our sick father's years. On Fatima's sixteenth birthday, my brother arranged a celebration in her honor. He invited all her companions; served them with choice viands in the garden; and towards evening invited them to a ride on the sea, in a barge which he had hired, and decorated especially for the occasion. Fatima and her companions joyfully accepted the invitation, as the evening was fine, and the city viewed from the sea, especially by night, presented a magnificent appearance. So highly did the young girls enjoy their ride, that they kept urging my brother to take them still further out to sea. Mustapha consented very unwillingly, as some days before a corsair had been seen standing off the coast. Not far from the city a point of land extended out into the sea. The young girls now expressed a desire to go there, that they might see the sun set in the sea. As they rounded the cape, they saw, at a little distance, a barge filled with armed men. With many misgivings, my brother ordered the oarsmen to turn the boat around and pull for shore. And in truth his fears did not seem to be groundless, for the other barge gave chase to them, and, having more rowers, soon overtook them--keeping in a line between my brother's barge and the shore. When the young girls perceived their danger, they jumped up with cries and lamentations. It was in vain that Mustapha tried to quiet them; in vain did he urge them to be quiet, as, by their running about, the boat was in danger of upsetting. His entreaties were not listened to; and when finally the other boat came near, they all rushed to the further side of Mustapha's boat and capsized it. But in the meantime the movements of the strange boat had been watched from land, and as for some time past fears had been entertained of corsairs, several barges pushed out from shore to render assistance to my brother. They arrived just in time to pick up the drowning ones. In the excitement, the hostile boat escaped; and in the two barges on which the rescued had been placed, there was some uncertainty as to whether all had been saved. These two boats were brought side by side, and alas! it was found that my sister and one of her companions were missing. At the same moment a man whom no one knew was discovered on one of the barges. Mustapha's threats extorted from him the admission that he belonged to the hostile ship that lay at anchor two miles to the eastward, and that his companions, in their hasty flight, had left him while he was in the very act of assisting the young girls out of the water. He further said that he had seen two of them drawn into the boat to which he belonged. The anguish of my aged father was intense. Mustapha, too, was nearly wild with grief--not alone because his beloved sister was lost, and he must blame himself as the author of her misfortune, but the companion of Fatima's sad fate was his betrothed, though he had never dared to mention that circumstance to our father, as the young lady's parents were poor and low-born. But my father was a stern man. As soon as he was able to control his grief, he sent for Mustapha, and said to him: "Your folly has robbed me of the comfort of my old age, and the light of my eyes. Go! I banish you forever from my sight; I curse you and all your descendants; and only when you bring Fatima back to me, shall your father's curse be lifted." My brother had not expected this. He had already formed the resolution of going in search of his sister and her friend, and had come to his father intending to ask his blessing on the undertaking; and now he was sent out into the world with the weight of his father's curse on his head. But if before sorrow had bent him to the ground, this blow, so undeservedly given, steeled his soul. He went to the imprisoned pirate, to ask him where his ship was bound, and learned that she was employed in the slave trade, and usually made Balsora her market. When he returned home to prepare for his journey, his father's wrath seemed to have cooled somewhat, as he sent him a purse of gold for his support on the journey. Mustapha then took leave of the parents of Zoraide--his secretly betrothed bride, and started on his way to Balsora. As there was no ship from our small town bound directly for Balsora, my brother made the journey by land; and in order that he might not arrive too long after the pirates had reached there, he was forced to make very long day's journeys. Still, as he had a fine horse, and no luggage, he counted on reaching Balsora at the close of the sixth day. But on the evening of the fourth day, as he was riding along quite alone, he was suddenly attacked by three robbers. Observing that they were powerful men and well armed, and believing that their purpose was to take his money and horse, rather than his life, he called out that he would surrender. Thereupon they dismounted from their horses, and bound his feet together under his horse's belly. One of the men then seized the bridle of Mustapha's steed, and, with my brother in their midst, they galloped off in great haste without having once spoken a word. Mustapha resigned himself to a gloomy despondency. His father's curse seemed in process of fulfillment; and how could he hope to rescue his sister and Zoraide, when, stripped of all he possessed, he could employ only a miserable life towards securing their freedom? Mustapha and his silent escort had ridden on for about an hour, when they turned into a side valley, which was shut in by high trees. A soft, dark-green sod, and a brook rushing swiftly through the middle of the valley, invited them to rest. Scattered over the green were from fifteen to twenty tents. Camels and fine horses were tied to the tent stakes, while from one of the tents sounded the pleasing melody of a guitar, accompanied by two fine male voices. To my brother it seemed that people who had displayed such good taste in the selection of their camping ground could entertain no sinister designs on him, and he, therefore, cheerfully obeyed the command of his guides to dismount as soon as they had unloosed his bonds. He was led into a tent much larger than the others, the interior of which was fitted up neatly, even elegantly. Gold embroidered cushions, woven carpets and gold plated censors would have indicated elsewhere the wealth and respectability of their owner; but here they were plainly the fruits of robbery. On one of the cushions sat a little old man of repulsive appearance. His skin was tanned and shiny, and a disagreeable expression of Turkish slyness lurked about his eyes and mouth. Although this man attempted to appear dignified, it did not take Mustapha long to decide that this tent had not been furnished so richly for him, while the conversation of his guards seemed to confirm his observation. "Where is the Strong One?" they inquired of the little old man. "On the chase," answered he. "But he bade me fill his place while he was gone." "He didn't display much sense, then," replied one of the robbers, "as it ought to be decided at once whether this dog shall die or be held for ransom, and the Strong One could decide that much better than you." The old man arose with an assumption of dignity, and reached out as if to grasp his opponent's ear, or to revenge himself by a blow; but when he saw that his effort was fruitless, he began to curse and swear. Nor did the others remain long in his debt, but replied in kind, until the tent resounded with their quarrel. All at once the door of the tent was opened, and a tall, stately man, young and handsome as a Persian prince, entered. His clothes and weapons were plain and simple, with the exception of a richly jeweled dagger and a gleaming sword; but his steady eye and whole appearance commanded attention, without inspiring distrust. "Who is it that dares to make such a disturbance in my tent?" demanded he of the frightened participants. For a little time there was deep silence; until finally, one of the men who had brought Mustapha in told him how the quarrel had originated. The face of the Strong One, as they called him, flushed with anger at this recital. "When did I ever put you in my place, Hassan?" cried he, in a fearful voice, to the little old man, who, shrinking with fear, stole towards the door, looking smaller than ever. The Strong One lifted his foot, and Hassan went flying through the doorway with some remarkable leaps. When Hassan had disappeared, the three men led Mustapha up to the master of the tent, who was now reclining on the cushions, saying: "We have brought you the man whom you ordered us to capture." The Strong One looked for some time at the prisoner, and then said: "Pasha of Sulieika, your own conscience will tell you why your are the prisoner of Orbasan." When my brother heard this, he threw himself down before Orbasan, and answered "Oh, Master, you have made a mistake. I am only a poor unfortunate man, and not the Pasha whom you seek." All in the tent were surprised at these words. But the master of the tent replied-- "It will not help you much to deny your identity, as I will produce people who know you well." He then commanded Zuleima to be brought. An old woman was led in, who, in response to the question whether she did not recognize in my brother the Pasha of Sulieika, said-- "Certainly! I swear by the graves of the prophets that he is the Pasha and no other." "Do you see, poor fool, how your stratagem is frustrated?" sneered Orbasan. "You are so miserable a creature that I will not soil my dagger with your blood; but when to-morrow's sun rises, I will tie you to my horse's tail and chase through the forests with you until the sun sets behind the hills of Sulieika." At this announcement my brother's courage entirely deserted him. "This is the result of my cruel father's curse that is driving me to an ignominious death!" exclaimed he, in tears. "And thou, too, sweet sister, and thou, Zoraide, art lost!" "Your dissimulation will avail you nothing," said one of the robbers, who was engaged in tying Mustapha's hands behind his back. "Get out of the tent quickly, for the Strong One is biting his lips and glancing at his dagger. If you would live another night, come quickly!" As the robbers were leading my brother out of the tent, they encountered three others, who were pushing in a prisoner before them. "We have brought you the Pasha as you commanded us," said they, and led the prisoner up to the cushions where Orbasan reclined. While the prisoner was being led forward, my brother had an opportunity to observe him closely, and he was forced to acknowledge the striking resemblance which this man bore to him, only the stranger's complexion was darker and he wore a black beard. Orbasan seemed much astonished over the appearance of the second prisoner. "Which of you, then, is the right one?" asked he, looking from one to the other. "If you mean the Pasha of Sulieika," answered the prisoner, in a proud tone, "I am he." Orbasan gazed at him some time with a stern, hard expression, and then silently beckoned the men to lead him away. When they had done so, Orbasan went up to my brother, cut his bonds with his dagger, and motioned to him to sit down with him on the cushions. "I am sorry, young stranger," said he, "that I mistook you for that monster. It was, indeed, a singular dispensation of fate which led you into the hands of my comrades at the same hour that was destined to see the fall of that traitor." My brother begged of him but one favor: that he might be allowed to continue on his journey at once, as the least delay would prove fatal to his purpose. Orbasan inquired what the nature of the affair was that required such haste, and when Mustapha had told him every thing, Orbasan persuaded him to remain in his tent over night, as he and his horse were in need of rest, and promised that in the morning he would show him a way by which he could reach Balsora in a day and a half. My brother remained, was hospitably entertained, and slept soundly until morning in the tent of the robber chief. When he awakened he found himself all alone, but before the curtain of the tent he heard several voices, one of which belonged to Orbasan and another to Hassan. He listened, and heard, to his horror, that the little old man was urging upon Orbasan the necessity of killing him, lest he should betray them when he had regained his liberty. Mustapha felt sure that Hassan hated him, because he had been the cause of the little fellow's being handled so roughly the night before. Orbasan remained silent for some moments, and then replied: "No, he is my guest, and the laws of hospitality are sacred with me; neither does he look like an informer." Thus saying, Orbasan flung aside the curtain and entered. "Peace be with you, Mustapha," said he. "Let us take our morning draught, and then prepare yourself to start." He handed my brother a glass of sherbet, and when they had drunk, they saddled their horses, and with a lighter heart than he had entered the camp, Mustapha swung himself into his seat. They had soon left the tents far behind, and followed a broad path that led into the forest. Orbasan told my brother that the Pasha who had been captured had promised that he would permit them to remain undisturbed in his territory; yet but a few weeks after he took one of their bravest men prisoner, and hanged him with the most horrible torture. Orbasan had had spies on his track for a long time, and now he must die. Mustapha did not venture to oppose his purpose, as he was thankful to get away with a whole skin himself. At the end of the forest Orbasan stopped his horse, described the way to my brother, offered him his hand at parting, and said: "Mustapha, you became the guest of the robber Orbasan under singular circumstances. I will not require you to promise that you will not betray what you have seen and heard. You were unjustly forced to suffer the fear of death, and I am, therefore, in your debt. Take this dagger as a keepsake, and if you are ever in need of help, send it to me, and I will hasten to your assistance. This purse you may be able to use on your journey." My brother thanked him for his generosity, and took the dagger, but refused the purse. Orbasan pressed his hand once more, letting the purse fall to the ground, and sprang with the speed of the wind into the forest. When Mustapha saw that Orbasan did not intend to return for the purse, he dismounted and picked it up, starting at the generosity of his host, as he found it contained a large sum of gold. He thanked Allah for his rescue, recommended the generous robber to His mercy, and continued on his way to Balsora with a lighter heart. Lezah, the story-teller, paused, and looked inquiringly at the merchant who had spoken so bitterly of Orbasan. The latter said-- "Well, if all that be so, I will cheerfully reverse my judgment of Orbasan, for he really treated your brother handsomely." "He behaved like a true Musselman," exclaimed Muley. "But I hope your story was not ended there, for we are all curious to hear more; how things went with your brother, and whether he rescued your sister Fatima and the beautiful Zoraide." "If I do not weary you, I will willingly continue," replied Lezah; "for this story of my brother is certainly adventurous and wonderful." With this, he continued his story. At noon on the seventh day of his departure from home, Mustapha entered the gate of Balsora. As soon as he had reached a caravansary, he made inquiries as to when the slave auction, held there every year, opened. He received in reply the dreadful news that he had arrived two days too late. They deplored his delay, and told him that he had missed a fine sight, for on the last day of the auction two female slaves had been put up, of such extraordinary beauty as to attract the attention of all bidders. There was sharp competition for their possession, and the bidding ran up so high as to frighten off everybody but their present owner. Mustapha made more particular inquiries, until he had satisfied himself beyond a doubt that these slaves were the unfortunate objects of his search. He learned further that the name of the man who had bought them was Thiuli-Kos; that he lived a good forty-hours' journey from Balsora, and was a rich and elderly man of rank, who had formerly been senior Pasha of the Shah, but had now retired from official life to live upon his means. At first thought, Mustapha was about to mount his horse and hasten after Thiuli-Kos, who had only a day the start of him; but, after reflecting that, alone and unattended, he could hardly approach so powerful and rich a man, and still less hope to rob him of his possessions, he tried to devise some other plan, and soon hit upon one that appeared feasible. The singular mistake of confounding him with the Pasha of Sulieika, which had been so nearly fatal to him, suggested the idea of visiting the house of Thiuli-Kos, under this name, and then attempting the rescue of the unfortunate maidens. Accordingly he hired horses and servants--for which purpose Orbasan's money proved very useful--provided fine clothes for himself and servants, and set out for Thiuli's castle. In five days he reached the vicinity of the castle, which was situated in a beautiful plain, enclosed within high walls, above which but little could be seen of the buildings. Arriving there, Mustapha dyed his hair and beard black, and painted his face with the juice of a plant, that gave him quite as brown a complexion as the real Pasha had possessed. Thereupon he sent one of his servants to the castle to request a night's lodging, in the name of the Pasha of Sulieika. The servant soon returned, and with him came four finely costumed slaves, who took hold of the bridle of Mustapha's horse, and led him into the court of the castle. There they assisted him to dismount, when four others conducted him up the broad marble steps to the presence of Thiuli. The latter proved to be a jovial old fellow, and he received my brother with due honor, and set before him the best that his cook could prepare. After the table was cleared, Mustapha turned the conversation to the new slaves, and Thiuli boasted of their beauty, while complaining of their sadness; this, however, he believed would soon disappear. My brother was well pleased with his reception, and betook himself to rest, feeling very hopeful. He had slept perhaps an hour, when he was awakened by the gleam of a lamp that dazzled his eyes. As he raised himself in bed, he believed that he must still be dreaming, for before him stood that little dark-skinned man whom he had seen in Orbasan's tent. He held a lamp in his hand, and his broad mouth was distorted by a horrible grimace. Mustapha pinched his own arm and pulled his nose, in order to convince himself that he was awake; but the apparition remained as before. "What will you at my bed-side?" cried Mustapha, as soon as he had recovered from his astonishment. "Don't trouble yourself, Master," replied Hassan, "I have found out your purpose in coming here; nor was your worthy face forgotten by me. But really, if I had not helped to hang the Pasha with my own hands, I might perhaps have been deceived. Now I have come to put a question." "First of all, tell me how you came here," returned Mustapha, furious at being betrayed. "I will tell you," replied Hassan, "I could not get along with Orbasan any longer; therefore I ran away. But you, Mustapha, was the cause of our quarrel, and therefore you must give me your sister to wed, and I will assist you in your flight. If you do not agree to this, I will go to my new master and tell him something about the new Pasha." Mustapha was beside himself with rage and terror. Now, just as he believed himself about to attain his object, why must this wretch come and thwart his designs? There was only one way left in which he could carry out his plan: he must kill the ugly monster. With one spring he leaped from the bed and tried to seize the ugly wretch; but he, doubtless having expected such an attack, let the lamp fall and escaped in the darkness, shrieking murderously for help. He was now compelled to give up the young girls, and turn his attention to his own safety. He went to the window to see whether he could jump out, and found it was quite a distance to the ground, while opposite stood a high wall. Suddenly he heard voices approaching his room. As they reached his door, he grasped his clothes and dagger in desperation, and swung himself out of the window. The fall was a hard one, but he felt that no bones were broken, and sprang up to run to the wall, which he climbed, to the astonishment of the pursuers, and was soon at liberty. He ran until he reached a small wood, where he flung himself down exhausted. Here he considered what was to be done. His servants and horses he had been forced to leave, but the money which he carried in his girdle was safe, and his ingenuity shortly discovered another mode of rescue. He went on through the forest until he came to a village, where for a little money he bought a horse that quickly carried him to a city. Once there he inquired for a physician, and an old and experienced man was recommended to him. By the aid of some gold pieces, he induced this physician to furnish him with a medicine that would produce a death-like sleep, that might, however, be instantly dispelled by some other remedy. When he had procured these medicines, he bought a false beard, a black gown, and all manner of little boxes and alembics, so that he properly represented a traveling physician--loaded his traps on an ass and journeyed back to the castle of Thiuli-Kos. He was certain this time of not being known, as the beard made such a complete change in his appearance that he felt doubtful of his own identity. On arriving at Thiuli's, he announced himself as the physician Chakamankabudibaba. The result was as he had foreseen: the high-sounding name recommended him so highly to the weak old Pasha that he was at once invited to dinner. After an hour's conversation, the old man resolved to submit all his female slaves to the treatment of the wise physician. Mustapha could now hardly conceal his joy at the prospect of seeing his beloved sister again, and followed Thiuli with a beating heart, as he led the way to the seraglio. They came to a room beautifully decorated but unoccupied. "Chambaba, or whatever you call yourself, dear doctor," said Thiuli-Kos, "look for a moment at yonder hole in the wall; each one of my slaves will put her arm through it in succession, and you can ascertain by the pulse who the sick are and who the well." [Illustration] Mustapha's objections to this arrangement were of no avail; he was not permitted to see the slaves; still Thiuli consented to inform him of each one's general state of health. Thiuli then drew out a long sheet of paper from his sash, and began to call the roll of his female slaves in a loud voice; and at each name a hand was thrust through the wall, and the physician felt the pulse. Six were called off, and pronounced in good health, when Thiuli called out the name "Fatima," as the seventh, and a small white hand slipped through the wall. Trembling with joy, Mustapha seized this hand and declared with an important air, that Fatima was seriously sick. Thiuli became very anxious, and ordered his wise Chakamankabudibaba to prepare at once some medicine for her. The physician went out of the room, and wrote on a small piece of paper: "Fatima! I will save you, if you have the strength of will to take a medicine that will deprive you of life for two days; still I possess a remedy that will restore you to life again. If you are willing to do this, speak these words: 'The medicine did not help me any,' and I shall take it as a sign of your assent." Mustapha returned to the room where Thiuli was awaiting him. He brought with him a harmless drink, felt of Fatima's pulse once more, at the same time tucking the note under her bracelet, and passed the drink through the opening in the wall. Thiuli seemed to be very anxious about Fatima, and put off the examination of the rest until a more favorable opportunity. As he left the room with Mustapha, he said, in a sad tone: "Chidababa, tell me the exact truth; what is your opinion of Fatima's sickness?" Chakamankabudibaba replied with a deep sigh: "Oh Master! may the good Prophet send you consolation; she has a stealthy fever that may end her life." At this reply Thiuli's anger flamed up. "What's that you say, you cursed dog of a doctor! Do you mean to say that she, for whom I paid two thousand pieces of gold, will die on my hands like a cow? Know, then, that if you do not save her, I will take your head off!" My brother at once saw that he had made a stupid mistake, so he hastened to assure Thiuli there was still hope for Fatima. While they were speaking together, a black slave came from the seraglio to say to the physician that _the drink did not help her any_. "Put forth all your art, Chakamdababelda, or whatever you call yourself, and I will pay you whatever you ask," exclaimed Thiuli-Kos, wild with anxiety at the prospect of losing so much money. "I will give her a little decoction that will save her from danger," answered the physician. "Yes! by all means, give her the medicine," cried old Thiuli. Mustapha, in high spirits, went to fetch the sleeping potion, and after handing it to the slave, with instructions as to the quantity to be taken, he returned to Thiuli, and told him that now he must go down to the sea and gather some healing herbs. He then hurried away to the sea, that was not far off, where he took off his various disguises and flung them into the water, where the waves tossed them about. He then concealed himself in the bushes until evening, when he stole quietly up to the burial vault of Thiuli's castle. Hardly an hour after Mustapha had departed from the castle, word was brought Thiuli that his slave Fatima was dying. He at once sent down to the shore to have the physician brought back, but his messengers soon returned with the information that the poor doctor had fallen into the water and been drowned; his black cloak was floating on the waves, and occasionally his magnificent black beard might be seen bobbing up and down in the water. When Thiuli saw there was no hope of her recovery, he cursed himself and the whole world, tore out his beard, and butted his head against the wall. But all this availed nothing, for Fatima, under the care of the other women, soon ceased to breathe. When Thiuli heard of her death, he ordered a coffin to be hastily made, as he could not suffer a dead person to remain in the house, and had the body carried to the tomb. The bearers carried the coffin there, dropped it hastily, and fled, as they heard groans and sighs proceeding from the other coffins. Mustapha, who had hidden behind the coffins and frightened away the bearers of Fatima's coffin, now came out from his hiding place, and lighted a lamp that he had provided for this purpose. Next he produced a phial containing the restorative, and raised the lid of Fatima's coffin. But what was his amazement when the rays of the lamp disclosed features entirely strange to him! It was neither my sister nor Zoraide, but quite another person, that lay in the coffin. It took him a long time to recover from this latest blow of fate, but finally pity overcame his vexation. He opened the phial, and poured some of the contents into the mouth of the sleeper. She breathed, opened her eyes, and seemed for a long time to be trying to make out her situation. At last she recalled all that had happened, and, stepping out of the coffin, flung herself at Mustapha's feet. "How can I thank you, gracious being?" cried she, "for freeing me from my terrible prison!" Mustapha interrupted her expressions of gratitude with the question how it happened that she and not his sister Fatima had been rescued. She looked at him in an astonished way before replying: "Now for the first time I understand what before was incomprehensible to me. You must know that I was called Fatima in the castle, and it was to me you gave the note and medicine." My brother requested her to give him news of his sister and Zoraide, and learned that they were both in the castle, but, in accordance with a custom of Thiuli's, had received other names, and were now called Mirza and Nurmahal. When the freed slave, Fatima, saw that my brother was so cast down by this mistake, she consoled him with the assurance that she could point out another way by which both of the young girls might be rescued. Aroused by what she said, he begged her to tell him her plan, to which she replied-- "For some five months I have been Thiuli's slave; yet from the first I have planned to escape, but it was too much of a task for me to attempt alone. In the inner court of the castle you must have noticed a fountain that throws the water in a cascade from ten pipes. This fountain impressed me strongly, because I remembered a similar one in my father's house, the water of which was brought through a large aqueduct. In order to learn whether this fountain was built in the same way, I one day praised its beauty to Thiuli, and asked who had constructed it. 'I built it myself,' answered he; 'and what you see here is the least part of the work, as the water is brought from a brook, a thousand paces away, through an arched viaduct at least high enough for a man to walk in. And the construction of all this I directed myself.' "Since hearing this, I have often wished for the strength of a man to pull out a stone in the side of the fountain, and thereby escape. I will now show you the aqueduct, through which you can obtain entrance to the castle at night, and set your sister free. But you ought to have at least two men with you, in order to overpower the slaves who watch the seraglio at night." My brother Mustapha, although he had seen his plans twice frustrated, plucked up courage once more at these words, and hoped, with Allah's assistance, to carry out the scheme of the slave. He promised to see that she arrived safely at her home if she would assist him to enter the castle. But one point caused him some little perplexity: where should he obtain two or three men upon whom he could depend? Just then Orbasan's dagger occurred to him, and the promise he had received from the bandit that, in case of need, he would hasten to his assistance; and he therefore left the vault, in company with Fatima, to hunt up the robber. In the same village which had witnessed his transformation into a physician, he bought a horse with what money remained to him, and procured a lodging for Fatima with a poor woman who lived in the suburb. He then hastened toward the hills where he had first met Orbasan, and arrived there in three days. He soon found their tents, and appeared unexpectedly to Orbasan, who greeted him with friendliness. He gave an account of his failures, at which the grave Orbasan could not refrain from laughing now and then, especially when he thought of the physician Chakamankabudibaba. But he was terribly enraged over the treachery of the ugly little monster, Hassan, and swore he would hang him up wherever he found him. He also promised that when my brother had refreshed himself after the fatigue of his journey, he would be ready to assist him. Mustapha therefore spent the night in Orbasan's tent. With the early dawn they rode off, accompanied by three of Orbasan's bravest men well mounted and armed. They rode very fast and in two days' time reached the place where Mustapha had left Fatima. They took her with them, and journeyed on until they came to the small wood from whence Thiuli's castle could be seen, where they went into camp until night should come. As soon as it was dark, guided by Fatima, they stole up to the brook where the aqueduct began, and soon discovered the entrance. There they left Fatima and a servant with the horses, and prepared to descend into the conduit; but before they went in, Fatima repeated once more her instructions to them--they would emerge from the fountain into the inner court, in the right and left corners of which were towers, and in the sixth door counting from the right tower, they would find Fatima and Zoraide, guarded by two black slaves. Well provided with weapons and crowbars, Mustapha, Orbasan, and two other men, descended into the aqueduct. They sank to their hips in the water, but none the less did they advance valiantly forward. In half an hour they came to the fountain, and at once began to use their crowbars. The wall was thick and solid but could not long withstand the united strength of the four men, and they had soon made an opening large enough to crawl through. Orbasan passed through first, and helped the others after him. When they all stood in the court, they looked closely at the side of the castle facing them, to pick out the door that had been described. But they did not all agree on this point, for on counting from the right tower toward the left, they found one door that had been walled up, and they could not decide whether Fatima had passed this door by, or had counted it in with the others. But Orbasan did not hesitate long. "My good sword will open every door to me," exclaimed he, and went to one of the doors followed by his companions. They opened the door and discovered six black slaves lying on the floor asleep. They were about to withdraw quietly, as they saw they had missed the right door, when a man's form arose in the corner, and in a well-known voice, called for help. It was Hassan, the deserter from Orbasan's camp. But before the black guards could find out what had happened, Orbasan rushed at the little wretch, tore his girdle into two pieces, with one of which he bound his mouth, and with the other tied his hands behind his back; then he turned on the slaves, some of whom were already partially secured by Mustapha and his companions, and assisted to completely overpower them. At the point of the dagger, the slaves confessed that Nurmahal and Mirza were in the adjoining room. Mustapha rushed in, and found Fatima and Zoraide, who were already aroused by the noise. They quickly collected their clothing and ornaments, and followed Mustapha. The two robbers now begged permission of Orbasan to plunder whatever they found; but he forbade them, saying: "It shall never be said of Orbasan that he broke into a house at night to steal gold." Mustapha and the young girls slid quickly into the aqueduct, Orbasan promising to follow immediately; but as soon as the others were out of sight, Orbasan and one of the robbers took Hassan out into the court, and tying a silk cord around his neck, hung him to the highest point of the fountain. After having inflicted this penalty on the wretch, they descended into the aqueduct and followed Mustapha. [Illustration] With tears the two young girls thanked their noble rescuer Orbasan, but he hurried them on in their flight, as it was quite probable that Thiuli-Kos would pursue them in all directions. With deep emotion, Mustapha and the rescued ones parted from Orbasan on the following day. Of a truth, they will never forget him. Fatima, the freed slave, disguised herself and went to Balsora to take passage for her home, and all reached there safely after a short and agreeable journey. The joy of seeing them again almost killed my father; but the day after their arrival, he ordered an immense banquet, to which the whole town came. My brother had then to repeat his story before a large number of relatives and friends, and with one voice they praised him and the noble Orbasan. When my brother had finished, my father rose and led Zoraide up to him. "Thus," said he in joyful tones, "do I lift the curse from thy head; take her as the reward, which thou hast won through thy tireless zeal; take my fatherly blessing; and may our city never be wanting in men who, in brotherly love, in wisdom and zeal, resemble thee." The caravan had reached the end of the desert, and the travelers joyfully greeted the green meadows and the thick foliage of the trees; a delightful view, of which they had been deprived for many days. In a beautiful valley was situated a caravansary, which they chose for a night's lodging; and although it offered poor accommodation and refreshment, yet the whole company were in better spirits and more confidential than ever, as the feeling that they had escaped all the dangers and discomforts which a journey through the desert brings, opened all hearts and disposed all minds to jests and sports. Muley, the active young merchant, danced a comic dance, accompanying himself with songs, until even the sad features of Zaleukos, the Greek, relaxed into a smile. But not satisfied with having entertained his fellow travelers with dances and games, he related, as soon as he had somewhat recovered from his violent exercise, the story which he had promised them. LITTLE MUCK. IN Nicæea, my dearly-loved native city, lived a man who was called Little Muck, I can recall him distinctly, although I was quite young at the time, chiefly because of a severe chastisement I received from my father on his account. This Little Muck was already an old man when I knew him, and yet he was not more than four feet in height. His figure presented a singular appearance, as his body, small and childlike, seemed but a slender support for a head much larger than the heads of ordinary people. He lived all alone in a large house, and cooked his own meals, and had it not been for the smoke that rose from his kitchen chimney at midday, the townspeople would have remained in doubt as to whether he still lived; for he went out but once a month. He was, however, occasionally seen walking on the house-top, and to one looking up from the street there was presented the singular sight of a head moving to and fro. My companions and myself were rather bad boys, who took delight in teasing and making sport of everybody; so it was always a great holiday for us whenever Little Muck went out. We gathered before his house on the appointed day, and waited; and when now the door opened, and the large head, wrapped in a still larger turban, peeped out, followed by the rest of his little body, done up in a threadbare cloak, baggy breeches, and a wide sash, from which hung a dagger so long that it could not be told whether Muck stuck on the dagger or the dagger on Muck--when he thus made his appearance, the air echoed with our shouts; we threw up our caps, and danced around him like mad. Little Muck, however, returned our salute with a grave nod of the head, and shuffled slowly down the street in such great, wide slippers as I had never seen before. We boys ran behind him, shouting: "Little Muck! Little Muck!" We also had a jolly little verse that we now and then sang in his honor, which ran as follows: [Illustration] Little Muck, little Muck, Living in a house so fair, Once a month you take the air, You, brave little dwarf, 'tis said, Have a mountain for a head; Turn around just once and look; Run and catch us, little Muck! Thus had we often entertained ourselves, and, to my shame be it confessed, I behaved the worst--often catching him by the cloak, and once I trod on the heel of his slipper so that he fell down. This struck me as a very funny thing, but the laugh stuck in my throat as I saw him go to my father's house. He went right in and remained there for some time. I hid myself near the front door, and saw Little Muck come out again, accompanied by my father, who held his hand and parted from him on the door-step with many bows. Not feeling very easy in my mind, I remained for a long time in my hiding place; but I was at last driven out by hunger, which I feared worse than a whipping, and, spiritless and with bowed head, I went home to my father. "I hear that you have been insulting the good Little Muck," said he, in a grave tone. "I will tell you the story of Little Muck, and you will certainly not want to laugh at him again; but before I begin, and after I am through, you will receive '_the customary_.'" Now "the customary" consisted of twenty-five blows, which he was accustomed to lay on without making any mistake in the count. He took for this purpose the long stem of a cherry pipe, unscrewing the amber mouth-piece, and belaboring me harder than ever before. When the five-and-twenty strokes were completed, he commanded me to pay attention, and told me the story of Little Muck. The father of Little Muck--whose proper name was Mukrah--was a poor but respectable man, living here in Nicæa. He lived nearly as solitary a life as his son now does. This son he could not endure, as he was ashamed of his dwarfish shape, and he therefore allowed him to grow up in ignorance. Little Muck, though in his sixteenth year, was only a child; and his father continually scolded him, because he who should have long since "put away childish things," still remained so stupid and silly. However, the old gentleman got a bad fall one day, from the effects of which he shortly died, and left Little Muck poor and ignorant. The unfeeling relatives, to whom the deceased had owed more than he could pay, drove the poor little fellow out of the house, and advised him to go out into the world and seek his fortune. Little Muck replied that he was ready for the journey, but begged that he might be allowed to have his father's clothes; and these were given him. His father had been a tall, stout man, so that the clothes did not fit the little son very well; but Muck knew just what to do in this emergency: he cut off every thing that was too long, and then put the clothes on. He seemed, however, to have forgotten that he should have cut away from the width as well; hence his singular appearance just as he may be seen to-day--dressed in the large turban, the broad sash, the baggy trousers, the blue cloak, all heirlooms from his father, which he has ever since worn. The long Damascus poniard, that had also belonged to his father, he stuck proudly in his sash, and, supported by a little cane, wandered out of the city gate. He tramped along merrily the whole day; for had he not been sent out to seek his fortune? If he came across a broken bit of pottery glistening in the sun, he straightway put it into his pocket, in the full belief that it would prove to be the most brilliant diamond. When he saw in the distance the dome of a mosque all ablaze with the sun's rays, or a lake gleaming like a mirror, he made all haste to reach it, believing he had arrived in an enchanted land. But alas, the illusions vanished as he neared them, while weariness and an empty stomach forcibly reminded him that he was still in the land of mortals. Thus hungry and sorrowful, and despairing of ever finding his fortune, he wandered on for two long days, with the fruits of the field for his only nourishment, and the hard earth for his couch. On the morning of the third day he discovered, from a hill, a large city. The crescent shone brightly on its battlements, while gay banners waving from the roofs seemed to beckon him on. In great surprise, he stopped to look at the city and its surroundings. "Yes, there shall Little Muck find his fortune," said he to himself; and summoning all his strength, he started on towards the city. But, although the town seemed near by, it was nearly noon when he reached it, as his little legs almost refused to carry out his will, and he was forced to sit down in the shade of a palm tree to rest. At last he reached the gate. There he arranged his cloak with great care, gave a new fold to his turban, stretched out his sash to twice its usual width, stuck the long poniard in a little straighter, and wiping the dust from his shoes, grasped his stick more firmly and marched bravely in. He had wandered through several streets, but not a door opened to him; nor did any one call out--as he had fancied would be done--: Little Muck! Come in and eat, And rest your weary little feet. Once more he looked up very longingly at a large, fine house before him, when suddenly a window was opened, and an old woman looked down, calling out in a sing-song tone: O come, O come! The porridge is done, The table is spread, May you all be well-fed; O good neighbors, come, The porridge is done! The door of the house opened, and Muck saw many dogs and cats enter. He remained for some time in doubt whether he should accept the invitation, but at last he mustered up courage and walked in. Before him went two little kittens, and he concluded to follow them, as they might know the way to the kitchen better than he did. As Muck ascended the stairs, he met the same old woman who had looked out from the window. She looked at him crossly, and asked him what he wanted. "Why, you invited everybody in to partake of your porridge," answered Little Muck; "and as I was very hungry, I came in too." The old woman laughed and said: "Where in the world do you come from, you odd little fellow? The whole city knows that I cook for nobody but my dear cats, and now and then I invite company for them out of the neighborhood, as you see." Little Muck told the old woman how hardly it had fared with him since his father's death, and begged that she would permit him to eat with her cats to-day. The woman, who was pleased with the simple-hearted manner in which the dwarf told his story, allowed him to be her guest, and provided food and drink for him bountifully. When he had eaten his fill, and felt much stronger, the old woman looked at him for some time before saying: "Little Muck, remain in my service; you will have little to do, and will be well provided for." Little Muck, who had found the cats' soup very nice, consented, and became the servant of Ahavzi. His duties were light, but quite peculiar. Ahavzi had, for instance, six cats, and every morning Little Muck had to comb their fur and rub in costly ointments; when the old woman went out he had also to look after the cats; when they were to be fed, he had to set the dishes before them; and at night it was his duty to lay them on silken cushions and cover them with velvet blankets. There were also a few small dogs in the house, which he had to wait upon; still, these received but little attention as compared with the cats, which Ahavzi considered as her own children. As for the rest, Muck led as lonely a life as he had suffered in his father's house; for, with the exception of the old woman, he saw only dogs and cats the livelong day. For a little while, however, all went well with him. He always had enough to eat and but little to do, and the old woman found no fault with him. But after a while the cats became unruly; when the old woman had gone out, they would fly around the room as if possessed, throwing things about, and breaking many a fine dish that stood in their way. But whenever they heard the old woman coming up the stairs, they crouched down on their cushions, and wagged their tails, as if nothing had occurred. Ahavzi got very angry when she found her rooms in such disorder, and laid it all to Muck's charge; and though he might protest his innocence as much as he pleased, she believed her cats, which looked so harmless, more than she did her servant. Little Muck felt very sad that he had failed to find his fortune, and secretly resolved to leave the service of Ahavzi. But, as he had discovered on his first journey how poorly one lives without money, he resolved to help himself to the wages which his mistress had often promised but never given him. There was one room in Ahavzi's house that was always kept locked, and whose interior Muck had never seen. But he had often heard the old woman bustling about in there, and as often he would have given his life to know what she had hidden there. When he came to think about the money for his journey, it occurred to him that the treasures of Ahavzi might be concealed in that room. But the door was always locked, and therefore he was unable to get at the treasures. One morning, when the old woman had gone out, one of the dogs--to whom Ahavzi accorded little more than a step-mother's care, but whose favor Muck had acquired by a series of kindly services--seized Muck by his baggy trousers, and acted as if he wished the dwarf to follow him. Muck, always ready for a game with the dog, followed him, and behold, he was escorted to the bed-room of Ahavzi, and up to a small door that he had never noticed before. The door was soon opened, and the dog went in followed by Muck, who was greatly rejoiced to find that he was in the very room that he had so long sought to enter. He searched every-where for money, but found none. Only old clothes and strangely shaped dishes were to be seen. One of these dishes attracted his attention. It was crystal and in it were cut beautiful figures. He picked it up and turned it about to examine all its sides. But, horrors! he had not noticed that it had a lid which was insecurely fastened. The cover fell off, and was broken into a thousand pieces! For a long time Little Muck stood there, motionless from terror. Now was his fate decided. Now he must flee, or the old woman would surely strike him dead. His journey was decided on at once; and as he took one more look around to see if there were nothing among the effects of Ahavzi that he could make use of on his march, his eye was caught by a pair of large slippers. They were certainly not beautiful; but those he had on would not stand another journey, and he was also attracted by this pair on account of their size, for when he once had these on his feet, everybody, he hoped, would see that he had "put away childish things." He therefore quickly kicked off his own shoes and stepped into the large slippers. A walking stick ornamented with a finely cut lion's head, seemed to him to be standing too idly in the corner; so he took that along also, and hastened to his own bed-room, where he threw on his cloak, placed his father's turban on his head, stuck the poniard in his sash, and left the house and city as speedily as his feet would carry him. Once free of the town, he ran on, from fear of the old woman, until he was ready to drop with exhaustion. Never before had he run so fast; indeed it seemed to him that some unseen force was hurrying him on so that he could not stop. Finally he observed that his power must have connection with the slippers, as these kept sliding along, and carried him with them. He attempted all kinds of experiments to come to a stand-still, but was unsuccessful; when as a last resort, he shouted at himself, as one calls to horses: "Whoa! whoa! stop! whoa!" Thereupon the slippers halted, and Muck threw himself down on the ground utterly exhausted. The slippers pleased him very much. He had, after all, acquired something by his service, that would help him along in the world, on his way to find his fortune. In spite of his joy, he fell asleep from exhaustion--as the small body of little Muck had so heavy a head to carry that it could not endure much fatigue. The little dog, that had helped him to Ahavzi's slippers, appeared to him in a dream, and said to him: "Dear Muck, you don't quite understand how to use those slippers; you must know that by turning around three times on the heel of your slipper, you can fly to any point you choose; and with this walking-stick you can discover treasures, as wherever gold is buried it will strike three times on the earth, and if silver, twice!" Such was the dream of Little Muck. When he waked up, he recalled the wonderful dream, and resolved to test its truth. He put on the slippers, raised one foot and attempted to turn on his heel. But any one who will try the feat of turning three times in succession on the heel of such a large slipper, will not wonder that Little Muck did not at first succeed, especially if one takes into account his heavy head, that was constantly causing him to lose his balance. The poor little fellow got several hard falls on his nose, but he would not be frightened off from repeating his efforts, and at last he succeeded. He whirled around like a wheel on his heel; wished himself in the next large city, and the slippers steered him up into the air, rushed him with the speed of the wind through the clouds, and before Little Muck could think how it had all happened, he found himself in a market-place, where many stalls had been put up, and a countless number of people were busily running to and fro. He mixed somewhat with the people but considered it wiser to take himself to a quieter street, as on the market-place every now-and-then somebody stepped on his slippers, so as to nearly throw him down, and then again, one and another, in hurrying by, would get a stab from his projecting poniard, so that he was continually in trouble. Little Muck now began to think seriously of what he should do to earn some money. To be sure, he had a stick that would point out hidden treasures, but where might he hope to find a place where gold or silver was buried? He might have exhibited himself for money; but for that he was too proud. Finally his speed of foot occurred to him. Perhaps, thought he, my slippers may procure me a livelihood; and he resolved to hire himself out as a runner. Concluding that the king, who lived in this city, would pay the best wages, he inquired for the palace. At the door of the palace stood a guard, who asked him what business he had there? On answering that he was seeking service, he was referred to the head steward. To him he preferred his request, and begged him to give him a place among the king's messengers. The steward measured him with a glance from head to foot, and said: "How will you, with your little feet, scarcely a hand's breadth in length, become a royal messenger? Get away with you! I am not here to crack jokes with every fool." Little Muck assured him that he meant every word he had said, and that he would run a race with the fastest, on a wager. The steward took all this as a bit of pleasantry, and in that spirit ordered him to hold himself ready for a race that evening. He then took him into the kitchen, and saw that he was given food and drink, and afterwards, betook himself to the king, and told him about the little fellow, and his offer to run a race. The king was a merry gentleman, and well pleased with the steward for affording him an opportunity of having some sport with Muck, and ordered him to make such preparations for a race on the meadow, back of the castle, that his whole court could view the scene in comfort; and commanded him once more to pay every attention to the wants of the dwarf. The king told the princes and princesses of the entertainment that would be furnished in the evening, and they, in turn, informed their servants, so that when evening set in, all was expectancy, and every body who had feet to carry them, went streaming out to the meadow, where staging had been erected in order that they might see the vainglorious Muck run a race. When the king with his sons and daughters had taken their seats on the platform, Little Muck entered the meadow, and saluted the lords and ladies with an extremely elegant bow; universal acclamation greeted the appearance of the little fellow. Surely such a figure had never been seen there before. The small body and the big head, the cloak and baggy breeches, the long dagger stuck through the broad sash, the little feet enclosed in such huge slippers--it was impossible to look at such a droll figure and refrain from shouts of laughter. But Little Muck did not permit himself to be disturbed by the merriment his appearance caused. He stood, leaning proudly on his cane, awaiting his opponent. The steward, in accordance with Muck's wish, had selected the king's fastest runner, who now stepped up and placed himself beside the dwarf, and both awaited the signal to start. Thereupon, Princess Amarza waved her veil, as had been agreed on, and, like two arrows shot at the same mark, the two runners flew over the meadow. Muck's opponent took the lead at the start, but the dwarf chased after him in his slipper-chariot and soon overtook him, passed him, and reached the goal long before the other came up, panting for breath. Wonder and astonishment for some moments held the spectators still; but when the king clapped his hands, the crowd cheered and shouted: "Long live Little Muck, the victor in the race!" Meanwhile, Little Muck had been brought up before the king. He prostrated himself and said: "Most High and Mighty King, I have given you here only a small test of my art. Will you now permit my appointment as one of your runners?" But the king replied: "No; you shall be my body-messenger, dear Muck, and be retained about my person. Your wages will be one hundred gold pieces a year, and you shall eat at the head servants' table." So Little Muck came to believe that at last he had found the fortune he had so long been looking for, and in his heart he was cheerful and content. He also rejoiced in the special favor of the king, who employed him on his quickest and most secret messages, which the dwarf executed with accuracy and the most inconceivable speed. But the other servants of the king did not feel very cordial towards him, because they found themselves superseded in the favor of their master by a dwarf, who knew nothing except how to run fast. They laid many plots to ruin him, but all these came to naught, because of the implicit confidence that the king placed in his chief body-messenger--for to this position had Little Muck been advanced. Muck, who was quite sensible of this feeling against him, never once thought of revenge, such was his goodness of heart, but tried to hit upon some plan by which he might become useful to his enemies, and win their love. He thought of his little stick, which he had neglected since he had found his fortune, and he reflected that if he were to find treasures, his companions would be more favorably disposed towards him. He had often heard that the father of the present king had buried a great deal of treasure, when his country had been overrun by the enemy: and it was also said that the old king had died without being able to reveal the secret to his son. From this time forward Muck always carried his stick with him, in the hope of sometime passing over the place where the old king had hidden his money. One evening he went, by chance, into an outlying part of the palace gardens, which he seldom visited; when suddenly he felt the stick twitch in his hand, and it bent three times to the ground. Well did he know what this betokened. He therefore drew out his poniard, made some marks on the neighboring trees, and stole back into the castle, where he provided himself with a spade, and waited until it was dark enough for his undertaking. The digging made Little Muck much more trouble than he had anticipated. His arms were very weak, while his spade was large and heavy; and he had worked a full two hours before he had dug as many feet. Finally, he struck something hard, that sounded like iron. He now dug very fast, and soon brought to light a large iron lid. This caused him to get down in the hole to find out what the lid might cover, and he discovered, as he had expected, a large pot filled with gold pieces. But he had not sufficient strength to raise the pot, therefore he put into his pockets, his cloak, and his sash, as much as he wished to carry, covered up the remainder carefully, and took his load on his back. But if he had not had his slippers on, he would never have been able to move from the spot, so great was the weight of the gold. However, he reached his room unnoticed, and secured the gold under the cushions of his couch. When Little Muck found himself in possession of such wealth, he believed that a new leaf would be turned, and he should win many friends and followers among his enemies: from which reasoning one may readily perceive that the good Little Muck could not have received a very good bringing up, or he would never have dreamed of securing true friends through the medium of money. Alas, that he did not then step into his slippers, and scamper off with his cloak full of gold! The gold, which Little Muck from this time forth distributed so generously, awakened the envy of the other court servants. The chief cook, Ahuli, said: "He is a counterfeiter!" The steward, Achmet, declared: "He coaxes it out of the king!" But Archaz, the treasurer, and Muck's bitterest enemy, who occasionally dipped into the king's cash box himself, exclaimed decidedly: "He has stolen it!" In order to make sure of their case, they all acted in concert; and the head cup-bearer placed himself in the way of the king, one day, looking very sad and cast-down. So remarkably sad was his countenance, that the king inquired the cause of his sorrow. "Alas!" replied he, "I am sad because I have lost the favor of my master." "What fancy is that, friend Korchuz? Since when have I kept the sun of my favor from lighting on you?" asked the king. The head cup-bearer replied that the king had loaded the confidential body-messenger with gold, but had given nothing to his poor, faithful servants. The king was very much surprised at this news, and listened to an account of the liberal gifts of Little Muck, while the conspirators easily created the suspicion in the royal mind that Muck had by some means stolen the gold from the treasury. This turn of affairs was very welcome to the treasurer, who, without it, would not have cared to render an account of the cash in his keeping. The king, therefore, gave an order that a secret watch should be kept on every step of Little Muck, to catch him, if possible, in the act. On the night following this unlucky day, as Little Muck took his spade and stole out into the garden, with the intention of replenishing the heap of gold in his chamber, which his liberality had so wasted, he was followed at a distance by a guard, led by Ahuli, the cook, and Archaz, the treasurer, who fell upon him at the very moment when he was removing the gold from the pot, bound him, and took him straight before the king. The king, who felt cross enough at having his slumber disturbed, received his confidential chief body-messenger very ungraciously, and at once began an examination of the case. The pot had been dug from the earth, and, together with the spade and the cloak full of gold, was placed at the king's feet. The treasurer stated that, with his watchman, he had surprised Muck in the very act of burying this pot full of gold in the ground. The king asked the accused if this were true, and where he had got the gold. Little Muck, conscious of his innocence, replied that he had discovered it in the garden, and that he was attempting to dig it up, and not to bury it. All present laughed loudly at his defense, but the king, extremely enraged at what he believed to be the cool effrontery of the dwarf, cried: "What, wretch! Do you persist in lying so shamelessly to your king, after stealing from him? Treasurer Archaz, I call upon you to say whether you recognize this as the amount of money that is missing from my treasury?" The treasurer answered that, for his part, he was sure that this much, and still more, had been missing from the royal treasury for some time, and he would take his oath that this was part of the stolen money. The king thereupon commanded that Little Muck should be put in chains, and thrown into the tower; and handed the money over to his treasurer to put back into the treasury. Rejoiced at the fortunate outcome of the affair, the treasurer withdrew, and counted over the gold pieces at home; but this wicked man never once noticed, that in the bottom of the pot lay a scrap of paper, on which was written: "The enemy has over-run my country, and therefore I bury here a part of my treasure; whoever finds it will receive the curse of a king if he does not at once deliver it to my son.--_King Sadi_." Little Muck, in his prison, was a prey to the most melancholy reflections. He knew that the penalty for robbery of royal property was death; and yet he hesitated to reveal to the king the magical powers of his stick, because he rightly feared that it, and his slippers, would then be taken away from him. But neither could his slippers give him any aid in his present condition, for he was chained so closely to the wall that, try as he might, he could not turn on his heel. But when notice of death was served on him the following day, he thought better of the matter, concluding it was wiser to live without the stick, than to die with it. He, therefore, sent to the king, begging to make a private communication, and disclosed the secret to him. The king would not credit his confession; but Little Muck promised a test of the stick's power, if the king would grant him his life. The king gave him his word on it, and, unseen by Muck, had some gold buried in the garden, and then ordered Muck to find it. After a few moments hunt, Muck's stick struck three times on the ground. This assured the king that his treasurer had deceived him, and he therefore sent him--as is customary in the Levant--a silken cord, with which to strangle himself. But to Little Muck he said: "It is true that I promised to spare your life, but as I believe that you possess more than one secret in connection with this stick, you will be imprisoned for life, unless you confess what connection there is between this stick and your fast running." Little Muck, whose experience for a single night in the tower had given him no desire for a longer imprisonment, acknowledged that his whole art lay in the slippers; still he did not inform the king about the three turns on the heel. The king tried on the slippers himself, in order to test them, and run about the garden like a madman, making many attempts to stop, but he did not know how to bring the slippers to a stand-still, and Little Muck, who could not forego this bit of revenge, let him run around till he fell senseless. When the king recovered consciousness, he was fearfully enraged at Little Muck, who had run him out of breath. "I have pledged my word to give you life and liberty, but if you are within my territory in twelve hours, I will have you imprisoned!" As for the stick and slippers, he had them locked up in his treasury. Poor as at first, Little Muck wandered out into the country, cursing the folly that had led him to think he could play an important part at court. The country from which he was driven was fortunately not a large one, so that in the course of eight hours he had reached the boundary line; although walking, after having been accustomed to his beloved slippers, was no pleasant task to him. As soon as he had crossed the border, he turned off from the highways in order to reach the most desolate part of the wilderness, where he might live alone by himself, as he was at enmity with all mankind. In the dense forest he came across a place that seemed well suited to his purpose. A clear brook, overgrown by large, shady fig trees, and with banks of soft velvety turf, looked very inviting. Here he threw himself down, with the firm resolve not to eat again, but to calmly await death. While indulging in gloomy reveries, he fell asleep; but when he waked up, and began to experience the pangs of hunger, he reflected that starvation was rather an unpleasant thing, and therefore looked about him to see whether any thing was to be had to eat. Delicious ripe figs hung on the tree under which he had slept. He climbed up to pick some, and found them just to his taste; and afterwards he went down to the brook to slake his thirst. But how great was his horror, when the brook reflected back his head, adorned with two prodigious ears, and a long, thick nose! In great perplexity, he seized the ears in his hands, and truly they were more than half a yard long. "I deserve an ass's ears!" cried he, "for like an ass I have trodden my fortune underfoot." He strolled about under the trees, and when he once more felt hungry, he again had recourse to the figs, as they were the only eatable things to be found on the trees. After eating his second meal of figs, while thinking whether he might not find a place for his ears under his large turban, so that he would not appear too comical, he became sensible of the fact that his enormous ears had disappeared. He rushed down to the brook, and found it actually true; his ears had resumed their former shape; his long, unshapely nose had vanished. He now saw how all this had come about; the fruit of the first tree had presented him with the long nose and ears, while that of the second had healed him. Joyfully he perceived that his good luck had once more suggested to him the means of getting satisfaction. He picked from each tree as much as he could carry, and went back to the country he had so lately left. [Illustration] In the first town he came to, he disguised himself with other clothes, and went on to the city where the king lived. It was just at the season when ripe fruits were not very plentiful, and Little Muck placed himself under the palace gate, knowing from experience that the chief cook was in the habit of purchasing delicacies here for the king's table. Muck had not sat there long before he saw the cook coming through the court, and examining the viands of the marketmen who were ranged about the gate. Finally his glance fell on Muck's basket. "Ah! a rare morsel," exclaimed he, "that will please His Majesty mightily; what will you take for the whole basket?" Little Muck named a moderate price, and the bargain was quickly made. The cook turned the basket over to a slave and went on. Little Muck scampered off quickly, as he was afraid that when the figs had done their work on the heads of the court people, he might be hunted up and punished as the seller. The king was in excellent spirits at table, and praised the cook repeatedly for his successes, and for the solicitude with which he always sought out the rarest dainties for him; but the cook, knowing well what delicacy he was holding back, smirked in a satisfied way, dropping now and then mysterious phrases, such as: "Don't crow till you are out of the woods;" or "All's well that ends well," so that the princesses were very curious to know what it was he was about to produce. But when the beautiful, inviting figs were placed on the table, an exclamation broke from the lips of all present "How ripe; how appetizing!" cried the king. "Cook, you are a clever fellow, and deserve our especial favor!" Thus speaking, the king, who was accustomed to be rather economical with such delicacies, distributed the figs around his table with his own hand; each prince and princess received two, the court ladies and viziers one, while he placed the rest before himself, and began to devour them with great delight. "But, mercy on us, father! what makes you look so strange?" exclaimed Princess Amarza, soon after. Everybody looked at the king in astonishment. Monstrous ears were attached to his head, and a long nose hung down over his chin. Then, too, they began to look at one another, with horror and astonishment. All were more or less decorated with this singular head-gear. Fancy the horror experienced by the court! All the physicians in the city were sent for, and came in great numbers, prescribed pills and mixtures; but without effect on the ears and noses. An operation was performed on one of the princes, but the ears grew right out again. Muck heard the whole story in his hiding-place, and saw that now his opportunity had come. With the money received from the sale of his figs, he bought a costume suitable for a professional man, while a long beard of goat's hair completed his disguise. With a small bag of figs, he entered the king's palace, and offered his services as a foreign physician. At first, his representations were scouted; but when Little Muck restored the ears and nose of one of the princes to their natural size, by giving him a fig to eat, all were anxious to be cured by this strange physician. But the king took him by the hand, without speaking, and conducted him into his own apartment, where he opened a door that led into his treasury, and beckoned Muck to follow him. "Here is my treasure," said the king; "choose for yourself, and let it be what it will, it shall be preserved for you, if you will free me of this disgraceful evil." [Illustration] This was sweet music in Little Muck's ears. No sooner had he entered than he espied his slippers on the floor, and near them, his stick. He walked up and down the room, as if wondering at the riches of the king; but on coming to his slippers he slid into them, seized his stick, and tore off his false beard, revealing to the astonished king the well-known features of his exiled Muck. "Faithless King!" said he; "you, who reward fidelity with ingratitude, may keep as a well-merited punishment the deformity that you bear. I leave you those ears, that you may think daily on Little Muck." Thus speaking, the dwarf turned quickly on his heel, wished himself far away, and before the king could call for help, Little Muck had flown away. Since then, Little Muck has lived here in comfort, but without society, as he disdains mankind. Through experience he has become a wiser man, who, notwithstanding his external appearance may be unusual, is more worthy of your admiration than your sport. Such was the story my father told me. I assured him that I repented of my rude behavior towards the good little man, and my father administered the other half of the punishment he had designed for me. I related to my playmates the wonderful events of the dwarf's life, and we became so much attached to him that not one of us ever abused him again. On the contrary, we honored him as long as he lived, and always bowed as low to him as before the Cadi or Mufti. The travellers decided to rest for a day at this caravansary, in order to strengthen themselves and their beasts for the journey still before them. The gaiety of the day before continued, and they amused themselves with all kinds of games. After dinner, they called on the fourth merchant, Ali Sizah, to perform his duty, as the others had done, by giving them a story. He replied that his own life had been so barren of incidents, that he could not interest them with any personal anecdote, but, instead, he would relate to them the legend of "The False Prince." THE FALSE PRINCE. There was once a respectable journeyman-tailor, named Labakan, who had learned his trade of a clever master in Alexandria. It could not be said that Labakan was unhandy with the needle; on the contrary, he was able to do very fine work. Neither would one be justified in calling him lazy; but still every thing was not just as it should be with the workman, as he often sewed away by the hour at such a rate that the needle became red-hot in his hands, and the thread fairly smoked, and would then show a better piece of work than any one else. But, at another time--and, sad to relate, this occurred more frequently--he would sit plunged in deep thought, looking before him with a fixed gaze, and with something so peculiar in his expression and conduct that his master and the other journeymen were wont to say at such times: "Labakan is putting on airs again." But on Fridays, when other people were returning from prayers to their work, Labakan came out of the mosque in a beautiful costume, which he had taken great pains to prepare for himself. He walked slowly and with proud steps through the squares and streets of the city, and whenever he was greeted by any of his comrades with, "Peace be with you," or, "How are you, friend Labakan?" he condescendingly waved his hand in reply, or gave his superior a princely nod. If his master said to him, "Ah, Labakan, what a prince was lost in you!" he, much flattered, would respond, "Have you, too, remarked that?" or, "That has been my opinion for a long time." [Illustration] After this manner had the journeyman conducted himself for a long time; but his master indulged his folly, as otherwise he was a good fellow and a clever workman. But one day, Selim, the brother of the sultan, who was then traveling through Alexandria, sent a court costume to the master, to have certain changes made in it; and the master gave it to Labakan to make the alterations, as he did the best work. At night, after the master and his journeymen had gone out to refresh themselves after their day's work, an irresistible desire impelled Labakan to go back into the shop where the costume of the sultan's brother hung. He stood before it, lost in admiration over the splendor of the embroidery and the various shades of velvet and silk. He could not refrain from trying it on; and behold, it fitted him as perfectly as though it had been made for him. "Am I not as good a prince as anybody?" said he to himself, while striding up and down the room. "Has not the master said that I was born to be a prince?" With the clothes, the journeyman seemed to have adopted some quite royal sentiments; he could not banish from his mind the fancy that he was the unacknowledged son of a king; and as such, he resolved to travel about the world, leaving a place where the people had been so foolish as not to recognize his true rank under the cover of his present low position. The splendid costume seemed to him sent by a good fairy. He therefore took care not to slight so welcome a present, pocketed what little ready money he possessed, and, favored by the darkness of the night, strolled out of Alexandria's gate. Wherever he appeared, the new prince created quite a sensation; as the splendor of his dress and his grave and majestic air were hardly in keeping with his mode of traveling. When he was questioned on this subject, he was accustomed to reply, in a mysterious way, that there were some very good reasons for his traveling afoot. But when he noticed that he was making himself ridiculous by his foot wanderings, he invested a small sum in an old horse, which was very well adapted to his wants, as, by its lack of speed and spirit, he was never forced into the embarrassing position of showing his skill as a rider--a thing quite out of his line. One day, as he walked Murva (such was the name he had given his horse) along the road, he was overtaken by a horseman who requested permission to travel with him, as the road would seem much shorter if he could enjoy Labakan's company. The horseman was a merry young man, of pleasing appearance and conversation. He began talking with Labakan, asking where he had come from and where he was going; and it soon appeared that he, too, like the journeyman-tailor, was traveling about the world without any definite plan. He said that his name was Omar; that he was the nephew of Elsi Bey, the unfortunate Pasha of Cairo, and was traveling in order to execute a charge that his uncle had confided to him on his death-bed. Labakan was not so communicative about his own affairs, but gave Omar to understand that he was of high descent, and was traveling for pleasure. The two young gentlemen were well pleased with each other, and continued their journey together. On the second day of their acquaintance, Labakan inquired of his companion Omar about the trust he had to execute, and learned to his astonishment that Elsi Bey. Pasha of Cairo, had brought up Omar from his earliest childhood, and the boy had never known his parents. Now, when Elsi Bey was attacked by his enemies, and after three unfortunate battles, was forced to fly from the field, mortally wounded, he disclosed to his pupil that he was not his nephew, but the son of a mighty ruler, who, frightened by the prophecies of his astrologist, had had the young prince removed from the palace, with the oath not to see him again until the prince should have reached his twenty-second birthday. Elsi Bey did not give him the name of his father, but had most particularly charged him that he must be present at the famous pillar El Serujah, a four days' journey east of Alexandria, on the fourth day of the coming month of Ramadan, on which day he would be twenty-two years old. Arriving there, he should hold out a dagger to the men who would be standing on the column, with the words: "Here am I whom you seek;" and if they answered, "Praised be the Prophet, who preserved you," he should follow them, and they would lead him to his father. The journeyman-tailor, Labakan, was astonished at this communication. He looked on Prince Omar, from this time forth, with envious eyes; exasperated that fate should have selected his companion, who already passed for the nephew of a powerful pasha, to shower on him the still higher dignity of a prince's son, while he, Labakan, endowed with all the qualities of a prince, was degraded by a low birth and a common occupation. He made comparisons between himself and the prince, and was forced to confess that the prince was a youth of prepossessing appearance, with fine sparkling eyes, aquiline nose, a gentle and obliging manner--in short, all the external marks of a gentleman. But numerous as were the good traits he noticed in his companion, still, he whispered to himself, a Labakan would be far more welcome to a princely father than the real prince. These reflections occupied Labakan's mind the whole day; and they were present in his sleep, at their next lodging-place. And when he woke, and his eye fell on the sleeping Omar at his side--sleeping so quietly, and dreaming, perhaps, of his happy fortune--the idea came into Labakan's brain to obtain, through stratagem or force, that which unwilling fate had denied him. The dagger, the token by which the home-returning prince was to be recognized, stuck in the sash of the sleeper. He drew it forth lightly, to plunge it into the sleeping breast of its owner. But the pacific soul of the tailor shrunk at the thought of murder. He contented himself with taking possession of the dagger, ordered Omar's fast horse to be saddled, and before the prince had awaked, his faithless companion had gained a start of several miles. It was the first day of the sacred month of Ramadan when Labakan robbed the prince; and he had, therefore, four days in which to reach the pillar of El Serujah, the location of which he well knew. Although the distance could be easily covered in two days, yet Labakan fearing to be overtaken by the true prince, made all haste. At the close of the second day, Labakan saw the column before him. It stood upon a small hill, in a broad plain, and could be observed at a distance of eight miles. Labakan's heart beat wildly at the sight. Although he had had time enough, in the last two days, to think over the part he was about to play, still his accusing conscience made him uneasy; but the thought that he had been born to be a prince hardened him once more, so that he went forward. The region about the column El Serujah was uninhabited and desolate, and the new prince would have found himself in sad straights for sustenance, had he not made provision for a journey of several days. He went into camp, with his horse, under some palm trees, and awaited there his fate. Near the middle of the following day, he saw a large procession of horses and camels coming over the plain, to the column of El Serujah. The train stopped at the foot of the hill on which the column stood; splendid tents were pitched, and the whole had the appearance of a rich pasha's or sheik's caravan. Labakan suspected that the many people whom he saw were there on the Prince Omar's account, and he would willingly have shown them their future ruler then and there; but he controlled his desire to step forth as a prince, as the following morning would certainly see his dearest hopes realized. The morning sun woke the overjoyed tailor to the most important moment of his life--the moment that should see him lifted from an ignoble position to the side of a royal father. To be sure, the unlawfulness of the steps he was taking, occurred to him, as he saddled his horse to ride to the column; to be sure, he thought of the anguish Prince Omar would suffer, betrayed in his fair hopes; but the die was cast, and he could not undo what had already been done, and his vanity whispered to him that he looked stately enough to be presented to the most powerful king as a son. Encouraged by such thoughts, he swung himself into his saddle, mustered all his courage to stand the ordeal of a gallop, and in less than fifteen minutes he reached the foot of the hill. He dismounted from his horse and tied it to a bush, and then drew out Prince Omar's dagger and ascended the hill. At the foot of the column stood six men around an aged man of kingly appearance. A splendid kaftan of cloth of gold, with a white cashmere shawl wound about it, and a white turban ornamented with sparkling jewels, denoted him to be a man of wealth and rank. Labakan went up to him, made a low obeisance, and offered him the dagger, saying: "Here am I whom you seek." [Illustration] "Praised be the Prophet, who preserved you!" replied the old man with tears of joy. "Embrace your old father, my beloved son Omar!" The good tailor was much moved by these solemn words, and with a mixture of joy and shame sank into the arms of the aged prince. But only for an instant was he permitted to enjoy undisturbed the delight of his new surroundings; for as he arose from the embrace of the elderly prince, he saw a horseman hastening across the plain towards the hill. The rider and his horse presented a singular appearance. The horse, either from stubbornness or exhaustion, could hardly be urged forward, but moved with a stumbling gait that could be called neither a walk nor a trot, while his rider was using both hands and feet to force him to a faster pace. Only too soon Labakan recognized his horse, Murva, and the genuine Prince Omar; but the wicked Father of Lies once more took possession of him, and he determined that, whatever the result might be, he would maintain his pretended rights with a bold face. The rider's gestures had been seen while he was still at a distance; but now, in spite of the feeble trot of his horse, he had arrived at the foot of the hill, thrown himself from his horse, and rushed up the hill. "Stay, there!" cried he, "Stop, whoever you may be, and do not let yourselves be misled by the shameful impostor! My name is Omar, and no mortal may dare to assume my name!" Deep astonishment was expressed in the faces of the bystanders, at the turn affairs had taken, and the old prince was especially perplexed, as he looked inquiringly from one to the other. But Labakan said, with forced composure: "Most gracious Sire and Father, do not allow this person to mislead you. He is, to my certain knowledge, a crazy tailor from Alexandria, called Labakan, and more deserving of our pity than our anger." These words brought the prince to the verge of madness. Foaming with rage he attempted to spring on Labakan, but the bystanders interposed, and held him fast, while the old prince said: "Of a truth, my dear son, the poor fellow is mad; let him be bound and placed on one of our dromedaries; perhaps we may be able to render the unfortunate youth some assistance." The anger of the prince was past. He threw himself, weeping, at the feet of his father: "My heart tells me that you are my father; by the memory of my mother, I charge you to listen to me!" "Eh, God preserve us!" answered the old man. "He is beginning to talk strangely again; how does the fellow come by such stupid notions!" Thereupon he took Labakan's arm, and was conducted down the hill by him. They both mounted beautiful, richly-caparisoned horses, and rode at the head of the caravan, over the plain. The hands of the prince were bound, and he was tied fast on one of the dromedaries, while two horsemen rode on each side, and kept a careful watch on all his movements. The elderly prince was Saaud, Sultan of Wechabiten. He had lived for years without children, until finally a son, whom he had so ardently desired, was born to him. But the astrologer of whom he inquired the destiny of the boy, gave the opinion that "until his twenty-second year the child would be in danger of being supplanted by an enemy," therefore to be on the safe side, the sultan had given the prince to his tried and true friend, Elsi Bey, to be brought up, and for twenty-two painful years had waited for his home-coming. All this the sultan told his pretended son, and expressed himself as well pleased with his figure and demeanor. On arriving in the sultan's country they were everywhere received by the inhabitants with acclamations, as the report of the prince's arrival had spread like wildfire to all the cities and villages. Arches covered with flowers and boughs were constructed in all the streets through which they passed, brilliant carpets of all colors adorned the houses, and the people praised God and His Prophets for sending them so beautiful a prince. All this filled the heart of the tailor with delight; but all the more unhappy did the real Omar feel, who, still bound, followed the caravan in silent despair. In the universal joy nobody troubled themselves about him who should have been the recipient of their welcome. Thousands upon thousands shouted the name of Omar, but he who rightly bore this name was noticed not at all. At the most, one and another would ask who it was that was bound so securely; and the reply of his escort, that it was a crazy tailor, echoed horribly in his ears. The caravan at last reached the capital of the sultan, where a still more brilliant reception was awaiting them. The sultana, an elderly, venerable lady, awaited them with the entire court, in the splendid hall of the palace. The floor of this salon was covered with an immense carpet, the walls were tastefully adorned with a light-blue cloth, hung from great silver hooks with golden tassels and cords. It was already night when the caravan arrived; therefore numerous round colored lamps were lighted in the salon, making it light as day. But the most lights were placed at the farther end of the salon, where the sultana sat upon a throne. The throne stood upon a dais, and was inlaid with pure gold, and set with large amethysts. Four of the most distinguished emirs held a canopy over the sultana's head, while the Sheik of Medina fanned her with a fan of peacock's feathers. Under these surroundings, the sultana awaited her husband and her son. She had not seen her son since his birth, but the longed-for son had appeared in her dreams, so that she felt sure of knowing him amongst a thousand. Now the noise of the approaching caravan was heard, trumpets and drums mingled with the cheers of the crowd; the hoofs of the horses beat in the court of the palace; nearer and nearer sounded the steps of the expected ones; the doors of the salon flew open, and through the rows of prostrate servants, the sultan hastened to the throne of the sultana, leading his son by the hand. "Here," said he, "I bring you the one for whom you have so long yearned." But the sultana interrupted him with: "That is not my son! Those are not the features that the Prophet showed me in my dreams!" Just as the sultan was about to upbraid her for her unbelief, the door of the salon opened, and Prince Omar rushed in, followed by his guards, from whom he had escaped by the exercise of all his strength. He threw himself breathless before the throne with the words: "Here will I die! Let me be killed, inhuman father, for I can no longer endure this disgrace." Everyone was amazed at this speech; they crowded about the unfortunate youth, and the guards, from whom he had escaped, were about to lay hold of him and bind him again, when the sultana, who had looked on all this in speechless surprise, sprang up from the throne. "Stay, there!" cried she; "this and no other is the real prince; this is he whom my eyes have never beheld, and yet my heart has known!" The guard had involuntarily released Omar, but the sultan, burning with anger, called to them to bind the crazy fellow. "It is my business to decide here," said he, in a commanding tone, "and here one does not judge by the dreams of old women, but by certain reliable signs. This youth (pointing to Labakan) is my son, for he brought me the dagger, the true token of my friend Elsi." "He stole the dagger!" exclaimed Omar. "He abused my unsuspecting confidence with treachery!" But the sultan, accustomed to have his own way in every thing, would not listen to the voice of his son, and had the unhappy Omar forcibly dragged from the room. Then, accompanied by Labakan, he went to his own room, very angry with the sultana, with whom he had lived in peace for twenty-five years. The sultana was very unhappy over these events. She was perfectly well satisfied that an impostor had taken possession of the sultan's heart, as the unfortunate youth who had been dragged away, had often appeared in her dreams as her son. When she had in a measure quieted her sorrow, she tried to hit upon some method of convincing the sultan of his error. This was no easy task, as he who had usurped their son's place, had brought the token of recognition, the dagger, and had also, as she discovered, learned so much about Omar's early life from the prince himself, that he played his _role_ without betraying himself. She summoned the men who had accompanied the sultan to the pillar of El Serujah, in order to learn all the particulars, and then held a consultation with her most trustworthy slave-women. They chose and then rejected this and that expedient. At last Melechsalah, a wise old woman, said: "If I have heard rightly, honored mistress, the one who brought the dagger, called him whom you recognize as your son, Labakan, a crazy tailor." "Yes, that is true," answered the sultana; "but what can you make out of that?" "Suppose," continued the slave, "that this impostor had fastened his own name on your son? And if this supposition is correct, there is a fine way of catching the impostor, that I will tell to you as a secret." The sultana bent her head, and the slave whispered in her ear some expedient that seemed to please the sultana, as she prepared to go at once to the sultan. The sultana was a prudent woman, who knew the weak sides of the sultan and how to make use of them. She therefore appeared willing to submit to his judgment, and to recognize the son he had chosen; asking in return but one condition. The sultan, who was sorry for the anger he had shown his wife, granted her request, and she said: "I should dearly like to receive from both of these claimants a test of their cleverness. Another person might very likely have them ride, fight, or throw spears; but these are things that everybody can do, and I will give them something that will require ingenuity to accomplish. Each one shall make a kaftan, and a pair of trousers, and then we shall see who will make the finest." The sultan laughed, and said: "Well, you have devised something extremely wise! The idea that my son should compete with your crazy tailor at coat-making? No, it won't do." The sultana, however, insisted that he was bound by the promise he had made her in advance; and the sultan, who was a man of his word, finally consented, although he swore that let the crazy tailor make his coat ever so fine, he would never admit him to be his son. The sultan went in person to his son, and requested him to humor the caprice of his mother, who very much wished for a kaftan made by his hands. Labakan was greatly pleased. If that is all that is wanted, thought he to himself, then madame the sultana will soon have cause to be proud of me. Two rooms were prepared, one for the prince, the other for the tailor, where they were to try their skill; and they were liberally provided with silk cloth, scissors, needles and thread. The sultan was very curious to see what sort of a thing his son would bring to light for a kaftan; while the sultana was very nervous lest her stratagem should fail. Two days had been given to them in which to accomplish their task. On the morning of the third day, the sultan sent for his wife, and when she had come, he sent into the two rooms for the two kaftans and their makers. Labakan entered triumphantly, and spread his kaftan before the astonished eyes of the sultan. "Look here, father!" said he, "see, honored mother, whether this is not a master-piece of a kaftan? I would be willing to lay a wager with the cleverest court tailor that he could not produce such an one as that." The sultana smiled, and turned to Omar: "And what have you produced, my son?" Impatiently he threw down the silk, cloth and scissors on the floor. "I was brought up to break horses, and to the use of a sword, and my spear will hit the mark at sixty paces; but the science of the needle is strange to me, and would have been an unworthy study for a pupil of Elsi Bey, the ruler of Cairo!" "O thou true son of my heart!" exclaimed the sultana. "Now, I can embrace thee, and call thee son! Pardon me, my Husband and Lord," continued she, turning to the sultan, "that I have plotted this stratagem against you. Do you not now see which is the prince, and which the tailor? Truly, the kaftan that your son has made is superb, and I should like to ask him of what master he learned his trade." The sultan sat in deep thought, glancing suspiciously now at his wife and now at Labakan, who vainly tried to control his blushes and his discomfiture at having so stupidly betrayed himself. "Even this proof will not suffice," said the sultan. "But praised be Allah, I know of a means of finding out whether I have been deceived or not." He ordered his fastest horse to be led out, swung himself into the saddle, and rode into a forest near by, where lived, according to an old legend, a kind fairy named Adolzaide, who had often stood by the kings of his race with her counsel in the hour of need. In the middle of the forest was an open place surrounded by tall cedars. There lived--so the story ran--the fairy, and it was seldom that a mortal ventured there, as a certain aversion to the spot had for ages descended from father to son. Arriving there, the sultan dismounted, tied his horse to a tree, placed himself in the centre of the opening, and called out in a loud voice: "If it be true that you have given my ancestors good advice in the hour of need, then do not spurn the prayer of their grandson, and give me advice on a point for which human understanding is too frail." He had hardly spoken the last word, when one of the cedars opened, and a veiled lady, in long white garments, stepped forth. "I know why you come to me, Sultan Saaud. Your purpose is just; therefore, you shall have my assistance. Take these two little boxes. Let each of the young men who claim to be your son choose between these. I know that the true prince will not fail to pick out the right one." Thus spake the fairy, at the same time handing him two little ivory boxes richly set with gold and pearls. On the lid, which the sultan vainly tried to open, were inscriptions in diamond letters. The sultan tried to think as he rode home what these little boxes might contain; but all his efforts to open them failed. Nor did the inscriptions throw any light on the matter, for one read--_Honor and Fame_; the other--_Fortune and Riches_. The sultan thought to himself that he would have great difficulty in making a choice between these two things, that were alike desirable, alike alluring. On arriving at his palace, he sent for the sultana, and told her of the verdict of the fairy. A strange hope assured the sultana that he to whom her heart drew her would choose the box that should make plain his royal descent. Two tables were placed before the throne of the sultan, upon which the king placed the boxes with his own hand. He then ascended the throne, and beckoned one of his slaves to open the doors of the salon. A brilliant assembly of pashas and emirs of the realm, whom the sultan had summoned, streamed through the opened doors. They took their places on splendid cushions that were ranged lengthwise along the wall. When they were all seated, the sultan beckoned a second time, and Labakan was brought forward. With a proud step he walked up the hall, prostrated himself before the throne, and said: "What are the commands of my Lord and Father?" The sultan rose from his throne, and said: "My son, doubts have been raised as to the justness of your claim to this name; one of those little boxes contains the proof of your real parentage. Choose; I do not doubt that you will select the right one." Labakan arose and stepped up to the tables, hesitated for some time as to which he should choose, but finally said: "Honored Father! What can be higher than the fortune to be your son? what nobler than the riches of thy grace? I choose the box with the inscription--_Fortune and Riches_." "We shall presently know whether you have chosen the right one; in the meantime sit down on the cushion by the side of the Pasha of Medina," said the sultan, and motioned to a slave. Omar was brought forward. His look was gloomy, his air sad, and his appearance created universal interest among those present. He prostrated himself before the throne, and inquired after the commands of the sultan. The sultan signified to him that he was to choose one of the little boxes. Omar arose and approached the tables. He read attentively both inscriptions, and then said: "The last few days have taught me how fickle is fortune, how unstable are riches; but they have also learned me that an indestructible gift dwells in the breast of Honor, and that the shining star of Fame does not vanish with fortune. And though I should renounce a crown, the die is cast: _Honor and Fame_, I choose you!" He placed his hand on the box he had chosen; but the sultan ordered him to wait a moment, and beckoned Labakan to come forward, and lay his hand on his box also. Then the sultan had a basin of water, of the holy fountain of Zemzem in Mecca, brought, washed his hands for prayer, turned his face to the East, prostrated himself and prayed: "God of my fathers! Thou who for centuries hast preserved our race pure and uncontaminated, do not permit that an unworthy one should bring to shame the name of the Abasside; be near my true son with Thy protection, in this hour of trial!" The sultan arose, and once more ascended his throne. Universal expectancy held those present in breathless attention; one could have heard a mouse run over the floor, so still were they all. Those farthest away stretched their necks to look over the heads of those in front, that they might see the little boxes. Then the sultan spoke: "Open the boxes!" and although no force could have opened them before, they now flew open of themselves. In the box chosen by Omar lay, on a velvet cushion, a small golden crown, and a sceptre; in Labakan's box--a large needle and a little package of thread! The sultan ordered them to bring their boxes to him. He took the miniature crown in his hand, and wonderful was it to see how, as he took it, it began to grow larger and larger until it had attained the size of a genuine crown. He placed the crown on the head of Omar, who knelt before him, kissed him on the forehead, and bade him sit at his right hand. Then turning to Labakan, he said: "There is an old proverb that the shoemaker should stick to his last. It looks as if you should stick to the needle. To be sure, you do not deserve my pardon; but some one has interceded for you, to whom I can refuse nothing to-day; therefore I spare you your miserable life. But, to give you some good advice--you had better make haste to get out of my kingdom." Ashamed, ruined as were all his pretensions, the poor journeyman-tailor could not reply. He threw himself at the feet of the prince, in tears. "Can you forgive me, Prince?" said he. "Loyalty to a friend, magnanimity to a foe, is the boast of the Abasside," replied the prince, as he raised him up. "Go in peace!" "Oh, my true son!" cried the aged sultan, with deep emotion, and sank on the breast of Omar. The emirs and pashas, and all the nobility of the kingdom, rose from their seats, and cried: "Hail to the new son of the king!" and amidst the universal joy, Labakan stole out of the room with the little box under his arm. He went below to the stables of the sultan, saddled his horse, Murva, and rode out of the gate of the city towards Alexandria. His life as a prince appeared to him as a dream, and the splendid little box, set with pearls and diamonds, was the only thing left to remind him that he had not dreamed. [Illustration] When he at length reached Alexandria, he rode up to the house of his old master, dismounted, tied his horse near the door, and entered the workshop. The master, not knowing him at first, made an obeisance, and asked him what might be his pleasure But on taking a closer look, and recognizing Labakan, he called to his journeymen and apprentices, and they all rushed angrily at the poor Labakan, who was not expecting such a reception, kicked and beat him with their irons and yard sticks, pricked him with needles, and nipped him with sharp shears, until, utterly exhausted, he sank down on a heap of old clothes. While he lay there, the master gave him a lecture on the clothes he had stolen. In vain did Labakan assure him that he had come back in order to make restitution; all in vain did he offer him three-fold indemnity; the master and his men fell upon him again, beat him black and blue, and threw him out of the door. Torn and bruised, Labakan crawled on his horse and rode to a caravansary. Then he laid his tired and aching head on a pillow, and reflected on the sorrows of earth, on unappreciated merit, and on the vanity and fickleness of riches. He fell asleep with the resolution to forswear all greatness, and become a respectable citizen. The succeeding day found him still steadfast in his purpose, as the heavy hands of the master and his men seemed to have beaten all his grand notions out of him. He sold his little box to a jeweler for a high price, bought a house with the proceeds, and fitted up a workshop for his trade. When he had every thing arranged, and had also hung out a sign before his window with the inscription, "_Labakan_, _Tailor_," he sat down, and with the needle and thread he had found in the little box, began to mend his coat that had been so badly torn by his old master. He was called away from his work, and when he returned to take it up again, what a singular sight met his eyes! The needle was sewing busily away without any one to guide it, making such fine, delicate stitches, as even Labakan in his most artistic moments could not have equaled! Surely even the commonest gift of a kind fairy is useful and of great value. Still another value was possessed by this present, namely: the ball of the thread was never exhausted, let the needle sew as fast as it would. Labakan obtained many customers, and was soon the most famous tailor in all that region. He would cut out the clothes, and make the first stitch with the needle, and the needle would then instantly go on with the work, never pausing until the garment was done. Master Labakan soon had the whole town for customers, as his work was first-class, and his prices low; and only over one thing did the people of Alexandria shake their heads, namely: that he worked without journeymen, and with locked doors. Thus did the saying of the little box, promising _Fortune and Riches_, come to pass. Fortune and riches, even though in moderate measure, attended the steps of the good tailor; and when he heard of the fame of the young sultan, Omar, that was on all lips; when he heard that this brave man was the pride and love of his people, and the terror of his enemies--then the false prince thought to himself: "It is after all better that I remained a tailor, for the quest of honor and fame is rather a dangerous business." Thus lived Labakan, contented with his lot, respected by his fellow-citizens; and if the needle in the meanwhile has not lost its virtue, it still sews on with the endless thread of the kind fairy, Adolzaide. At sunset the caravan started on, and soon reached Birket-el-Had, or Pilgrim's Fountain; from which it was only a three hours' journey to Cairo. The caravan was expected about this time, and therefore the merchants soon had the pleasure of seeing their friends coming from Cairo to meet them. They entered the city through the gate Bab-el-Falch, as it is considered a happy omen for those who come from Mecca to pass through this gate, as the Prophet went out of it. On the market-place the three Turkish merchants took leave of the stranger Selim Baruch, and the Greek merchant Zaleukos, and went home with their friends. But Zaleukos showed the stranger a good caravansary, and invited him to take dinner with him. The stranger accepted the invitation, and promised to come as soon as he had made some changes in his dress. The Greek made every preparation to entertain his guest, for whom he had acquired a strong liking on the journey; and when the dishes were all arranged in order, he sat down to await the coming of his guest. At last he heard slow and heavy steps in the hall that led to his room. He arose to go and meet him and welcome him on the threshold; but no sooner had he opened the door, than he stepped back horrified, for that terrible man with the red mantle stepped towards him! He looked at him again; there was no illusion; the same tall, commanding figure, the mask through which the dark eyes shone, the red mantle with the gold embroidery, were only too closely associated with the most terrible hours of his life. Conflicting emotions surged in Zaleukos's breast. He had long since become reconciled to this picture of memory, and had forgiven him who had injured him; yet the appearance of the man himself opened all his wounds afresh; all those painful hours when he had suffered almost the pangs of death,--the remorse that had poisoned his young life,--all this swept over his soul in the flight of a moment. "What do you want, monster?" exclaimed the Greek, as the apparition stood motionless on the threshold. "Vanish quickly, before I curse you!" "Zaleukos!" spoke a well-known voice, from beneath the mask, "Zaleukos! is it thus you receive your guest?" The speaker removed the mask, and threw the mantle back; it was Selim Baruch, the stranger. But Zaleukos was not yet quieted. He shuddered at the stranger, for only too plainly had he recognized the unknown man of the Ponte Vecchio. But the old habit of hospitality prevailed; he silently beckoned to the stranger to take a seat at the table. "I perceive your thoughts," said the stranger, after they were seated. "Your eyes look inquiringly at me. I could have remained silent, and never more appeared to your vision; but I owe you an explanation, and therefore I ventured to appear to you in my old form, knowing that I run the risk of your cursing me. But you once told me: _The religion of my fathers commands me to love him, and then he must be more unhappy than I._ Believe that, my friend, and listen to my vindication. "I must begin far back, in order to make my story quite clear. I was born in Alexandria, of Christian parents. My father was the French consul there, and was the younger son of a famous old French family. From my tenth year up, I was under the care of my uncle, in France, and left my fatherland some years after the breaking out of the Revolution, with my uncle, who no longer felt safe in the land of his ancestors, in order to find a refuge with my parents across the sea. We landed in Alexandria, hopeful of finding in my parents' home that quiet and peace that no longer obtained in France. The outside storms of this excitable period had not, it is true, extended to this point, but from an unexpected quarter came the blow that crushed our family to the ground. My brother, a young man full of promise, and private secretary to my father, had but recently married the daughter of a Florentine nobleman who lived in my father's neighborhood. Two days before our arrival, my brother's bride disappeared; and neither our family, nor yet her father, could discover the slightest trace of her. We finally came to the conclusion that she had ventured too far away for a walk, and had fallen into the hands of brigands. This belief would have been a consolation to my brother, in comparison with the truth that was only too soon made known to us. The faithless woman had eloped with a young Neapolitan, whom she had been in the habit of meeting at her father's house. My brother, terribly excited by this act, used his utmost endeavors to bring the guilty one to account; but in vain. His attempts in this direction, which had aroused attention in Florence and Naples, only served to bring down misfortune on us all. The Florentine nobleman returned to his country under the pretext of assisting my brother, but with the real design of destroying us all. He put an end to all the investigations instituted by my brother in Florence, and used his influence so effectually that my father and brother fell under the suspicion of their government, were imprisoned in the most outrageous manner, and taken to France, where they were guillotined. My mother went crazy, and only after ten long months did death release her from her terrible condition. But she recovered her sanity a few days before her death. I was thus left all alone in the world, but only one thought occupied my soul, only one thought overshadowed my grief: it was the powerful flame of revenge that my mother kindled in my breast during the last hours of her life. "As I have said, she recovered her senses towards the last. She called me to her side and spoke quietly of our fate and of her approaching death. Then she sent everybody out of the room, raised herself with a spirited air from her poor couch, and said that I could win her blessing if I would swear to carry out what she should confide to me. Influenced by the dying words of my mother, I bound myself with an oath to do her bidding. She broke out in imprecations against the Florentine and his daughter, and required me, under the penalty of incurring her curse, to revenge our unfortunate family on him. She died in my arms. The thought of revenge had long slumbered in my soul; now it was aroused to action. I collected the balance of my patrimony, and resolved to risk every thing on my revenge. "I was soon in Florence, where I kept as quiet as possible. The difficulty of executing my plan was much increased by the situation in which I found my enemy. The old Florentine had become Governor, and had the power, should he have the least suspicion of my presence, to destroy me. An incident occurred just then that was of great assistance to me. One evening I saw a man passing along the street, in a familiar livery. His unsteady gait, sullen look, and manner of muttering _Santo Sacramento_ and _Maledetto diavolo_, assured me that it was Pietro, a servant of the Florentine's, whom I had known in Alexandria. I had no doubt that it was his master whom he was cursing, and I therefore determined to make use of his present frame of mind for my own benefit. He seemed very much surprised to see me in Florence, and complained to me that since his master had become Governor he could do nothing to suit him; so that my gold, together with his anger, brought him over to my side. The most difficult part of my plan had now been provided for. I had in my pay a man who could open the door of my enemy to me at any hour, and now my revenge seemed near its accomplishment. The life of the old Florentine seemed to me of too little account to offset the destruction of our family: he must lose the idol of his heart, his daughter Bianca. Was it not she who treated my brother so shamefully? Was it not she who was the chief cause of our misfortunes? The news that she was about to be married a second time was very welcome to my revengeful heart. This would but heighten the vengeance of my blow. It was settled in my mind that she _must_ die. But I myself shrank from the deed, and I did not credit Pietro with nerve enough; so we looked about for a man who could accomplish the work. I did not dare approach any of the Florentines, as none of them would have dared to undertake such a thing against the Governor. It was then that the scheme I afterward carried out, occurred to Pietro, who at the same time pitched upon you, a stranger and physician, as being the most suitable person to do the deed. The rest of the story you know. The only danger to the success of my scheme lay in your sagacity and honesty; hence the affair with the mantle. "Pietro opened the side gate of the Governor's palace for us, and would have shown us out as secretly, had not he and I fled, horrified by the terrible sight we saw through a crack in the door. Pursued by terror and remorse, I ran some two hundred paces, and sank down on the steps of a church. There I collected my thoughts, and my first one was of you and your fate, should you be found in the house. I stole to the palace, but could find no trace of either you or Pietro. The side gate was open, so I could at least hope that you had taken advantage of the opportunity to flee. But when the day broke, fear of discovery and a sensation of remorse drove me from Florence. I hastened to Rome. But imagine my consternation when, in the course of a few days, this story reached Rome, with the additional report that the murderer, a Greek physician, had been captured! I returned to Florence with sad apprehensions, for, if my revenge had before seemed too strong, I cursed it now, as it would have been purchased too dearly with your life. I arrived in Florence on the day you lost your hand. I will be silent over what I felt as I saw you ascend the scaffold and suffer so heroically. But as your blood streamed out, I made the resolve to see that the rest of your life should be passed in comfort. What happened afterwards, you know. It only remains for me to tell why I made this journey across the desert with you. Like a heavy burden the thought pressed on me that you had not yet forgiven me; therefore I resolved to pass some days, with you, and at last give you an account of the motives that had influenced my action." The Greek had listened silently to his guest, and when he had finished, with a gentle expression he offered him his hand. "I knew well that you must be more unhappy than I, for that cruel deed, like a black cloud, will forever darken your life. As for myself, I forgive you from my heart. But permit me one more question: How did you happen to be in the desert in your present character? What did you do after buying me the house in Constantinople?" "I went back to Alexandria. Hatred of all human kind raged in my breast, but especially hatred of those nations which are called civilized. Believe me, I was better pleased with my Moslems. I had been in Alexandria only a few months, when it was invaded by my countrymen. I saw in them only the executioners of my father and brother; therefore I gathered some young people of my acquaintance, who entertained similar views, and joined the brave Mameluke, who became the terror of the French army. When the campaign was ended, I could not bring myself to return to the arts of peace. With a few friends of similar tendencies, I lived an unsettled fugitive life, devoted to battle and the chase. I live contentedly with these people, who honor me as their prince; for if my Asiatics are not so civilized as your Europeans, yet envy and slander, selfishness and ambition are not their characteristics." Zaleukos thanked the stranger for his communication, but he did not hide from him his opinion that it would be far better for one of his rank and culture, were he to live and work in Christian and European countries. He took the stranger's hand, and invited him to go with him, and to live and die with him. Zaleukos's guest was deeply moved. "From this I know," said he, "that you have entirely forgiven me, that you even love me. Receive my heartfelt thanks." He sprang up, and stood in all his majesty before the Greek, who shrank back at the warlike appearance, the dark glistening eyes, the deep mysterious voice of his guest. "Your proposal is good," continued he; "any other person might be persuaded; I can not accept it! My horse is saddled, my followers await me: farewell, Zaleukos!" The friends whom destiny had so strangely united, embraced each other before parting. "And what shall I call you? What is the name of my guest and friend who will live forever in my memory?" asked the Greek. The stranger gave him a parting look, pressed his hand once more, and replied: "They call me the ruler of the desert; I am _the Robber Orbasan_." PART II * * * * * TALES OF THE INN. THE INN IN THE SPESSART. Many years ago, while yet the roads in the Spessart were in poor condition and but little traveled, two young journeymen were making their way through this wooded region. The one might have been about eighteen years old, and was by trade a compass-maker; the other was a goldsmith, and, judging from his appearance, could not have been more than sixteen, and was most likely making his first journey out into the world. Evening was coming on, and the shadows of the giant pines and beeches darkened the narrow road on which the two were walking. The compass-maker stepped bravely forward, whistling a tune, playing occasionally with Munter, his dog, and not seeming to feel much concern that the night was near, while the next inn for journeymen was still far ahead of them. But Felix, the goldsmith, began to look about him anxiously. When the wind rustled through the trees, it sounded to him as if there were steps behind him; when the bushes on either side of the road were stirred, he was sure he caught glimpses of lurking faces. The young goldsmith was, moreover, neither superstitious nor lacking in courage. In Wuerzburg, where he had learned his trade, he passed among his fellows for a fearless youth, whose heart was in the right spot; but on this day his courage was at a singularly low ebb. He had been told so many things about the Spessart. A large band of robbers were reported as committing depredations there; many travellers had been robbed within a few weeks, and a horrible murder was spoken of as having occurred here not long before. Therefore he felt no little alarm, as they were but two in number and could not successfully resist armed robbers. How often he regretted that he had not stopped over-night at the edge of the forest, instead of agreeing to accompany the compass-maker to the next station! "And if I am killed to-night, and lose all I have with me, you will be to blame, compass-maker, for you persuaded me to come into this terrible forest," said he. "Don't be a coward," retorted the other. "A real journeyman should never be afraid. And what is it you are afraid of? Do you think that the lordly robbers of the Spessart would do us the honor to attack and kill us? Why should they give themselves that trouble? To gain possession of the Sunday-coat in my knapsack, or the spare pennies given us by the people on our route? One would have to travel in a coach-and-four, dressed in gold and silks, before the robbers would think it worth their while to kill one." "Stop! Didn't you hear somebody whistle in the woods?" exclaimed Felix, nervously. "That was the wind whistling through the trees. Walk faster, and we shall soon be out of the wood." "Yes, it's all well enough for you to talk that way about not being killed," continued the goldsmith; "they would simply ask you what you had, search you, and take away your Sunday-coat and your change. But they would kill me because I carry gold and jewelry with me." "Why should they kill you on that account? If four or five were to spring out of the bush there now with loaded rifles pointed at us, and politely inquire, 'Gentlemen, what have you with you?' or 'If agreeable, we will help you carry it,' or some such elegant mode of address, then you wouldn't make a fool of yourself, but would open your knapsack and lay the yellow waist-coat, the blue coat, two shirts, and all your necklaces, bracelets, combs, and whatever you had besides, politely on the ground, and be thankful for the life they spared you." "You think so, do you?" responded Felix warmly. "You think I would give up the ornament I have here for my godmother, the dear lady countess? Sooner would I part with my life! Sooner would I be hacked into small pieces. Did she not take a mother's interest in me, and since my tenth year bind me out as apprentice? Has she not paid for my clothes and every thing? And now, when I am about to go to her, to carry her something of my own handiwork that she had ordered of the master; now, that I am able to give her this ornament as a sample of what I have learned; now you think I would give that up, and my yellow waistcoat as well, that she gave me? No, better death than to give to these base men the ornament intended for my godmother!" "Don't be a fool!" exclaimed the compass-maker. "If they were to kill you, the countess would still lose the ornament; so it would be much better for you to deliver it up and keep your life." Felix did not answer. Night had settled down, and by the uncertain gleam of the new moon he could not see more than five feet before him. He became more and more nervous, kept close by the side of his companion, and was uncertain whether he ought to approve of the arguments of his friend or not. Thus they continued on, side by side for another hour, when they saw a light in the distance. The young goldsmith was of opinion that they should not prematurely rejoice, as the light might come from a den of thieves; but the compass-maker informed him the robbers had their houses or caves under ground, and that this must be the inn that a man had told them of, as they entered the forest. It was a long, low house, before which a wagon stood; and adjoining the house was a stable from which came the neighing of horses. The compass-maker beckoned his comrade to a window whose shutters were open; and by standing on their toes they were able to look into the room. In a chair before the stove slept a man whose clothes bespoke him a wagoner--very likely the owner of the cart before the door. On the other side of the stove sat a woman and a girl, spinning. Behind the table, close to the wall, sat a man with a glass of wine before him. His head was supported in his hands so that his face could not be seen. But the compass-maker judged from his clothes that he was a man of rank. While they were peeping, a dog in the house began to bark; Munter, the compass-maker's dog, barked a reply; and a servant-girl appeared at the door and looked out at the strangers. They were promised supper and a bed; so they entered, and laying their heavy bundles, sticks, and hats in the corner, sat down at the table with the gentleman. He looked up at their greeting, and they perceived him to be a handsome young man, who returned their greeting pleasantly. "You are late on the road," said he; "were you not afraid to travel through the Spessart on so dark a night? For my part, I would have stabled my horse in this tavern before I would have ridden an hour longer." "You are quite right in that, sir," responded the compass-maker. "The hoof beats of a fine horse are music in the ears of these highwaymen, and lure them from a great distance; but when a couple of poor journeymen like us steal through the woods--people to whom the robbers would sooner think of making a present than of taking any thing from them--then, they do not lift a foot." "That is very likely," chimed in the wagoner, who, awakened by the arrival of the journeymen, had taken a seat at the table. "They could not very well be attracted by a poor man's purse, but there have been instances of robbers killing poor people, simply out of thirst for blood, and of forcing others to join the band and serve as robbers." "Well, if such are the deeds of these people in the forest, then this house will not afford us very good protection," observed the young goldsmith. "There are only four of us, or, counting the hostler, five; and if ten men were to attack us here, what could we do against them? And more than this," he added, in a low tone, "who can guarantee that the people of this inn are honest?" "Nothing to fear there," returned the wagoner. "I have known this tavern for more than ten years, and have never seen any thing wrong about it. The master of the house is seldom at home; they say he carries on a wine trade; but his wife is a quiet woman who would not harm any one. No, you do them a wrong, sir." "And yet," interposed the young gentleman, "I should not like to brush aside so lightly what he said. Don't you remember the reports about those people who suddenly disappeared in this forest and left no trace behind them? Several of them had previously announced their intention of passing the night at this inn; and as two or three weeks passed by without their being heard from, they were searched for, and inquiries made at this inn, when they were assured that the missing men had never been here. It looks suspicious, to say the least." "God knows," cried the compass-maker, "we should do a much more sensible thing if we were to camp out under the next best tree we came to, than to remain within these four walls, where there is no chance of running away when they are once at the door, for the windows are grated." All grew very thoughtful over these speeches. It did not seem so very improbable, after all, that these tavern people in the forest, be it under compulsion or of their free accord, were in league with the robbers. The nighttime seemed particularly dangerous to them, for they had all heard many stories of travellers who had been attacked and murdered in their sleep; and even if their lives were not endangered, yet most of the guests of the inn were possessed of such moderate means that the robbery of even a part of their property would have: been a very serious loss to them. They looked dolefully into their glasses. The young gentleman wished himself on the back of his horse, trotting through a safe open valley. The compass-maker wished for twelve of his sturdy comrades, armed with clubs, for a body-guard. Felix, the goldsmith, was more anxious for the safety of the ornament designed for his benefactress, than for his own life. But the wagoner, who had been blowing clouds of smoke before him, said softly: "Gentlemen, at least they shall not surprise us asleep. I, for my part, will remain awake the whole night, if one other will keep watch with me." "I will"--"I too," cried the three others. "And I could not go to sleep," added the young gentleman. "Well we had better contrive some means of keeping awake," said the wagoner. "I think while we number just four people, we might play cards, that would keep us awake and while away the time." "I never play cards," said the young gentleman, "therefore you would have to count me out." "Nor do I know any thing about cards," added Felix. "What can we do, then, if we don't play cards," asked the compass-maker. "Sing? That wouldn't do, for it would only attract the attention of the robbers. Give one another riddles to guess? That would not last very long. How would it do if we were to tell stories? Humorous or pathetic, true or imaginative, they would keep us awake and pass away the time as well as cards." "I am agreed, if you will begin," said the young gentleman, smiling. "You gentlemen of trades visit all countries, and have something to tell; for every town has its own legends and tales." "Yes, certainly, one hears a great deal," replied the compass-maker. "But, on the other hand, gentlemen like you study diligently in books, where really wonderful things are written; therefore, you would know how to tell a wiser and more entertaining story than a plain journeyman, such as one of us, could pretend to--for unless I am much mistaken you are a student, a scholar." "A scholar, no," laughed the young gentleman; "but certainly a student, and am now on my way home for the vacation. But what one reads in books does not answer for the purpose of a story nearly as well as what one hears. Therefore begin, if the other gentlemen are inclined to listen." "Still more than with cards," responded the wagoner, "am I pleased when I hear a good story told. I often keep my team down to a miserably slow pace, that I may listen to one who walks near by, and has a fine story to tell; and I have taken many a person into my wagon, in bad weather, with the understanding that he should tell me a story; and one of my comrades I love very dearly, for the reason that he knows stories that last for seven hours and even longer." "That is also my case," added the young goldsmith. "I love stories as I do my life; and my master in Wuerzburg had to forbid me books lest I should neglect my work. So tell us something fine, compass-maker; I know that you could tell stories from now until day-break before your stock gave out." The compass-maker complied by emptying his glass and beginning his story. THE HIRSCH-GULDEN. In Upper-Suabia still stands the walls of a castle that was once the stateliest of the surrounding country, Hohen-Zollern. It rose from the summit of a round steep mountain, from whence one had a distant and unobstructed view of the country. Farther than this castle could be seen from the encircling horizon, was the brave race of the Zollerns feared; and their name was known and honored in all German countries. There lived several hundred years ago, in this castle, a Zollern, who was by nature a singular man. One could not say that he oppressed his subjects, or that he lived at war with his neighbors; yet no one trusted him, on account of his sullen look, his knitted brow, and his moody, crusty manner. There were few people, outside of the castle servants, who had ever heard him speak properly like other people; for when he rode through the valley, if one met him, gave him the road, and said to him with uncovered head, "Good evening, Sir Count! It is a fine day," he would answer, "Stupid stuff," or, "I know it already." If, however, one had been inattentive to his wants or had neglected his charger, or if a peasant with his cart met him on a narrow road, so that the count could not pass him quickly enough, he broke out into a torrent of curses. Yet it was never said of him on these occasions that he had struck a peasant. But all through this region he was called "The Tempest of Zollern." The Tempest of Zollern had a wife who was a complete contrast to himself, and as mild and pleasant as a May morning. Often by her friendly words and her kind glance had she reconciled to her husband people whom he, by his rude speech, had deeply insulted. To the poor she did all the good in her power; nor could the warmest days of Summer or the most terrible snow storms of Winter prevent her from descending the steep mountain to visit poor people or sick children. If the count met her on these errands, he would say in a surly manner, "Know already--stupid stuff," and proceed on his way. [Illustration] Many ladies would have been discouraged or intimidated by such a crusty manner; one would have thought, "why should I concern myself with poor people when my husband calls it all stupid stuff?" another, through pride or sorrow, might have lost her love for so moody a husband; but not so with the Countess Hedwig of Zollern. She was constant in her affection, strove to smooth the lines on his brow with her beautiful white hand, and loved and honored him. And when after a long time Heaven bestowed upon them the gift of a son, she loved her husband none the less while conferring all the duties of a tender mother on her little boy. [Illustration] Three years went by, and the Count of Zollern saw his son only on Sunday afternoons, when the child was handed to him by the nurse. He looked at him without changing a feature of his face, growled something through his beard, and gave him back to the nurse. But when the boy was able to say "father," the count gave the nurse a gulden, but showed no pleasanter face to the boy. On his third birthday, however, the count had his son put on the first pair of breeches and had him dressed splendidly in velvet and silk. Then he ordered his horse, and also another fine horse for his son, took the child up on his arm, and began to descend the spiral staircase. The countess was astonished as she saw this. She was not accustomed to inquire where he was going and when he would return; but this time anxiety for her child opened her lips. "Are you going to ride out, Sir Count?" she asked. He made no reply. "For what purpose do you take the child?" continued she, "Cuno will take a walk with me." "Know already," replied the Tempest of Zollern; and kept on his way till he stood in the court-yard, where he took the boy by one of his little feet and lifted him into the saddle, bound him fast, and then swinging himself on his horse, trotted out of the castle gate with the bridle of his son's horse in his hand. At first the little fellow regarded it as a great treat to ride down the mountain with his father. He clapped his hands, laughed, shook the mane of his horse to make him go faster, all of which pleased the count so much that he called out several times: "You will make a brave lad!" But when they came to the foot of the mountain, and the count's horse began to trot, the boy lost his courage, and begged, at first very quietly, that his father would ride slower; but as the count spurred on his horse, and the strong wind nearly took poor Cuno's breath away, the boy began to cry, became more and more impatient, and finally howled at the top of his lungs. "Know already! stupid stuff!" began his father. "The young one howls on his first ride; be still, or----" But in the moment he was about to stop the boy's cries by a curse, his horse reared, and the bridle of his son's horse slipped from his hand. He gave his attention to quieting his horse, and when he had mastered it and looked around for his child, he saw the other horse running up the mountain without its little rider. Stern and unfeeling as was the Count of Zollern, this sight struck him to the heart. He believed his son had been dashed to the ground and killed. He pulled his beard and groaned; but nowhere could he find a trace of the boy. He had just began to think that the frightened horse had thrown him into the ditch that ran along the road, full of water, when he heard a child's voice call his name, and as he quickly turned, there sat an old woman under a tree, not far from the road, rocking the child on her knees. "How do you come by that boy, old witch?" shouted the count angrily. "Bring him to me at once." "Not so fast, not so fast, your Honor!" laughed the ugly old woman, "or you too might meet with an accident on your proud horse. How did I come by the boy, did you ask? Well, his horse ran by and he was hanging down by one little foot, with his hair touching the ground, when I caught him in my apron." "Know already!" cried the Count of Zollern, ill-humoredly. "Bring him here now; I can not very well dismount, my horse is wild and might kick him." "Give me a hirsch-gulden, then," pleaded the woman humbly. "Stupid stuff!" cried the count, and flung some copper coins to her under the tree. "Oh, no! Come, I could make good use of a hirsch-gulden," continued the old woman. "What, a hirsch-gulden! You are not worth that much yourself!" said the count angrily. "Quick with that child, or I will set the dogs on you!" "So, I am not worth a hirsch-gulden, eh?" replied the old woman with a mocking laugh. "Well, it shall be seen what part of your heritage is worth a hirsch-gulden; but there, keep your money!" So saying, she tossed the three copper coins to the count; and so well could the old woman throw, that all three of the coins fell into the purse that the count still held in his hand. The count was struck dumb with astonishment at this exhibition of skill, but at last his surprise was changed into anger. He grasped his gun, cocked it, and took aim at the old woman. But she, unmoved, hugged and kissed the boy, holding him up before her so as to protect herself from the bullet. "You are a good little fellow," said she. "Only remain so, and you will never want for any thing." Then she let him go, shook her finger threateningly at the count, and said: "Zollern, Zollern! you owe me a hirsch-gulden!" With that she moved off slowly into the forest, leaning on a staff of box-wood. Conrad, the attendant, dismounted from his horse trembling, lifted his little master into the saddle, vaulted up behind him, and followed the count up to the castle. This was the first and last time that the Tempest of Zollern took his son out riding with him; for because the boy had cried when his horse broke into a trot, the count regarded him as a spiritless child out of whom nothing was to be made, and looked on him with displeasure; and when the boy, who loved his father dearly, came in a friendly, coaxing way to his knee, he would motion him to go away, exclaiming: "Know it already! Stupid stuff!" The countess had patiently borne all the unpleasant caprices of her husband, but this unfatherly behavior towards an innocent child affected her deeply. She fell sick several times with terror, when the sullen count had punished the boy severely for some trivial offense, and died at last in her best years, and was mourned by her servants, by the people for miles around, but especially by her little son. From this time forth the aversion of the count for his son steadily progressed. He turned the lad over to the nurse and the house-chaplain to bring up, and looked after him but little himself--especially as shortly after his wife's death he married a rich young lady, who in a twelvemonth presented him with twins. Cuno's favorite walk was to the house of the old woman who had once saved his life. She told him many things about his dead mother, and how much the countess had done for her. The men and maid-servants often warned him that he should not visit the Frau Feldheimerin so often, because she was nothing more nor less than a witch; but the boy was not frightened by their tales, as the chaplain had taught him that there were no witches, and that the stories that certain women could bewitch one, and ride through the air on broomsticks to the Brocken Mountains, were lies. To be sure, he had seen many things about Frau Feldheimerin that he could not understand; the trick with the three coins that she had thrown so cleverly into his father's purse, he remembered distinctly. Then too she could prepare all manner of salves and decoctions with which she healed people and cattle; but it was not true, as was said of her, that she had a weather-pan, which, whenever she placed it over the fire, produced a terrible thunder-storm. She taught the little count much that was useful to him--various remedies for sick horses, a drink to cure hydrophobia, a bait for fishes, and many other things. The Frau Feldheimerin was soon his only company, for his nurse died, and his step-mother did not trouble herself much about him. [Illustration] With his half-brothers, Cuno had a more sorrowful life than before. They had the good fortune to stick to their horses on their first ride, and the Tempest of Zollern, therefore, regarded them as apt and promising boys, and took them out to ride every day, and taught them all that he knew himself. But they did not learn much that was good from him, for he could neither read nor write, and he would not have his two precious sons wasting their time over such matters; but by the time they were ten years old they could swear as terribly as their father, quarreled with everybody, lived together as peacefully as would a dog and cat, and only when they joined hands to do Cuno a wrong were they at all friendly with each other. [Illustration] Their mother did not grieve over this state of things, as she considered it healthful and strengthening for the boys to fight; but a servant told the count about their quarrels one day, and although he answered, "Know it already! stupid stuff!" yet he tried to hit upon some plan for the future that would prevent his sons from killing each other, as he dreaded that threat of the Frau Feldheimerin, whom he held to be a witch: "Well, it shall be seen what part of your heritage is worth a hirsch-gulden." One day as he was hunting in the vicinity of his castle, his attention was attracted by two mountains, which from their form seemed well adapted for castles; and he at once resolved to build there. Upon one of these mountains he built the Castle Schalksberg, naming it after the smaller of the twins, who, on account of his many naughty tricks, had long ago received the nickname of the little Schalk from his father. The castle he built on the other hill he thought at first of calling Hirschguldenberg, in order to propitiate the old witch, because she did not esteem his heritage worth a hirsch-gulden; but he finally concluded to give it the simple name of Hirschberg. Such are the names of the two mountains to-day; and he who travels through the Suabian Alps can have them pointed out to him. The Tempest of Zollern had at first designed to make a will bequeathing Zollern to his eldest son, Schalksberg to the little Schalk, and Hirschberg to the other twin; but his wife did not rest until he had changed it. "The stupid Cuno--" such was the way she spoke of the poor boy, because he was not so wild and ungovernable as her sons--"the stupid Cuno is rich enough from what he inherited from his mother, without getting the beautiful castle of Zollern. And shall my sons get only a castle, to which nothing belongs but a forest?" It was in vain that the count represented to her that one could not justly rob Cuno of his birthright; she wept and scolded, until the Tempest of Zollern who never gave way to any one, at last, for the sake of peace, surrendered to her, and willed Schalksberg to Schalk, Zollern to Wolf, the larger of the twins, and Hirschberg, with the village of Balinger, to Cuno. Soon afterwards he was taken severely ill. When the doctor told him he was going to die, he replied, "Know it already;" and when the chaplain begged him to prepare for the future life, he answered, "Stupid stuff," cursed and stormed, and died, as he had lived, a great sinner. But before his body was laid to rest, the countess produced the will, and sneeringly told Cuno that he might show his learning by reading what was written therein--namely, that he no longer had any business at Zollern. With her sons she rejoiced over the fine estate and the two castles which they had taken away from him, the first-born. Cuno submitted, without complaint, to the provisions of the will; but with tears, he took leave of the castle where he was born, where his mother lay buried, and where the good chaplain lived, while not far away was the home of his only woman friend, Frau Feldheimerin. The castle of Hirschberg was, it is true, a fine stately building; but still it was so lonely and desolate for him, that he felt very homesick. The countess and the twin brothers, who were now eighteen years old, sat one evening on the balcony looking down the mountain-side, when they perceived a stately knight riding up the road, followed by several servants and two mules bearing a sedan chair. They speculated for some time as to who he might be, when at last the little Schalk cried out: "Why, that is no other than our brother from Hirschberg!" "The stupid Cuno!" said the countess in surprise. "Why, he is about to do us the honor of inviting us to visit him, and has brought along that splendid sedan to carry me to Hirschberg. Such kindness and politeness I had not given my son, the stupid Cuno, the credit of possessing. One politeness deserves another; let us go down to the gate to receive him; look pleased to see him, and perhaps he will make us some presents at Hirschberg--you a horse, and you a harness; and I have long wished to own his mother's ornaments." "I don't want any presents from the stupid Cuno," replied Wolf, "neither will I appear glad to see him; and for aught I care, he might follow our blessed father; then we should inherit Hirschberg and everything, and to you, madame, we would sell those ornaments at a low price." "Indeed, you good-for-nothing!" exclaimed his mother angrily, "I should have to buy the ornaments, should I? Is that your gratitude for my procuring Zollern for you? Little Schalk, I can have the ornaments free, can I not? "No pay, no work, lady mother!" replied Schalk, laughing. "And if it be true that the ornaments are worth as much as most castles are, we certainly should not be fools enough to hang them around your neck. As soon as Cuno shuts his eyes for good, we will ride over there, divide every thing, and I will sell my part of the ornaments. Then if you will give more than the Jew, you shall have them." Thus speaking, they came to the castle gate, and the countess had great difficulty in concealing the rage she felt, as Count Cuno rode over the draw-bridge. When he saw his step-mother and brothers standing there, he stopped his horse, dismounted, and greeted them politely; for although they had done him much wrong, still he remembered that they were his brothers and that his father had loved this woman. "Well, this is nice to have my son visit us," said the countess, in a sweet voice, and with a gracious smile. "How do you like Hirschberg? Can one feel at home there? And you have furnished yourself with a sedan. Why, how splendid it is! an empress would have no cause to be ashamed of it; a wife will not be long wanting, I'm thinking, to ride around the country in it." "I have not thought about that yet, gracious mother," replied Cuno, "and will therefore take home other company for my entertainment; for this purpose I have brought along the sedan." "Why, you are very kind and thoughtful," interrupted the countess, as she bowed and smiled. "For he can not ride a horse very well now," continued Cuno, quietly. "Father Joseph, I mean, the chaplain. I will take him home with me, for he is my old teacher, and we made that arrangement when I left Zollern. I will also pick up the old Frau Feldheimerin at the foot of the mountain. Why, bless me, she's as old as the hills, and saved my life once when I rode out for the first time with my blessed father. I have plenty of room in Hirschberg, and she shall live and die there." So saying, he passed through the court-yard to call the chaplain. The youngster Wolf bit his lips angrily; the countess became livid with rage; while Schalk laughed aloud. "What will you give me for the horse that I received as a present from him?" said he. "Brother Wolf, will you trade off your harness for it? Is he going to take home the chaplain and the old witch? They will make a fine pair; in the forenoon he can learn Greek from the chaplain, and in the afternoon take lessons in witchcraft from Frau Feldheimerin. Why, what kind of tricks is the stupid Cuno up to!" [Illustration] "He is a low, vulgar fellow," cried the countess, "and you shouldn't laugh about it, little Schalk. It is a shame for the whole family, and we shall be the sport of the neighborhood when it is reported that the Count of Zollern has fetched the old witch home to live with him in a splendid sedan. He gets that from his mother, who was also familiar with the sick and with miserable servants. Alas, his father would turn in his coffin if he could know of it." "Yes," added Schalk, "father would say in his grave: 'Know already! stupid stuff!'" "As sure as you live! there he comes now with the old man, and is not ashamed to take him by the arm," exclaimed the countess, in disgust. "Come, I don't wish to meet him again." They went off, and Cuno conducted his old teacher to the drawbridge, and assisted him into the sedan. They stopped at the foot of the mountain, before the hut of Frau Feldheimerin, and found her waiting with a bundle full of glasses, dishes, and medicines. But Cuno's action was not looked at in the light prophesied by the countess. It was thought to be noble and praiseworthy that he should try to cheer the last days of the old Frau Feldheimerin, and that he should take Father Joseph into his castle. The only ones who disliked and slandered him were his brothers and his stepmother. But only to their own hurt; for everybody took an aversion to such unnatural brothers, and by way of retaliation the story went that they lived in continual strife with their mother and did all they could to harm one another. Count Cuno made several attempts to reconcile his brothers to himself, for it was unbearable to him when they rode by his castle without stopping, or when they met him in the field and forest and greeted him as coldly as though he were a stranger. But his attempts failed, and only increased their bitterness towards him. One day a plan occurred to him by which he might perhaps win their hearts, for he knew that they were miserly and avaricious. There was a pond situated at about an equal distance from the three castles, but lying in Cuno's domain. This pond contained the finest pike and carp to be found any where; and it was one of the chief grievances of the twin-brothers, who were fond of fishing, that their father had not included this pond in the land he had given them. They were too proud to fish there without their brother's knowledge, neither would they ask permission of him. But Cuno knew that his brothers had set their hearts on this pond, so he sent an invitation to them to meet him there on a certain day. It was a beautiful Spring morning, as, nearly at the same moment, the three brothers from the three castles met. "Why, look you!" said Schalk; "we are well met! I rode away from Schalksberg just on the stroke of seven." "So did I,"--"and I," repeated the brothers from Hirschberg and Zollern. "Well, then, the pond must lie precisely in the middle," continued Schalk. "It is a beautiful sheet of water." "Yes, and for that reason did I choose this spot for our meeting. I know that you are both fond of fishing, and although I sometimes throw a line myself, yet there are fish enough here for three castles, and on these banks there is room enough for us three, even were we all to meet here at the same time. Therefore, I propose from this time forth that this pond shall be the common property of us three, and each one of you shall have the same rights here that I do." "Why, our brother is certainly graciously minded," said Schalk, in a jeering way. "He really gives us six acres of water and a few hundred little fishes! And what shall we have to give in return?" "You shall have it free," said Cuno. "I should like to see and speak with you at this pond now and then. We are the sons of one father." "No," exclaimed Schalk; "that would not do at all, for there is nothing more silly than to fish in company; one is always frightening off the other's fishes. We might, however, decide on days for each one--say Monday and Thursday for you, Cuno, Tuesday and Friday for Wolf, and Wednesday and Saturday for me. Such an arrangement would suit me." "But I won't agree to that," cried the surly Wolf. "I don't want any free gift, neither will I divide my rights with any one. You were right, Cuno, in making your offer, for in justice the pond belongs as much to one as to the other; but let us throw the dice to decide who shall have the entire ownership for the future, and if I am more fortunate than you, then you will have to come to me for permission to fish." "I never throw," replied Cuno, sad at this display of obduracy on the part of his brothers. "Of course not," sneered Schalk. "Our brother is so pious that he thinks it is a deadly sin to throw dice. But I will make another proposal, to which the most religious recluse could offer no objection: Let us get some bait and hooks, and he who shall have caught the most fish this morning when the bell of Zollern strikes twelve, will be the owner of the pond." "I am truly a fool," responded Cuno, "to strive for that which is mine by right of inheritance; but that you may see that my offer of a division was made in earnest, I will fetch my fishing tackle." They rode home, each one to his own castle. The twins sent their servants out in all haste, with orders to turn over all the old stones near by, and to collect what worms they found underneath them for bait. But Cuno took his usual fishing tackle, together with the bait which Frau Feldheimerin had once learned him to prepare, and was the first to reach the pond again. On the arrival of the twins he allowed them the first choice of position, and then threw in his own line. Then it was as if the fish seemed to recognize in him the owner of the pond. Whole schools of carp and pike drew near and swarmed about his line. The oldest and largest crowded the small fry aside; every moment he landed a fish, and each time he cast his line twenty or thirty darted at the hook with open mouths. Before two hours had passed, the ground around him was covered with fish; then he laid down his line and went over to where his brothers sat, to see how they were getting along. Schalk had one poor little carp and two paltry shiners; while Wolf had caught three barbels and two little gudgeons, and both looked sadly down into the water, for they had seen from their place the vast number that Cuno had caught. When Cuno approached his brother Wolf, the latter sprang up in a rage, tore off his line, broke his rod into small pieces and flung them into the pond. "I wish I had a thousand hooks to throw in there, instead of one, and that a fish, was wriggling on every one of them," cried he; "but this could never have occurred in a natural way, it is sorcery and witchcraft, or how should you, stupid Cuno, catch more fish in one hour than I could take in a year?" "Yes, that's so," echoed Schalk. "I remember now that he learned how to fish from that vile witch, Frau Feldheimerin; and we were fools to fish with him; he will be a wizard himself one of these days." "You wicked fellows!" returned Cuno, sadly. "I have had time enough this morning to get an insight into your avarice, your shamelessness, and your insolence. Go now, and never return here; and believe it would be better for your souls if you were half as pious and good as she whom you have called a witch." "No, she is not a genuine witch," sneered Schalk. "Such wives can prophesy; but Frau Feldheimerin is about as much of a prophetess as a goose is a swan. Didn't she tell our father that one would be able to buy a good part of his heritage for a hirsch-gulden? And yet at his death everything within sight of the towers of Zollern belonged to him. Frau Feldheimerin is nothing more than a silly old hag, and you the stupid Cuno." Thus saying, Schalk ran off as fast as he could, for he feared the strong arm of his brother Cuno; and Wolf followed him, shouting back all the cursed he had learned from his father. Grieved to the soul, Cuno returned home; for he now saw plainly that his brothers would never be reconciled to him. And he took their bitter words so seriously to heart that he fell sick the next day, and only the consoling words of good Father Joseph, and the strengthening remedies of Frau Feldheimerin, rescued him from death. But when his brothers heard that Cuno lay very sick, they sat down to a jovial banquet, and over their cups made an agreement that the one who should be the first to hear of his death was to fire off a cannon, in order to notify the other of the event, and he who fired first might take the best cask of wine in Cuno's cellar. From this time forth Wolf stationed a watchman in the vicinity of Hirschberg, while Schalk bribed one of Cuno's servants with a large sum of money, to inform him, without delay, when Cuno was breathing his last. But this servant was more faithful to his good and gentle master than to the wicked Count of Schalksberg. He inquired one evening of Frau Feldheimerin, very solicitously, after his master's health, and when she told him that the count was doing quite well, he related to her the project of the brothers of firing off guns when the Count Cuno should die. The old woman was infuriated, and quickly repeated this story to the count, who could hardly believe his brothers were so utterly heartless; so she advised him to put the matter to the proof by spreading a report of his death. The count summoned the servant to whom his brother had given a bribe, questioned him closely, and then ordered him to ride to Schalksberg and announce his approaching death. As the servant was riding hastily down the hill, he was seen and stopped by the servant of Count Wolf, who asked him where he was riding to in such a hurry. "Alas!" was his reply, "my poor master will not outlive the night, they have all given him up." "Indeed! Has his time come?" cried the spy, as he ran to his horse, 'sprang on his back, and rode so fast towards Zollern, that his horse sank down at the gate, and he was himself only able to call out: "Count Cuno is dying!" before he fell down senseless. Thereupon, the cannon of Hohen-Zollern thundered, and Count Wolf rejoiced with his mother, in anticipation of the cask of wine, over the castle and its belongings, the jewels, the pond, and the echo of his cannon. But what he had taken for its echo, was the cannon of Schalksberg, and Wolf said smilingly to his mother: "It seems Schalk has had a spy there too, and therefore he and I will have to divide the wine equally, as well as the rest of the property." With this he mounted his horse, fearing lest Schalk should arrive at Hirschberg before he did, and perhaps take away some of the jewels of the deceased. But the twins met at the fish-pond, and each blushed before the other, so apparent was the desire of both to be the first-comer at Hirschberg. They said not a word about Cuno, as they continued on their way together, but discussed in a brotherly manner how things should be arranged in the future, and to which of them Hirschberg should belong. But as they rode over the draw-bridge into the court, they saw their brother, safe and sound, looking out of the window; but anger and scorn flashed from his features. The brothers shrank back in terror, taking him at first to be a ghost, and crossed themselves; but when they saw that he was still in flesh and blood, Wolf exclaimed: "Stupid stuff! I thought you were dead." "Omittance is no quittance," said Schalk, darting up at his half-brother a venomous look. Cuno replied in a threatening voice: "From this hour, all bonds of brotherhood between us are broken. I heard the salute you fired; but know this, that I have five field-pieces here in the court that were loaded to do you honor. Take care to keep out of the range of my cannon, or you shall have a sample of our shooting at Hirschberg." They did not wait to be spoken to a second time, for they saw that their brother was fully in earnest; so they gave their horses the spurs and raced down the mountain, while their brother sent a parting shot after them, that whistled above their heads, so that they both made a low and polite bow together; but he only wished to frighten and not to wound them. "Why did you fire off your gun?" asked Schalk of his brother Wolf, in an ill-humored lone. "I only shot because I heard your gun, you fool!" "On the contrary," replied Wolf. "I'll leave it to mother if you were not the first to shoot; and you have brought this disgrace on us, you little badger." Schalk returned all his brother's epithets with interest; and when they came to the pond, they hurled at one another some of the choicest curses that the "Tempest of Zollern" had bequeathed them, and parted in hate and anger. Shortly after this occurrence, Cuno made his will, and Frau Feldheimerin said to Father Joseph: "I would wager something that he has not left much to the twins." But with all her curiosity, and much as she urged her favorite, he would not tell her what was written in the will; nor did she ever learn, for a year afterwards the good woman passed away in spite of her salves and potions. She died, not of any disease, but of her ninety-eighth year, which might well bring even the most healthy person to the grave. Count Cuno had her buried with as much ceremony as if she had been his own mother and not a poor old woman, and he grew more and more lonely in his castle, especially as Father Joseph soon followed Frau Feldheimerin. Still he did not suffer this solitude very long; for in his twenty-eighth year the good Cuno died, and, as wicked people asserted, of poison administered by Schalk. Be that as it may, some hours after his death the thunder of cannon was heard once more from Zollern and Schalksberg. "This time he will have to acknowledge the truth of the reports," said Schalk to his brother Wolf, as they met on the road to Hirschberg. "Yes," answered Wolf; "but even if he should rise from the dead and abuse us from the window as before, I have a rifle with me that will make him polite and dumb." As they rode up the castle hill, they were joined by a horseman with his retinue, whom they did not know. They believed, however, that he must be a friend of their brother's who had come to attend the funeral. Therefore they demeaned themselves as mourners, were loud in their praises of the deceased, lamented his early death, and Schalk even managed to squeeze out a few crocodile tears. The stranger paid no attention to what they said, but rode silently by their side up to the castle. "Now, then, we will make ourselves comfortable; and, butler, bring some wine, the very best!" cried Wolf, as he dismounted. They went up the spiral staircase into the salon, where they were followed by the silent stranger; and just as the twins had sat down to the table, he took from his purse a silver coin, and throwing it down on the slate table, where it rolled about and settled down with a ring, said: "Then and there you have your inheritance; it is a good piece of silver, a hirsch-gulden." The two brothers looked at one another in astonishment, laughed, and asked him what he meant by this. The stranger, by way of reply, produced a parchment, attached to which were many seals, in which Cuno had recorded all the instances of malevolence that his brothers had shown him in his life-time, and at the close decreed and made known that his entire estate, real and personal, with the exception of his mother's jewels, should, in the event of his death, become the property of Wuertemberg, in consideration of _a pitiful hirsch-gulden_! But with his mother's jewels, a poor-house should be built in the town of Balingen. The brothers were astonished anew; but instead of laughing this time, they ground their teeth together, for they could not hope to dispute the claim of Wuertemberg. They had lost the beautiful castle, the forest and field, the town of Balingen, and even the fish-pond, and inherited nothing but a miserable hirsch-gulden. This, Wolf stuck into his purse with a defiant air, put on his cap, passed the Wuertemberg officer without a word, sprang on his horse, and rode back to Zollern. When, on the following morning, his mother reproached him with having trifled away the estate and jewels, he rode over to Schalksberg and said to his brother: "Shall we gamble with our inheritance, or drink it up?" "Let's drink it away," replied Schalk; "then we shall both have won. We will ride down to Balingen and let the people see our disdain, even if we have lost the village in a most outrageous manner." "And at 'The Lamb' tavern they have as good red wine as any the emperor drinks," added Wolf. So they rode down together to "The Lamb," and inquired the cost of a quart of this red wine, and drank the worth of the gulden. Then Wolf got up, took from his purse the silver coin with the leaping stag stamped on it, threw it down on the table, and said: "There's your gulden, that will make it right." But the landlord picked up the gulden, looked at it first on one side and then on the other, and said smilingly: "Yes, if it was any thing but a hirsch-gulden; but last night the messenger came from Stuttgart, and early this morning it was proclaimed in the name of the Count of Wuertemberg, to whom this town now belongs, that these coins would be no longer current; so give me some other money." The brothers looked at one another in dismay. "Pay up," said one. "Haven't you got any change?" replied the other; and, in short, they were obliged to remain in debt to "The Lamb" for a gulden. They started back "home without speaking to one another until they came to the cross-road, where the road to the right ran to Zollern and the one to the left to Schalksberg. Then Schalk said: "How now? We have inherited less than nothing; and moreover, the wine was miserable." "Yes, to be sure," replied his brother, "but what Frau Feldheimerin said, has come to pass: 'We shall see what part of your inheritance is worth a hirsch-gulden.' And now we were not able to pay for even a measure of wine with it." "Know it already!" answered he of Schalksberg. "Stupid stuff!" returned the Count of Zollern, as he rode off moodily, towards his castle. "That is the Legend of the Hirsch-Gulden," concluded the compass-maker, "and said to be a true one. The landlord at Duerrwangen, which is situated near the three castles, related it to one of my best friends, who often acted as guide through the Suabian Alps, and always put up at Duerrwangen." The guests applauded the compass-maker's story. "What curious things one hears in the world!" exclaimed the wagoner. "Really, I feel glad now that we did not spoil the time with cards; this is much better, and so interested was I in the story, that I can tell it to-morrow to my comrades without missing a single word of it." "While you were telling your story, something came into my mind," said the student. "Oh, tell it, tell it!" pleaded the compass-maker and Felix. "Very well," replied he, "it makes no difference whether my turn comes now or later. Still, what I tell you must be considered in confidence, for the incidents are reported to have really occurred." He changed his position to a more comfortable one, and was just about to begin his story, when the landlady put away her distaff and went up to her guests at the table. "It is time now, gentlemen, to go to bed," said she. "It has struck nine, and to-morrow will be another day." "Well, go to bed then," said the student. "Set another bottle of wine on the table for us, and we won't keep you up any longer." "By no means," returned she, fretfully; "so long as guests remain in the public-room, it is not possible for the landlady and servants to retire. And once for all, gentlemen, I must request you to go to your rooms; the time hangs heavy on me, and there shall be no carousing in my house after nine o'clock." "What's the matter with you, landlady?" said the compass-maker in surprise. "What harm can it do you if we sit here even after you have gone to sleep? We are honest people, and won't run off with any thing, nor leave without paying. I won't be ordered around in this way in any tavern." The woman's eyes flashed angrily. "Do you suppose I will change the rules of my house to suit every ragamuffin of a journeyman and every vagrant who pays me only twelve kreuzers? I tell you for the last time that I won't submit to this nuisance." The compass-maker was about to make a retort, when the student gave him a significant look, winked at the others, and said: "Very well, if the landlady will have it so, then let us go up to our rooms. But we should like some candles to find our way." "I cannot accommodate you in that," responded the landlady, sullenly; "the others can find their way in the dark, and this stump of a candle will suffice for your needs; it's all I have in the house." The young gentleman got up and took the light without replying. The others followed him, the journeymen taking their bundles up with them to keep them near their side. When they got up to the head of the stairs, the student cautioned them to step very lightly, opened his door, and beckoned them to come in. "There can now be no doubt," said he, "that she means to betray us. Did you not notice how anxious she was to have us go to bed, and the means she took to prevent our remaining awake and together? She probably thinks that we will go to bed now, and thus play into her hands." "But do you think that escape is impossible?" asked Felix. "In the forest one might more reasonably hope for rescue than in this room." "These windows are also grated," said the student, vainly trying to wrench out one of the iron bars. "There is but one way by which we can get out, if we wish to escape, and that is by way of the front door; but I do not believe that they would let us out." "We might make the attempt," said the wagoner; "I will see whether I can get into the yard. If it is possible then I will return for you." The others assented to this proposal, so the wagoner took off his shoes and stole on tiptoe to the stair-case, while his companions listened anxiously from their room. He had got half-way down, safely and unnoticed, when suddenly a bull-dog rose up before him, placed its paws on his shoulders, and displayed a gleaming set of teeth right before his face. He did not dare to step either forward or backward, for at the least movement the dog would have seized him by the throat. At the same time the dog began to growl and bark, until the landlady and hostler appeared with lights. "Where were you going? What do you want? cried the woman. "I wanted to fetch something from my cart," answered the wagoner trembling in every limb; for as the door opened he had caught a glimpse of several dark suspicious faces of armed men in the room. "You might have done that before you went upstairs," replied the woman crossly. "Come here, Fassan! Jacob, lock the yard-gate and light the man out to his wagon." The dog drew back his muzzle from the wagoner's face, removed his paws from the man's shoulders, and lay down once more across the stair-way. In the meantime the hostler had secured the yard-gate, and now lighted the wagoner to his cart. An escape was not to be thought of. But when he came to consider what he should take from his wagon, he recollected that he had a pound of wax candles that were to be delivered in the next town. "That short piece of candle won't last more than fifteen minutes longer," said he to himself, "and yet we must have light!" He therefore took two wax candles from the wagon, concealed them in his sleeve, and also took his cloak as an excuse for his errand, telling the hostler that he needed it for a blanket. Without further incident he got back to the room upstairs. He told his companions about the big dog that guarded the stair-case, of the glimpse he had caught of the armed men, and of all the precautions that had been taken to prevent their escape; and concluded with a groan: "We shall not survive the night." "I don't think that," said the student. "I cannot believe that these people would be so foolish as to take the lives of four men for the sake of the few little things we have with us. But we had better not try to defend ourselves. For my part I shall lose the most; my horse is already in their hands, and it cost me fifty ducats only four weeks ago; my purse and my clothes I will give up willingly, for after all my life is dearer to me than all these." "You talk sensibly," responded the wagoner. "Such things as you have can be easily replaced; but I am the messenger from Aschaffenburg, and have all kinds of goods in my wagon, and in the stable two fine horses, all I possess in the world." "I can hardly believe that they would harm you," said the goldsmith; "the robbery of a messenger would cause an alarm to be given all through the country. But then I agree with what the young gentleman said: sooner would I give up every thing I possess, and bind myself with an oath never to speak of this matter and never to make complaint against them, than to attempt to defend my little property against people who have rifles and pistols." During these words, the wagoner had taken out his wax candles. He stuck them on the table and lighted them. "Here let us await, in the name of God, whatever may happen to us," said he; "let us sit down together again, and banish sleep with stories." "We will do that," answered the student; "and as the turn came to me down-stairs, I will now begin." THE MARBLE HEART. FIRST PART. Whoever travels through Suabia should not neglect to take a peep into the Black Forest; not on account of the trees, although one does not find every-where such a countless number of magnificent pines, but because of the inhabitants, between whom and their outlying neighbors there exists a marked difference. They are taller than ordinary people, broad-shouldered and strong-limbed. It seems as though the balmy fragrance exhaled by the pines had given them a freer respiration, a clearer eye, and a more resolute if somewhat ruder spirit than that possessed by the inhabitants of the valleys and plains. And not only in their bearing and size do they differ from other people, but in their customs and pursuits as well. In that part of the Black Forest included within the Grand Duchy of Baden, are to be seen the most strikingly dressed inhabitants of the whole forest. The men let nature have her own way with their beards; while their black jackets, close-fitting knee breeches, red stockings, and peaked hats bound with a broad sheaf, give them a picturesque, yet serious and commanding appearance. Here the people generally are occupied in the manufacture of glass; they also make watches and sell them to half the world. On the other side of the forest formerly dwelt a branch of this same race; but their employment had given them other customs and manners. They felled and trimmed their pine trees, rafted the logs down the Nagold into the Neckar, and from the Upper-Neckar to the Rhine, and thence far down into Holland, and even at the sea coast these raftsmen of the Black Forest were known. They stopped on their way down the rivers at each city that lined the banks, and proudly awaited purchasers for their logs and boards, but kept their largest and longest logs to dispose of for a larger sum, to the Mynheers for shipbuilding purposes. These raftsmen were accustomed to a rough, wandering life. Their joy was experienced in floating down the streams on their rafts; their sorrow in the long walk back on the banks. Thus from the nature of their occupation they required a costume entirely different from that worn by the glass-makers on the other side of the Black Forest. They wore jackets of dark linen, over which green suspenders of a hand-breadth's width crossed over their broad breasts; black leather knee breeches, from the pockets of which projected brass foot-rules like badges of honor; but their joy and pride lay in their boots, the largest perhaps that ever came into vogue in any part of the world, as they could be drawn up two spans of the hand above the knee, so that the raftsmen could wade around in a yard of water without wetting their feet. Up to quite a recent period, the inhabitants of this forest believed in spirits of the wood. But it is somewhat singular that the spirits who, as the legend ran, dwelt in the Black Forest, took sides in these prevailing fashions. Thus, it was averred that the Little Glass-Man, a good little spirit, only three-and-a-half feet high, never appeared otherwise than in a peaked hat with a wide brim, as well as a jacket and knee breeches and red stockings; whereas, Dutch-Michel, who haunted the other part of the forest, was a giant-sized broad-shouldered fellow in the dress of a raftsman, and several people who had seen him, asserted that they would not care to pay for the hides that would be used to make him a pair of boots. "And so tall," said they, "that an ordinary man would not reach to his neck." With these spirits of the forest, a young man of this region is reported to have had a strange experience, which I will relate: There lived in the Black Forest a widow by the name of Frau Barbara Munkin; her husband had been a charcoal-burner, and after his death she brought up her son to the same business. Young Peter Munk, a cunning fellow of sixteen, was much pleased to sit all the week round on his smoking piles of wood, just as he had seen his father do; or, all black and sooty as he was, and a scarecrow to the people, he would go down to the towns to sell his charcoal. But a charcoal-burner has plenty of time to think about himself and others; and when Peter Munk sat on his half-burned piles of wood, the dark trees about him and the deep stillness of the forest disposed him to tears and filled his heart with nameless longings. Something troubled him, and he could not well make out what it was. Finally he discovered what it was that had so put him out of sorts; it was his occupation. "A lonely black charcoal-burner," reflected he. "It is a miserable life. How respectable are the glassmakers, the watchmakers, and even the musicians of a Sunday evening! And when Peter Munk, cleanly-washed and brushed, appears dressed in his father's best jacket with silver buttons and with bran-new red stockings, and when one walks behind me and thinks, Who is that stylish-looking fellow? and inwardly praises my stockings and my stately walk--when he passes by me and turns around to look, he is sure to say to himself: 'Oh, it's only Charcoal Pete!'" The raftsmen on the other side of the forest also aroused his envy. When these giants came over among the glass-makers, dressed in their elegant clothes, wearing at least fifty pounds of silver in buttons, buckles, and chains, when they looked on at a dance, with legs spread wide apart, swore in Dutch, and smoked pipes from Cologne three feet long in the stem, just like any distinguished Mynheer--then was Peter convinced that such a raftsman was the very picture of a lucky man. And when these fortunate beings put their hands into their pockets and drew out whole handfuls of thalers and shook for half a-dozen at a throw--five guldens here, ten there--then he would nearly lose his senses, and would steal home to his hut in a very melancholy mood. On many holiday nights he had seen one or another of these timber merchants lose more at play than his poor father had ever been able to earn in a year. Distinguished above all others were three of these men and Peter was uncertain which one of them was most wonderful. One was a large heavy man, with a red face, who passed for the richest man of them all. He was called Stout Ezekiel. He went down to Amsterdam twice a year with timber, and always had the good fortune to sell it at so much higher a price than others could sell theirs, that he could afford to ride back home in good style, while the others had to return on foot. The second man of the trio was the lankest and leanest person in the whole forest, and was called Slim Schlurker. Peter envied him for his audacity; he contradicted the most respectable people, occupied more room when the inn was crowded than four of the stoutest, either by spreading his elbows out on the table, or by stretching his legs out on the bench, and yet no one dared to interfere with him, for he had an enormous amount of money. But the third was a handsome young man, who was the best dancer far and wide, and had, therefore, received the title of King of the Ball. He had been a poor boy, and had been a servant to one of the lumber dealers, when he suddenly became very rich. Some said that he had found a pot of gold under an old pine tree, others asserted that he had fished up a packet of gold pieces near Bingen on the Rhine, with the pole with which the raftsmen sometimes speared for fish; and that the packet was part of the great Nibelungen treasure that lies buried there. In short, he had suddenly become a rich man, and was looked upon by young and old with the respect due a prince. Charcoal Pete often thought of these three men, as he sat so lonely in the forest of pines. It is true that all three had a common failing that made them hated by the people; this was their inhuman avarice--their utter lack of sympathy for the poor and unfortunate; for the inhabitants of the Black Forest are a kind-hearted people. But you know how it goes in the world; if they were hated on account of their avarice, they yet commanded deference by virtue of their money; for who but they could throw away thalers as if one had only to shake them down from the pines? [Illustration] "I won't stand this much longer," said Peter, dejectedly, to himself one day; for the day before had been a holiday, and all the people had been down to the inn. "If I don't make a strike pretty soon, I shall make away with myself. Oh, if I were only as rich and respectable as the Stout Ezekiel, or so bold and mighty as the Slim Schlurker, or as famous and as well able to throw thalers to the fiddlers as the King of the Ball! Where can the fellow get his money?" He thought over all the ways by which one could make money, but none of them suited him. Finally there occurred to him the traditions of people who had become rich through the aid of Dutch Michel and the Little Glass-Man. During his father's life-time, other poor people often came to visit them, and Peter had heard them talk by the hour of rich people and of the way their riches were acquired. The name of the Little Glass-Man was often mentioned in these conversations, as one who had helped these rich men to their wealth; and Peter could almost remember the verse that had to be spoken at the Tannenbuehl in the centre of the forest in order to summon him. It ran thus: "Schatzhauser im grünen Tannenwald, Bis schon viel' hundert Jahre alt, Dir gehört all' Land wo Tannen stehn--" But strain his memory as he would, he could not recall another line. He often debated within himself whether he should not ask this or that old man what the rest of the rhyme was, but was held back by a certain dread of betraying his thoughts--and then, too, the tradition of the Glass-Man could not be very widely known, and the rhyme must be known to but very few, for there were not many rich people in the forest; and, strangest of all, why had not his father and the other poor people tried their luck? He finally led his mother into speaking about the Little Glass-Man; but she only told him what he knew before, and knew only the first line of the rhyme, although she did add afterwards that the spirit only showed himself to people who were born on a Sunday between eleven and two o'clock. In that respect, she told him, he would fill the requirements, if he could only remember the verse; as he was born on a Sunday noon. When Charcoal Pete heard this, he was almost beside himself with joy at the thought of undertaking this adventure. It appeared to him sufficient that he knew a part of the verse, and that he was born on a Sunday; so he thought that the Glass-Man would appear to him. Therefore, after he had sold his charcoal one day, he did not kindle any more fires, but put on his father's best jacket, his new red stockings and his Sunday hat, grasped his black-thorn cane, and bade good-bye to his mother, saying: "I must go to town on business; we shall soon have to draw lots again to see who shall serve in the army, and I will once more call the justice's attention to the fact that I am the only son of a widow." His mother commended his resolution, and he started off for Tannenbuehl. The Tannenbuehl lies on the highest point of the Black Forest; and within a radius of a two-hours' walk, not a village nor even a hut was to be found, for the superstitious people held the Tannenbuehl to be an unsafe place. And tall and splendid as were the trees in this region, they were now but seldom disturbed by the woodman's ax; for often when the wood-choppers had ventured in there to work, the axes had flown from the helves and cut them in the foot, or the trees had fallen unexpectedly before they could get out of the way, and had killed and injured many. Then, too, these magnificent trees could only be sold for firewood, as the raftsmen would never take a single log from this locality into their rafts, for the tradition was current among them that both men and rafts would come to grief if they were to do so. Therefore, it was that the trees of the Tannenbuehl had been left to grow so thick and tall that it was almost as dark as night there on the clearest day; and Peter Muck began to feel rather timid there, for he heard not a voice, not a step save his own, not even the ring of an ax, while even the birds appeared to shun these dark shadows. Charcoal Pete at last reached the highest point of the Tannenbuehl, and stood before a pine of enormous girth, for which a ship-builder in Holland would have given many hundred guldens, delivered at his yard. "Here," thought he, "the Little Glass-Man would be most likely to live." So he took off his Sunday hat, made a low bow before the tree, cleared his throat, and said in a trembling voice: "I wish you a very good afternoon, Mr. Glass-Man." But there was no answer, and every thing about was as still as before. "Perhaps I have to speak the verse first," thought he, and mumbled: "Schatzhauser im grünen Tannenwald, Bist schon viel' hundert Jahre alt, Dir gehört all' Land wo Tannen stehn--" As he spoke these words, he saw, to his great terror, a very small, strange figure peep out from behind the great tree. To Peter it seemed to be the Little Glass-Man, just as he had heard him described: a black jacket, red stockings, a peaked hat with a broad brim, and a pale but fine and intelligent little face. But alas, as quickly as the Little Glass-Man had looked around the tree, so quickly had he disappeared again. "Mr. Glass-Man," cried Peter Munk after a long pause, "be so kind as not to make a fool of me. Mr. Glass-Man, if you think I didn't see you, you are very much mistaken. I saw you very plainly when you looked around the tree." Still no answer; but occasionally Peter believed he heard a low, amused chuckle behind the tree. Finally his impatience conquered the fear that had held him back. "Wait, you little fellow," cried he; "I will soon catch you." With one leap he sprang behind the tree, but there was no "Schatzhauser im grünen Tannenwald," and only a small squirrel ran up the tree. Peter Munk shook his head; he saw that he had the method of conjuration all right up to a certain point, and that perhaps only another line was needed to induce the Little Glass-Man to appear. He thought over this and that, but found nothing to the purpose. The squirrel was to be seen on the lower branches of the tree, and acted as if it were either trying to cheer him up or was making sport of him. It smoothed down its fur, waved its fine bushy tail, and looked at him with intelligent eyes. But at last he was afraid to remain here alone with this little creature; for now the squirrel would appear to have a human head and a three-peaked hat, and then again it would be just like other squirrels, with the exception of red stockings and black shoes on its hinder legs. In short, it was a merry creature; but nevertheless Charcoal Pete stood in dread of it, believing that there was some magic in all this. Peter left the spot at a much faster pace than he had approached it. The shadows of the pine wood seemed to deepen, the trees to be taller, and such terror took possession of him that he broke into a run, and experienced a sense of security only when he heard dogs barking in the distance, and saw between the trees the smoke rising from a hut. But when he came nearer, and perceived the dress worn by the people in the hut, he found that in his alarm he had taken the wrong direction, and instead of arriving among the glass-makers, he had come to the raftsmen. The people who dwelt in the hut were wood-choppers; an old man, his son, who was the owner of the house, and some grandchildren. They gave Charcoal Pete a hospitable reception, without asking for his name and residence; brought him cider to drink, and for supper a large blackcock, the most tempting dish in the Black Forest, was set on the table. After supper the housewife and her daughters gathered, with their distaffs, around the light which the children fed with the finest resin; the grandfather, the guest, and the master of the house smoked and looked at the busy fingers of the women, while the boys were occupied in cutting out wooden forks and spoons. Out in the forest a storm was raging; one heard every now and then heavy peals of thunder, and often it sounded as though entire trees had been snapped off and crushed together. The fearless children wanted to go out into the forest to view this wild and beautiful scene; but their grandfather restrained them by a sharp word and look. "I would not advise any one to go outside the door," exclaimed he; "he would never come back again, for Dutch Michel is cutting a fresh link of logs to-night." The children all stared at him. They might have heard the name of Dutch Michel mentioned before, but now they begged their grandfather that he would tell them all about him. And Peter Munk, who had heard Dutch Michel spoken of on the other side of the forest only in a vague way, joined in the children's request, and asked the old man who Dutch Michel was and where he was to be seen. "He is the master of this forest; and, judging from such an inquiry from a man of your age, you must live on the other side of the Tannenbuehl, or even farther away, not to have heard of him. I will tell you what I know about Dutch Michel, and the stories that are circulated regarding him: "About a hundred years ago--at least so my ancestors said--there was not a more honorable race of people on the face of the earth than the inhabitants of the Black Forest. But now, since so much money has come into the country, the people are dishonest and wicked; the young fellows dance and sing on Sunday, and swear most terribly. But at the time of which I speak there was a very different state of things; and even though Dutch Michel is looking in at the window now, I say, just as I have often said before, that he is to blame for all this woful change. There lived a hundred years or more ago, a rich timber merchant, who employed a large number of men. He traded far down the Rhine, and his business prospered, as he was a God-fearing man. One evening a man came to his door, the like of whom he had never seen before. His clothing did not differ from that of the Black Forest workingmen, but he was a good head taller than any of them, and it had not been believed that such a giant existed any where. He asked for work, and the timber merchant, seeing that he was strong and so well adapted to carrying heavy loads, made a bargain with him. Michel was a workman such as this man had never had before. As a wood-chopper he was the equal of any other three men; and he would carry one end of a tree which required six men to carry the other end. "But after cutting trees for six months, he went to his employer and said: 'I have cut wood here long enough now, and should like to see where my tree-trunks go to; so how would it do if you were to let me go down on the rafts?' The timber merchant replied: 'I will not stand in the way of your seeing a little of the world, Michel. To be sure, I need strong men to fell the trees, while on the raft more cleverness is required; but it shall be as you wish for this time.' "The raft on which he was to go, consisted of eight sections, the last of which was made up of the largest timbers. But what do you think happened? On the evening before they started, the tall Michel brought eight more logs to the water, thicker and longer than any that had ever been seen before, and each one he had carried as lightly on his shoulder as if it were simply a raft pole, so that all were amazed. Where he had cut them remains a mystery to-day. The heart of the timber merchant rejoiced as he saw them, and began to reckon up what they might be worth; but Michel said: 'There, those are for me to travel on. I shouldn't get very far on those other chips.' His master, by way of thanks, presented him with a pair of high boots; but Michel threw them aside, and produced a pair that my grandfather assured me weighed a hundred pounds and stood five feet high. [Illustration] "The raft was started off, and if Michel had astonished the wood-choppers before, it was now the turn of the raftsmen to be surprised; for instead of the float going more slowly down the stream, as had been expected on account of these enormous logs, as soon as they touched the Neckar they flew down the river with the speed of an arrow. If they came to a curve in the Neckar, that had usually given the raftsmen much trouble to keep the raft in the middle of the stream and prevent it from grounding on the gravel or sand, Michel would spring into the water and push the raft to the right or the left, so that it passed by without accident. But if they came to a stand-still, he would run forward to the first section, have all the other men throw down their poles, stick his own enormous beam into the gravel, and with a single push the float flew down the river at such a rate that the land and trees and villages seemed to be running away from them. "Thus in half the time usually consumed, they reached Cologne on the Rhine, where they had been accustomed to sell their float. But here Michel spoke up once more: 'You seem to be merchants who understand your own interests. Do you then think that the people of Cologne use all this timber that comes from the Black Forest? No, they buy it of you at half its cost, and sell it to Holland merchants at an immense advance. Let us sell the smaller logs here, and take the larger ones down to Holland; what we receive above the usual price will be our own gain.' "Thus spake the crafty Michel, and the others were content to do as he advised--some because they had a desire to see Holland, and others on account of the money they would pocket. Only one of the men was honest, and tried to dissuade his companions from exposing their master's property to further risks, or to cheat him out of the higher price they might receive; but they would not listen to him, and forgot his words. Dutch Michel, however, did not forget them. They continued on down the Rhine, and Michel conducted the raft and soon brought it to Rotterdam. There they were offered four times the former price, and the enormous logs that Michel had brought sold for a large sum. When these raftsmen found themselves the possessors of so much money, they could hardly contain themselves for joy. Michel made the division, one part for the timber merchant and the three others among the men. And now they frequented the taverns with sailors and other low associates, gambled and threw away their money; but the brave man who had advised against their going to Holland was sold to a slave-dealer by Dutch Michel, and was never again heard of. From that time forth Holland was the paradise of the raftsmen of the Black Forest, and Dutch Michel was their king. The timber merchants did not learn of the swindle practiced on them for some time; and money, oaths, bad manners, drunkenness and gambling were gradually imported from Holland unnoticed. "When the story of these doings came out, Dutch Michel was nowhere to be found. But he is not by any means dead. For a hundred years he has carried on his ghostly deeds in the forest, and it is said that he has been the means of enriching many; but at the cost of their souls. How that may be, I will not say; but this much is certain: that on these stormy nights he picks out the finest trees in the Tannenbuehl, where none dare to chop, and my father once saw him break off a tree four feet thick as easily as if it had been a reed. He makes a present of these trees to those who will turn from the right and follow him; then at midnight they bring down these logs to the river, and he goes with his followers down to Holland. But if I were the King of Holland, I would have him blown to pieces with grape-shot; for every ship that has in it any of Dutch Michel's timber, even if it be only a single stick, must go to the bottom. This is the cause of all the shipwrecks we hear of; for how else could a fine strong ship, as large as a church, be destroyed on the water? And whenever Dutch Michel fells a pine in the Black Forest on a stormy night, one of his timbers springs from a ship's side, the water rushes in, and the ship is lost with all her crew. Such is the legend of Dutch Michel; and it is sure that all that is bad in the Black Forest may be ascribed to him. But oh, he can make one rich!" added the old man mysteriously; "yet I wouldn't have any thing to do with him--I would not for any money stand in the shoes of the Stout Ezekiel or in those of the Slim Schlurker; and the King of the Ball is reported to belong to him also." During the recital of the old man's story, the storm had ceased. The girls now timidly lighted their lamps and went off to bed; while the man gave Peter a bag of leaves for a pillow on the settee, and wished him goodnight. Never before did Charcoal Pete have such dreams as on this night. Now the sullen giant, Dutch Michel, would raise the window and hold out before him with his enormously long arm a purse full of gold pieces, which he chincked together; then he would see the good-natured Little Glass-Man riding about the room on a monstrous green bottle, and he could hear his merry laugh just as it sounded in the Tannenbuehl; then again there was hummed into his left ear: "In Holland there is gold; You can have it if you will For very little pay; Gold, Gold!" then in his right ear he heard the song of the "Schatzhauser im grünen Tannenwald," and a soft voice whispered: "Stupid Charcoal Pete! stupid Peter Munk can't think of any thing to rhyme with _stehen_, and yet was born on Sunday at twelve o'clock. Rhyme, stupid Peter, rhyme!" He sighed and groaned in his sleep. He tried his best to think of a rhyme for that word; but as he had never made a rhyme in his life, all his efforts in his dream were fruitless. But on awaking with the early dawn, his dream recurred to his mind. He sat himself down behind the table with folded arms, and thought over the whispers he could still hear. "Rhyme, stupid Charcoal Pete, rhyme," said he to himself, meanwhile tapping his forehead with his finger; but the rhyme would not come forth at his bidding. While he was sitting thus, looking sadly before him with his mind intent on a rhyme for _stehen_, three fellows passed by the house, one of whom was singing: "Am Berge that ich stehen Und schaute in das Thal, Da hab' ich sie gesehen Zum allerletzten Mal." That struck Peter's ear instantly, and springing up he rushed hastily out of the house, ran after the three men, and seized the singer roughly by the arm. "Stop, friend," cried he, "what was your rhyme for _stehen_? Be so kind as to recite what you sang." "What's the trouble with you, young fellow?" retorted the singer. "I can sing what I please, so let go of my arm, or----" "No, you must tell me what you sang!" shouted Peter, taking a firmer grip on his arm. The two others did not hesitate long on seeing this but fell upon Peter with their hard fists and gave him such a beating that he was forced to let go his hold on the first man and sank exhausted to his knees. "You have got your share now," said they laughing, "and mind you, stupid fellow, never to jump upon people again on the highway." "Oh, I will surely take care!" replied Charcoal Pete sighing; "but now that I have had the blows, be so good as to tell me plainly what it was that man sang." They began to laugh again, and made sport of him; but the one who had sung the song repeated it to him, and laughing and singing they continued on their way. "Also _gesehen_," said the beaten one, as he raised himself up with some difficulty; "_gesehen_ rhymes with _stehen_. Now then, Little Glass-Man, we will speak a word together." He went back to the hut, took his hat and stick, and bade farewell to the inmates of the hut, and started on his way back to the Tannenbuehl. He walked on slowly and thoughtfully, for he had a line to make up; finally as he came into the neighborhood of the Tannenbuehl, and the pines grew taller and thicker, he had completed the verse, and in his joy made a leap into the air. Just then appeared a man of giant size, who held in his hand a pole as long as a ship's mast. Peter's courage failed him as he saw this giant walking along very slowly near him; for, thought he, that is none other than Dutch Michel. But the giant remained silent, and Peter occasionally took a half-frightened look at him. He was fully a head taller than the largest man Peter had ever seen; his face was neither young nor old, and yet full of lines; he wore a linen jacket, and the enormous boots drawn over the leather breeches, Peter recognized from the legend he had heard the night before. "Peter Munk, what are you doing in the Tannenbuehl?" inquired the King of the Wood, in a deep threatening voice. "Good morning, neighbor," replied Peter, with an effort to hide his uneasiness: "I was going back home through the Tannenbuehl." "Peter Munk," returned the giant, darting a piercing look at him, "your way does not lie through this grove." "Well, no, not directly," said Peter; "but it is warm to-day, and I thought it would be cooler up here." "Don't tell a lie. Charcoal Pete!" cried Dutch Michel, in a voice of thunder, "or I will beat you to the ground with my pole. Do you think I didn't hear you pleading with the Little Glass-Man?" continued he more gently. "Come, come, that was a foolish thing to do, and it is fortunate that you did not know that verse; he is a niggard, the little churl, and doesn't give much, and those to whom he does give don't enjoy life very much. Peter, you are a poor simpleton, and it grieves me to the soul to see such a lively, handsome fellow, who might do something in the world, burning charcoal. While others are throwing about great thalers or ducats, you can hardly raise a sixpence: 'tis a miserable life." "That's all true, and you are right; it is a miserable life." "Well, I shouldn't mind giving you a lift," continued the terrible Michel. "I have already helped many a brave fellow out of his misery, so you would not be the first. Speak up, now; how many hundred thalers do you want to start with?" With these words, he shook the gold pieces in his immense pocket, and they jingled as Peter had heard them last night in his dream. His heart beat wildly and painfully; he was warm and cold by turns, and Dutch Michel did not look as if he was in the habit of giving away money in compassion without receiving something in return. The mysterious words of the old man in the hut recurred to his mind, and driven by unaccountable anxiety and terror, he cried: "Best thanks, master; but I won't have any dealings with you, for I know you too well," and ran off at the top of his speed. But Dutch Michel strode after him muttering in a hollow, threatening voice: "You will regret it, Peter; it is written on your forehead and can be read in your eye, you will not escape me. Don't run so fast; listen to just one word of reason. There is my boundary line now." But when Peter heard this, and saw not far ahead of him a small trench, he increased his speed in order to get beyond the line, so that Michel, too, had to run much faster and followed him with curses and threats. The young man made a desperate leap over the trench, as he saw Dutch Michel raise his pole to destroy him. He landed safely on the other side, and saw the pole shattered in the air as though it had struck an invisible wall, and a long splinter fell at Peter's feet. He picked it up triumphantly with the intention of hurling it back at Michel; but at that moment he felt it moving in his hand, and discovered, to his horror, that it was an enormous snake, which with darting tongue and glistening eyes reared its head to strike at him. He let go his hold, but the reptile had coiled itself tightly about his arm, and its fangs were already close to his face, when of a sudden a blackcock swooped down, seized the snake's head in its bill and flew up into the air with its prey, while Dutch Michel, who had seen all this from the boundary line, howled and stormed as the snake was carried off by its more powerful enemy. Trembling and staggering, Peter continued on his way. The path became steeper, the region wilder, and soon he found himself at the base of the large pine tree. He made his obeisance as yesterday to the invisible Little Glass-Man, and then recited his verse: "Schatzhauser im grünen Tannenwald, Bist schon viel' hundert Jahre alt, Dein is all' Land, wo Tannen stehen, Lä�t Dich nur Sonntagskindern sehn." "You haven't quite hit it, but seeing it's you, Charcoal Pete, we'll let it pass," said a low soft voice near him. He looked around him in surprise, and beneath a splendid pine sat a little old man, dressed in a black jacket and red stockings, with a large hat on his head. He had a delicate, pleasing face, and a beard as fine as a spider's web. He smoked from a pipe of blue glass; and on approaching nearer, Peter saw, to his astonishment, that the clothing, shoes, and hat of the little man were all made of colored glass, but it was as flexible as though still hot, for it bent like cloth with every movement of the little man. "You have met that churl, Dutch Michel?" said the little man, coughing peculiarly after every word. "He meant to scare you badly; but I have taken away his magic pole and he will never recover it again." "Yes, Mr. Schatzhauser," replied Peter, with a low bow. "I was in a pretty bad fix. Then you must have been the blackcock who killed the snake! My best thanks for your kindness. But I have come here to counsel with you. Things are in a bad way with me; a charcoal burner doesn't get ahead any, and as I am still young I thought that perhaps something better might be made out of me. When I look at others, I see how they have progressed in a short time--the stout Ezekiel for instance, and the King of the Ball; they have money like hay." "Peter," said the little man, gravely blowing the smoke from his pipe to a great distance, "do not talk to me in that way. How much would you be benefitted by being apparently happy for a few years, only to be still more unhappy afterwards? You must not despise your calling; your father and grandfather were honorable people, and followed the same pursuit. Peter Munk! I will not think that it is laziness that brings you to me." Peter shrank back before the earnestness of the little man, and reddened. "Idleness, Herr Schatzhauser im Tannenwald, is, I well know, the beginning of all burdens; but you should not think poorly of me for desiring to better my condition, A charcoal burner is of very little account in the world, while the glass-makers and raftsmen and watchmakers are all respectable." "Pride often comes before a fall," replied the master of the pine wood, in a more friendly manner. "You mortals are a strange race. Seldom is one of you contented with the lot to which he was born and brought up. And what would be the result of your becoming a glass-maker? You would then want to be a timber merchant; and if you were a timber merchant, the life of the ranger or the magistrate's dwelling would seem more attractive still. But it shall be as you wish, provided you promise to work hard. I am accustomed to grant every Sunday child who knows how to find me three wishes; the first two are free, the third I can set aside if it is a foolish one. So announce your wishes, Peter, but let them be something good and useful." "Hurrah! You are an excellent Little Glass-Man, and you are rightly called Schatzhauser, for with you the treasures are always at home. Well, if I am at liberty to wish for what my heart longs, my first wish shall be that I could dance better than the King of the Ball, and that I had as much money in my pocket as the Stout Ezekiel." [Illustration] "You fool!" exclaimed the little man scornfully; "What a pitiful wish is that, to dance well and have money to gamble with! Are you not ashamed, stupid Peter, to fool away your chance in such a fashion? Of what use will your dancing be to you and your poor mother? Of what use will money be to you, when, as can be seen from your wish, it is destined for the tavern, and like that of the miserable King of the Ball, will remain there? Then you would have nothing for the rest of the week, and will suffer want as before. I will give you another wish free; but look to it that you choose more intelligently?" Peter scratched his head, and said, after some hesitation: "Well, I wish for the most beautiful and costly glass-works in the whole Black Forest, together with suitable belongings for it, and money to keep it going." "Nothing else?" inquired the little man in an apprehensive manner; "nothing else, Peter?" "Well, you might add a horse and carriage to all this." "Oh, you stupid Charcoal Pete!" cried the little man, and threw his glass pipe in a fit of anger at a large pine tree, so that it broke into a hundred pieces. "Horses? Wagons? Intellect, I tell you, intellect, a sound human understanding and foresight, you should have wished for, and not horses and wagons. Well, don't look so sad; we will see that you don't come to much harm by it, for your second wish was not such a bad one. Glass-works will support both man and master; and if you had wished for foresight and understanding with it, wagons and horses would have followed as a matter of course." "But, Herr Schatzhauser," returned Peter, "I have one more wish left, and if you think that intellect is such a desirable thing, why, I might wish for it now." "Not so. You will get into many difficulties when you will rejoice that you still have one wish left. And so you had better now start on your way home. Here," said the little man, drawing a purse from his pocket, "are two thousand guldens, and it should be enough, so don't come back to me begging for more money, or I should have to hang you up to the highest pine tree. Three days ago old Winkfritz, who had the glass-works in the valley, died. Go there to-morrow early, and make a suitable bid for the business. Conduct yourself well, be diligent, and I will visit you occasionally and assist you with word and deed, as you did not wish for understanding. But--and I say this to you in all seriousness--your first wish was a bad one. Take care, Peter, how you run to the tavern; no one ever received any good thereby." While thus speaking, the little man had produced a second pipe of alabaster glass, filled it with crushed pine cones, and lighted it by holding a large burning-glass in the sun. When he had done this, he shook Peter's hand in a friendly manner, accompanied him a short distance on his way, giving him some valuable advice, meanwhile blowing out thicker and thicker volumes of smoke, and finally disappearing in a cloud of smoke, that, as if from genuine Dutch tobacco, curled slowly about the tops of the pine trees. When Peter arrived at home, he found his mother in a state of great alarm about him, for the good woman could believe nothing else but that her son had been drawn as a soldier. He, however, was in a very happy mood, and told her how he had met a good friend in the forest, who had advanced him money to undertake a better business than that of charcoal burning. Although his mother had lived in this hut for thirty years, and was as much accustomed to the sight of sooty faces as every miller's wife is to the flour on her husband's face, yet she was vain enough when Peter held out the prospect of a more brilliant life, to despise her early condition, and said: "Yes, as mother of a man who owns the glassworks, I am somewhat better than neighbor Grete and Bete, and for the future I shall take a front seat in the church among respectable people." Peter soon concluded a bargain with the heirs for the glass-works. He retained the workmen whom he found there, and made glass by day and night. In the beginning he was much pleased with the business. He was accustomed to walk proudly about the works, with his hands in his pockets, looking into this and that, advising here and there, over which his workmen laughed not a little; but his great delight was to see the glass blown, and he often attempted this work himself, forming the most singular shapes out of the molten mass. But before long he tired of the business, and spent only an hour a day at the works; then only an hour in two days, and finally he went only once a week, so that his workmen did what they pleased. All this resulted from his visits to the tavern. The Sunday after he had met the little man in the wood, he went to the tavern, and found the King of the Ball already leading the dance, while the Stout Ezekiel was sitting down to his glass and shaking dice for crown-thalers. Peter put his hand in his pocket to see if the Little Glass-Man had kept faith with him, and behold, his pockets were bulged out with silver and gold. His legs, too, began to twitch and move as though they were about to dance and leap; and when the first dance was over, he placed himself with his partner opposite, near the King of the Ball, and if this man sprang three feet high, Peter would fly up four, and if the other accomplished wonderfully intricate steps, Peter would throw out his legs in such a marvelous style that all present were beside themselves with delight and amazement. But as soon as it was known that Peter had bought a glass-factory, and as the dancers saw him tossing sixpences to the musicians every time he passed them in the dance, their astonishment knew no bounds. Some thought he must have found treasure in the forest; others, that he had inherited an estate; but all deferred to him and looked upon him as a great man, simply because he had money. On the same evening he lost twenty guldens at play; and still the coins chinked in his pocket as though there were still a hundred guldens there. When Peter saw how important a person he had become, he could not contain himself for joy and pride He threw his money right and left, and divided it generously among the poor, remembering how sorely poverty pressed on him. The skill of the King of the Ball was brought to shame by the supernatural art of the new dancer, and Peter was dubbed Emperor of the Ball. The most adventurous gamblers of a Sunday did not risk as much as he; but neither did they lose as much. And yet the more he lost the more he won. This happened through the agency of the Little Glass-Man. He had wished always to have as much money in his pocket as the Stout Ezekiel had in his; and the latter was the very man to whom Peter lost his money. And when he lost twenty or thirty guldens at a throw, he had just as many more when Ezekiel pocketed them. By degrees, however, he got deeper into gambling and drinking than the worst topers in the Black Forest, so that he was oftener called Gambler Pete than Emperor of the Ball, for he played now nearly every work-day as well. Hence it was that his business was soon ruined, and Peter's lack of understanding was to blame for it. He had as much glass made as the works could possibly produce; but he had not bought with the business the secret of how to dispose of the glass. He did not know what in the world to do with his stock, and finally sold it to peddlers at half the cost price, in order to pay the men's wages. One evening he was returning home as usual from the tavern, and in spite of the wine he had drunk in order to make himself merry, he reflected with terror and anguish on the ruin of his glass-works business, when suddenly he felt conscious that some one was walking at his side. He turned around and, behold, it was the Little Glass-Man. At once Peter fell into a passion, and protested with high and boastful words that the little man was to blame for his misfortunes. "What do I want now with a horse and wagon?" cried he. "Of what use is the glass-foundry and all my glass? Even when I was a poor charcoal burner, I was far happier, and had no cares. Now I do not know how soon the magistrate will come and seize my property for debt!" "Indeed?" replied the Little Glass-Man, "indeed? I should bear the blame for your misfortunes? Is this your gratitude for what I have done for you? Who advised you to wish so foolishly? You were bound to be a glass-manufacturer, and yet did not know where to sell your wares. Didn't I caution you to wish wisely? Judgment, Peter, and wisdom, you were lacking in." "What do you mean by judgment and wisdom?" demanded Peter. "I am as wise a man as any body. Little Glass-Man, and will prove it to you." With these words he seized the Little Glass-Man violently by the neck, shouting: "Now I have you, Schatzhauser im grünnen Tannenwald! and now I will make my third wish, which you must grant me. I want right here on the spot two hundred thousand thalers, and a house and----oh dear!" shrieked he, as he wrung his hands, for the Little Glass-Man had transformed himself into a glowing glass that burned his hand like flaming fire. And nothing more was to be seen of the little man. For many days Peter's blistered hand reminded him of his folly and ingratitude; but when his hand healed his conscience became deadened, and he said: "Even if my glass-works and every thing I have should be sold, I still have the Stout Ezekiel to fall back on. As long as he has money of a Sunday I shall not want for it." True, Peter! But if he should have none? And this very thing happened one day. For one Sunday Peter came down to the tavern, and the people stretched their necks out of the window, one saying, "There comes Gambler Pete!" and another, "Yes, the Emperor of the Ball, the rich glass-manufacturer!" while a third one shook his head, saying, "Every-where his debts are spoken of, and in the town it is said that the magistrate will not be put off much longer from seizing his glass-works." The rich Peter greeted the guests at the window politely as he stepped out of his wagon, and called out: "Good evening, landlord! has the Stout Ezekiel come yet?" And a deep voice replied: "Come right in, Peter. We have already set down to the cards, and have kept a place for you." So Peter entered the public room, put his hand into his pocket and found that the Stout Ezekiel must be pretty well provided with money, for his own pocket was crammed full. He sat down at the table with the others, and played and won, losing now and then; and so they played until evening came on, and all the honest folk went home, and then they continued to play by candle-light, until two other players said: "Come, we've had enough, and must go home to our wife and children." But Gambler Pete challenged the Stout Ezekiel to remain. For some time Ezekiel would not consent to do so, but finally he said: "Very well, I will just count my money and then we throw for five gulden stakes, for less than that would be child's play." He took out his purse and counted out one hundred guldens, so Gambler Pete knew how much money he had without troubling himself to count. But although Ezekiel had won all the afternoon, he now began to lose throw after throw, and swore fearfully over his losses. If he threw threes, Peter would immediately throw fives. At last he flung down his last five guldens on the table, and said: "Once more, and even if I lose these I won't quit, for you must lend me from your winnings Peter; one honest fellow should help another!" "As much as you like, even if it was a hundred guldens," said the Emperor of the Ball, pleased with his gains; and the Stout Ezekiel shook the dice and threw fifteen. "Three fives!" cried he, "now we will see!" But Pete threw eighteen, and a hoarse well-known voice behind him said: "There, that was the last!" He turned about, and behind him stood the giant form of Dutch Michel. Horrified, he let the money he had just grasped fall from his hand. Ezekiel, however, did not see Michel, but requested a loan of ten guldens from Gambler Pete. Quite dazed, Peter put his hand in his pocket, but found no money there. He searched his other pocket but found none there; he turned his pockets inside out, but not a farthing rolled out. Now for the first time he remembered that his first wish had been to always have as much money in his pocket as the Stout Ezekiel had. It had all disappeared like smoke. The landlord and Ezekiel looked on in surprise while he was searching for his money; they would not believe him when he declared that he had no more money, but finally, when they felt in his pockets themselves, they got very angry and denounced him as a base sorcerer who had wished all his winnings and his own money at home. Peter defended himself as well as he could, but appearances were against him. Ezekiel declared that he would tell this terrible tale to every body in the Black Forest, and the landlord promised Ezekiel that he would go to town early in the morning and enter a complaint against Peter Munk as a sorcerer, and he would live to see Peter burned, he added. Thereupon they fell upon Peter, tore off his jacket, and pitched him out of doors. Not a star was to be seen in the sky as Peter stole sadly back towards his home; yet in spite of the darkness he could perceive a form that walked near him, and finally heard it say: "It's all up with you, Peter Munk! All your magnificence is at an end; and I could have told you how it would turn out when you would not listen to me but ran over to the Little Glass-Man. Now you can see what comes of despising my advice. But try me once; I have pity on your hard fate. Not one who has come to me has regretted it; and if you are not afraid of the road, you can speak to me any time to-morrow in the Tannenbuehl." Peter knew well who it was that spoke to him, and he shuddered. He made no reply, but walked on to his house. The story-teller was interrupted just here by a commotion before the inn. A wagon was heard to drive up; several voices called for a light; there was a loud rapping on the yard gate, and the barking of several dogs. The room occupied by the wagoner and the journeymen looked out on the street. The four men sprang up and rushed in there in order to see what had happened. As nearly as they could make out by the gleam of a lantern, a large traveling carriage stood before the inn, and a tall man was assisting two veiled ladies to alight from it, while a coachman in livery was taking out the horses and a servant was unstrapping the trunk. "God be merciful to them!" sighed the wagoner. "If they leave this inn with a whole skin I shall cease to feel uneasy about my cart." "Keep still!" whispered the student. "I have a suspicion that it is not for us, but for these ladies that the ambush has been laid. Probably the people below had information of the journey these ladies were to take. If we could only contrive to warn them of their danger! Stop a moment. In the whole inn there is but one room that would be fit for a lady, and that one adjoins mine. They will be conducted there. Remain quietly in this room, and I will try to let their servants know the state of affairs." The young man stole silently to his room and blew out the wax candles, leaving only the light that the landlady had given them. Then he listened at the door. Presently the landlady came up the stairs with the ladies, and conducted them in a most obsequious manner to their room. She besought her guests to retire soon, as they must be exhausted by their ride, and then went down-stairs again. Soon afterwards, the student heard the heavy steps of a man ascending the stairs; he opened the door cautiously a little ways, and peering through the crack saw the tall man who had helped the ladies from the wagon. He wore a hunter's costume, with a hunting knife in his belt, and was most likely the equerry of the ladies. As soon as the student could make sure that this man was alone, he opened his door quickly and beckoned the man to come in. The equerry came up to him with a surprised look, but before he could ask what was wanted, the student whispered to him: "Sir, you have been led into a den of thieves to-night." The man shrank back, but the student drew him inside of the room and related to him all the suspicious circumstances about the house. The huntsman was much alarmed as he heard this, and informed the young man that the ladies, a countess and her maid, were at first anxious to travel right through the night; but they were met a short distance from this inn by a horseman who had hailed them and asked where they were bound. When he learned that their intention was to travel through the Spessart all night, he advised them against doing so, as being very unsafe at the present time. "If you will take the advice of an honest man," he had added, "you will give up that purpose; there is an inn not far from here, and poor and inconvenient as you may find it, it is better for you to pass the night there than to expose yourself unnecessarily to danger." The man who thus advised them appeared to be honest and respectable, and the countess, fearing an assault from robbers, had given orders to have the carriage stopped at this inn. The huntsman considered it his duty to inform the ladies of the danger that threatened them. He went into their room, and shortly afterwards opened the door connecting with the student's room. The countess, a lady some forty years of age, came in to the student, pale with terror, and had him repeat his suspicions to her. Then they consulted together as to what steps they had better take in this critical situation, finally deciding to summon the two servants, the wagoner and the journeymen, so that in case of an attack they might all make common cause. The door that opened on the hall in the countess's room was locked and barricaded with tables and chairs. She, with her maid, sat down on the bed, and the two servants kept watch by her, while the huntsman, the student, the journeyman and the wagoner sat around the table in the student's room, and resolved to await their fate. It was now about ten o'clock; every thing was quiet in the house, and still no signs were made of disturbing the guests, when the compass-maker said: "In order to remain awake it would be best for us to take up our former mode of passing the time. We were telling all kinds of stories; and if you, Mr. Huntsman, have no objections, we might continue." The huntsman not only had no objections, but to show his entire acquiescence he promised to relate something himself, and began at once with the following tale: SAID'S ADVENTURES. In the time of Haroun-al-Raschid, the ruler of Bagdad, there lived in Balsora a man named Benezar. He was possessed of considerable means, and could live quietly and comfortably without resorting to trade. Nor did he change his life of ease when a son was born to him. "Why should I, at my time of life, dicker and trade?" said he to his neighbors, "just to leave Said a thousand more gold pieces if things went well, and if they went badly a thousand less? 'Where two have eaten, a third may feast,' says the proverb; and if he is only a good boy, Said shall want for nothing." Thus spake Benezar, and well did he keep his word, for his son was brought up neither to a trade nor yet to commerce. Still Benezar did not omit reading with him the books of wisdom, and as it was the father's belief that a young man needed, with scholarship and veneration for age, nothing more than a strong arm and courage, he had his son early educated in the use of weapons, and Said soon passed among boys of his own age, and even among those much older, for a valiant fencer, while in horsemanship and swimming he had no superior. When he was eighteen years old, his father sent him to Mecca, to the grave of the Prophet, to say his prayers and go through his religious exercises on the spot, as required by custom and the commandment. Before he departed, his father called him to his side and praised his conduct, gave him good advice, provided him with money, and then said: "One word more, my son Said. I am a man above sharing in the superstitions of the rabble. I listen with pleasure to the stories of fairies and sorcerers as an agreeable way of passing the time; still I am far from believing, as so many ignorant people do, that these genii, or whatever they may be, exert an influence on the lives and affairs of mortals. But your mother, who has been dead these twelve years, believed as devoutly in them as in the Koran; yes, she even confided to me once, after I had pledged her not to reveal the fact to any one but her child, that she herself from her birth up had had association with a fairy. I laughed at her for entertaining such a notion; and yet I must confess, Said, that certain things happened at your birth that caused me great astonishment. It had rained and thundered the whole day, and the sky was so black that nothing could be seen without a light. But at four o'clock in the afternoon I was told that I was the father of a little boy. I hastened to your mother's room to see and to bless our first-born; but all her maids stood before the door, and in response to my questions, answered that no one would be allowed in the room at present, as Zemira (your mother) had ordered every body out of her chamber because she wished to be alone. I knocked on the door, but all in vain; it remained locked. While I waited somewhat indignantly, before the door, the sky cleared more quickly than I had ever seen it do before,--but the most wonderful thing about it was, that it was only over our loved city of Balsora that the clear blue sky appeared, for the black clouds rolled back, and lightning flashed on the outskirts of this circle. While I was contemplating this spectacle curiously, my wife's door flew open. I ordered the maids to wait outside, and entered the chamber alone to ask your mother why she had locked herself in. As I entered, such a stupefying odor of roses, pinks, and hyacinths greeted me that I almost lost my senses. Your mother held you up to me, at the same time pointing to a little silver whistle that was attached to your neck by a golden chain as fine as silk. 'The good woman of whom I once spoke to you has been here,' said your mother, 'and has given your boy this present.' 'And was it the old witch also who swept away the clouds and left this fragrance of roses and pinks behind her?' said I with an incredulous laugh. 'But she might have left him something better than this whistle: say a purse full of gold, a horse, or something of the kind.' Your mother besought me not to jest, because the fairies, if angered, would transform their blessings into maledictions. To please her, and because she was sick, I said no more; nor did we speak again of this strange occurrence until six years afterwards, when, young as she was, she felt that she was going to die. She gave me then the little whistle, charging me to give it to you only when you had reached your twentieth year, and before that hour not to let it go out of my possession. She died. Here now is the present," continued Benezar, producing from a little box a small silver whistle, to which was attached a long gold chain; "and I give it to you in your eighteenth, instead of your twentieth year, because you are going away, and I may be gathered to my fathers before you return home. I do not see any sensible reason why you should remain here another two years before setting out, as your anxious mother wished. You are a good and prudent young man, can wield your weapons as bravely as a man of four-and-twenty, and therefore I can as well pronounce you of age to-day as if you were already twenty; and now go in peace, and think, in fortune and misfortune--from which last may heaven preserve you--on your father." Thus spake Benezar of Balsora, as he dismissed his son. Said took leave of him with much emotion, hung the chain about his neck, stuck the whistle in his sash, swung himself on his horse, and rode to the place where the caravan for Mecca assembled. In a short time eighty camels and many hundred horsemen had gathered there; the caravan started off, and Said rode out of the gate of Balsora, his native city, that he was destined not to see again for a long time. The novelty of such a journey, and the many strange objects that obtruded themselves upon his attention, at first diverted his mind; but as the travelers neared the desert and the country became more and more desolate, he began to reflect on many things, and among others, on the words with which his father had taken leave of him. He drew out his whistle, examined it closely, and put it to his mouth to see whether it would give a clear and fine tone; but, lo! it would not sound at all. He puffed out his cheeks, and blew with all his strength; but he could not produce a single note, and vexed at the useless present, he thrust the whistle back into his sash. But his thoughts shortly returned to the mysterious words of his mother. He had heard much about fairies, but he had never learned that this or that neighbor in Balsora had had any relations with a supernatural power; on the contrary, the legends of these spirits had always been located in distant times and places, and therefore he believed there were to-day no such apparitions, or that the fairies had ceased to visit mortals or to take any interest in their fate. But although he thought thus, he was constantly making the attempt to believe in mysterious and supernatural powers, and wondering what might have been their relations with his mother; and so he would sit on his horse like one in a dream nearly the whole day, taking no part in the conversation of the travellers, and deaf to their songs and laughter. Said was a very handsome youth; his eye was clear and piercing, his mouth wore a pleasing expression, and, young as he was, he bore himself with a certain dignity that one seldom sees in so young a man, and his grace and soldierly appearance in the saddle commanded the attention of many of his fellow-travellers. An old man who rode by his side was much pleased with his manner, and sought by many questions to become more acquainted with him. Said, in whom reverence for old age had been early inculcated, answered modestly, but wisely and with circumspection, so that the old man's first impressions of him were strengthened. But as the young man's thoughts had been occupied the whole day with but one subject, it followed that the conversation between the two soon turned upon the mysterious realm of the fairies; and Said finally asked the old man bluntly whether he believed in the existence of fairies, who took mortals under their protection, or sought to injure them. The old man shook his head thoughtfully, and stroked his beard, before replying: "It can not be disputed that there have been instances of the kind, although I have never seen a dwarf of the spirits, a giant of the genii, a sorcerer, or a fairy." He then began to relate so many wonderful stories that Said's head was fairly in a whirl, and he could believe nothing else than that everything, which had happened at his birth--the change in the weather, the sweet odor of roses and hyacinths--were the signs that he was under the special protection of a kind and powerful fairy, and that the whistle was given him for no less a purpose than to summon the fairy in case of need. He dreamed all night of castles, winged horses, genii and the like, and dwelt in a genuine fairy realm. But, sad to relate, he was doomed to experience on the following day how perishable were all his dreams, sleeping or waking. The caravan had made its way along in easy stages for the greater part of the day, Said keeping his place at the side of his elderly companion, when a dark cloud was seen on the horizon. Some held it to be a sand-storm, others thought it was clouds, and still others were of opinion that it was another caravan. But Said's companion, who was an old traveller, cried out in a loud voice that they should be on their guard, for this was a horde of Arab robbers approaching. The men seized their weapons, the women and the goods were placed in the centre, and everything made ready against an attack. The dark mass moved slowly over the plain, resembling an immense flock of storks taking their flight to distant lands. By-and-by, they came on faster, and hardly was the caravan able to distinguish men and lances, when, with the speed of the wind, the robbers swarmed around them. The men defended themselves bravely, but the robbers, who were over four hundred strong, surrounded them on all sides, killed many from a distance, and then, made a charge with their lances. In this fearful moment, Said, who had fought among the foremost, was reminded of his whistle. He drew it forth hastily, put it to his lips, and blew; but let it drop again in disappointment, for it gave out not the slightest sound. Enraged over this cruel disillusion, he took aim at an Arab conspicuous by his splendid costume, and shot him through the breast. The man swayed in his saddle, and fell from his horse. "Allah! what have you done, young man?" exclaimed the old man at his side. "Now we are all lost!" And thus it seemed, for no sooner did the robbers see this man fall, than they raised a terrible cry, and closed in on the caravan with such resistless force that the few who remained unwounded were soon scattered. In another moment. Said found himself surrounded by five or six of the enemy. He handled his lance so dexterously, however, that not one of them dared approach him very closely; at last one of them bent his bow, took aim, and was just about to let the arrow fly, when another of the robbers stopped him. The young man prepared for some new mode of attack; but before he saw their design, one of the Arabs had thrown a lasso over his head, and, try as he might to remove the rope, his efforts were unavailing--the noose was drawn tighter and tighter, and Said was a prisoner. The caravan was finally captured, and the Arabs, who did not all belong to one tribe, divided the prisoners and the remaining booty between them, and left the scene of the encounter, part of them riding off to the South and the remainder to the East. Near Said rode four armed guards, who often glared at him angrily, uttering savage oaths. From all this, Said concluded, that it must have been one of their leaders, very likely a prince, whom he had slain. The prospect of slavery was to him much worse than that of death; so he secretly thanked his stars that he had drawn the vengeance of the whole horde on himself, for he did not doubt that they would kill him when they reached their camp. The guards watched his every motion, and if he but turned his head, they threatened him with their spears; but once, when the horse of one of his guards stumbled, he turned his head quickly, and was rejoiced at the sight of his fellow-traveller whom he had believed was among the dead. Finally, trees and tents were seen in the distance; and as they drew nearer, they were met by a crowd of women and children, who had exchanged but a few words with the robbers, when they broke out into loud cries, and all looked at Said, shook their fists, and uttered imprecations on his head. "That is he," shrieked they, "who has killed the great Almansor, the bravest of men! he shall die, and we will throw his flesh to the jackals of the desert for prey." Then they rushed at Said so ferociously, with sticks and whatever missiles they could lay their hands on, that the robbers had to throw themselves between the women and the object of their wrath. "Be off, you scamps! away you women!" cried they, dispersing the rabble with their lances; "he has killed the great Almansor in battle, and he shall die; not by the hand of a woman, but by the sword of the brave." On coming to an open place surrounded by the tents, they halted. The prisoners were bound together in pairs, and the booty carried into the tents, while Said was bound separately and led into a tent larger than the others, where sat an elderly and finely dressed man, whose proud bearing denoted him to be the chief of this tribe. The men who had brought Said in approached the chief with a sad air and with bowed heads. "The howling of the women has informed me of what has happened," said their majestic leader, looking from one to the other of his men; "your manner confirms it--Almansor has fallen." "Almansor has fallen," repeated the men, "but here, Selim, Ruler of the Desert, is his murderer, and we bring him here that you may decide as to the form of death that shall be inflicted on him. Shall we make a target of him for our arrows? shall we force him to run the gauntlet of our lances? or do you decree that he shall be hung or torn asunder by horses?" "Who are you?" asked Selim, looking darkly at the prisoner, who, although doomed to death, stood before his captors with a courageous air. Said replied to his question briefly and frankly. "Did you kill my son by stealth? Did you pierce him from behind with an arrow or a lance?" "No, Sire!" returned Said. "I killed him in an open fight, face to face, while he was attacking our caravan, because he had killed eight of my companions before my eyes." "Does he speak the truth?" asked Selim of the men who had captured Said. "Yes, Sire, he killed Almansor in a fair fight," replied one of the men. "Then he has done no more and no less than we should have done in his place," returned Selim; "he fought his enemy, who would have robbed him of liberty and life, and killed him; therefore, loose his bonds at once!" The men looked at him in astonishment, and obeyed his order in a slow and unwilling manner. "And shall the murderer of your son, the brave Almansor, not die?" asked one of them, casting a look of hate at Said. "Would that we had disposed of him on the spot!" "He shall not die!" exclaimed Selim. "I will take him into my own tent, as my fair share of the booty, and he shall be my servant." Said could find no words in which to express his thanks. The men left the tent grumbling; and when they communicated Selim's decision to the women and children, who were waiting outside, they were greeted by terrible shrieks and lamentations, and threats were made that they would avenge Almansor's death on his murderer themselves, because his own father would not take vengeance. The other captives were divided among the tribe. Some were released, in order that they might obtain ransom for the rich merchants; others were sent out as shepherds with the flocks; and many who had formerly been waited upon by ten slaves, were doomed to perform menial services in this camp. Not so with Said, however. Was it his courageous and heroic manner, or the mysterious influence of a kind fairy, that attached Selim to him so strongly? It would be hard to say; but Said lived in the chief's tent more as a son than as servant. Soon, however, the strange partiality of the old chief drew down on Said the hatred of the other servants. He met everywhere only savage looks, and if he went alone through the camp he heard on all sides curses and threats directed against him, and more than once arrows had flown by close to his breast--and that they did not hit him he ascribed to the silver whistle that he wore constantly in his bosom. He often complained to Selim of these attempts on his life; but the chiefs efforts to discover the would-be assassin were in vain, for the whole tribe seemed to be in league against the favored stranger. So Selim said to him one day: "I had hoped that you might possibly replace the son who fell by your hand. It is not your fault or mine that this could not be. All feel bitter hatred toward you, and it is not in my power to protect you for the future, for how would it benefit either you or myself to bring the guilty ones to punishment after they had stealthily killed you? Therefore, when the men return from their present expedition, I will say to them that your father has sent me a ransom, and I will send you by some trusty men across the desert." "But could I trust myself with any of these men?" asked Said in amazement. "Would they not kill me on the way?" "The oath that they will take before me will protect you; it has never yet been broken," replied Selim calmly. Some days after this the men returned to camp, and Selim kept his promise. He presented the young man with weapons, clothes and a horse, summoned all the available men, and chose five of their number to conduct Said across the desert, and bound them by a formidable oath not to kill him, and then took leave of Said with tears. The five men rode moodily and silently through the desert with Said, who noticed how unwillingly they were fulfilling their commission; and it caused him not a little anxiety to find that two of them were present at the time he killed Almansor. When they were about an eight hours' journey from the camp. Said heard the men whispering among themselves, and remarked that their manner was more and more sullen. He tried to catch what they were saying, and made out that they were conversing in a language understood only by this tribe, and only employed by them in their secret or dangerous undertakings. Selim, whose intention it had been to keep the young man permanently with him in his tent, had devoted many hours to teaching the young man these secret words; but what he now overheard was not of the most comforting nature. "This is the spot," said one; "here we attacked the caravan, and here fell the bravest of men by the hand of a boy." "The wind has covered the tracks of his horse," continued another, "but I have not forgotten them." "And shall he who laid hands on him still live and be at liberty, and thus cast reproach on us? When was it ever heard before that a father failed to revenge the death of his only son? But Selim grows old and childish." "And if the father neglects it," said a fourth, "then it becomes the duty of the fallen man's friends to avenge him. We should cut the murderer down on this spot. Such has been our law and custom for ages." "But we have bound ourselves by an oath to the chief not to kill this youth," said the fifth man, "and we cannot break our oath." "It is true," responded the others; "we have sworn, and the murderer is free to pass from the hands of his enemies." "Stop a moment!" cried one, the most sullen of them all. "Old Selim has a wise head, but is not so shrewd as he is generally credited with being. Did we swear to him that we would take this boy to this or that place? No; our oath simply bound us not to take his life, and we will leave him that; but the blistering sun and the sharp teeth of the jackals will soon accomplish our revenge for us. Here, on this spot, we can bind and leave him." Thus spake the robber; but Said had now prepared himself for a last desperate chance, and before the final words were fairly spoken he suddenly wheeled his horse to one side, gave him a sharp blow, and flew like a bird across the plain. The five men paused for a moment in surprise; but they were skilled in pursuit, and spread themselves out, chasing him from the right and left, and as they were more experienced in riding on the desert, two of them had soon overtaken the youth, and when he swerved to one side he found two other men there, while the fifth was at his back. The oath they had taken prevented them from using their weapons against him, so they lassoed him once more, pulled him from his horse, beat him unmercifully, bound his hands and feet, and laid him down on the burning sands of the desert. Said begged piteously for mercy; he promised them a large ransom, but with a laugh they mounted their horses and galloped off. He listened for some moments to the receding steps of their horses, and then gave himself up for lost. He thought of his father and of the old man's sorrow if his son should never more return; he thought on his own misery, doomed to die so young; for nothing was more certain than that he must suffer the torments of suffocation in the hot sands, or that he should be torn to pieces by jackals. [Illustration] The sun rose ever higher, and its hot rays burnt into his forehead; with considerable difficulty he rolled over, but the change of position gave him but little relief. In making this exertion, the whistle fell from his bosom. He moved about until he could seize it in his mouth, then he attempted to blow it; but even in this terrible hour of need it refused to respond to his will. In utter despair, he let his head fall back, and before long the sun had robbed him of his senses. After many hours, Said was awakened by sounds close by him, and immediately after was conscious that his shoulder had been seized. He uttered a cry of terror, for he could believe nothing else than that a jackal had attacked him. Now he was grasped by the legs also, and became sensible that it was not the claws of a beast of prey but the hands of a man who was trying to restore his senses, and who was speaking with two or three other men. "He lives," whispered they, "but he believes that we are his foes." At last Said opened his eyes, and perceived above his own the face of a short, stout man, with small eyes and a long beard, who spoke kindly to him, helped him to get up, handed him food and drink, and while he was partaking of the refreshments told him that he was a merchant from Bagdad, named Kalum-Bek, and dealt in shawls and fine veils for ladies. He had made a business journey, and was now on his way home, and had seen Said lying half-dead in the sand. The splendor of the youth's costume, and the sparkling stone in his dagger had attracted his attention; he had done all in his power to revive him, and his efforts had finally succeeded. The youth thanked him for his life, for he saw clearly that without the interposition of this man he would have perished miserably; and as he had neither the means of getting away, nor the desire to wander over the desert on foot and alone, he gratefully accepted the offer of a seat on one of the merchant's heavily-laden camels, and decided to go to Bagdad with the merchant, with the chance of finding there a company bound for Balsora, which he could join. On the journey, the merchant related to his travelling companion a great many stories about the excellent Ruler of the Faithful, Haroun-al-Raschid. He told anecdotes showing the caliph's love of justice and his shrewdness, and how he was able to smooth out the knottiest questions of law in a simple and admirable way; and among others he related the story of the rope-maker, and the story of the jar of olives,--tales that every child now knows, but which astonished Said. "Our master, the Ruler of the Faithful," continued the merchant, "is a wonderful man. If you have an idea that he sleeps like the common people, you are very much mistaken. Two or three hours at day-break is all the sleep he takes. I am positive of that, for Messour, his head chamberlain, is my cousin; and although he is as silent as the grave concerning the secrets of his master, he will now and then let a hint drop, for kinship's sake, if he sees that one is nearly out of his senses with curiosity. Instead, then, of sleeping like other people, the caliph steals through the streets of Bagdad at night; and seldom does a week pass that he does not chance upon an adventure; for you must know--as is made clear by the story of the jar of olives, which is as true as the word of the Prophet,--that he does not make his rounds with the watch, or on horseback in full costume, his way lighted by a hundred torch-bearers, as he might very well do if he chose, but he goes about disguised sometimes as a merchant, sometimes as a mariner, at other times as a soldier, and again as a mufti, and looks around to see if every thing is right and in order. And therefore it happens that in no other town is one so polite towards every fool upon whom he stumbles on the street at night, as in Bagdad; for it would be as likely to turn out the caliph as a dirty Arab from the desert, and there is wood enough growing round to give every person in and around Bagdad the bastinado." Thus spake the merchant; and Said, strong as was his desire to see his father once more, rejoiced at the prospect of seeing Bagdad and its famous ruler, Haroun-al-Raschid. After a ten-days' journey, they arrived at their destination; and Said was astonished at the magnificence of this city, then at the height of its splendor. The merchant invited him to go with him to his house, and Said gladly accepted the invitation; as it now occurred to him for the first time, among the crowd of people, that with the exception of the air, the water of the Tigris, and a lodging on the steps of the mosque, nothing could be had without money. The day after his arrival in Bagdad, as soon as he had dressed himself--thinking that he need not be ashamed to show himself on the streets of Bagdad in his splendid soldierly costume--the merchant entered his room, looked at the handsome youth with a knavish smile, stroked his beard and said: "That's all very fine, young man! but what shall be done with you? You are, it appears to me, a great dreamer, taking no thought for the morrow; or have you money enough with you to support such style as that?" "Dear Kalum-Bek," replied the young man, greatly disconcerted, "I certainly have no money, but perhaps you will furnish me with the means to reach home; my father would surely repay you." "Your father, fellow?" cried the merchant, with a loud laugh. "I think the sun must have scorched your brain. Do you think I would take your simple word for that yarn you spun me in the desert--that your father was a rich citizen of Balsora, you his only son?--and about the attack of the robbers, and your life with the tribe, and this, that, and the other? Even then I felt very angry at your frivolous lies and utter impudence. I know that all the rich people in Balsora are traders; I have had dealings with all of them, and should have heard of a Benezar, even if he had not been worth more than six thousand Tomans. It is, therefore, either a lie that you hail from Balsora, or else your father is a poor wretch, to whose runaway son I would not lend a copper. Then, too, the attack in the desert! Who ever heard, since the wise Caliph Haroun has made the trade routes across the desert safe, that robbers dared to plunder a caravan and lead the men off into captivity? And then, too, it would have been known; but on my entire journey, as well as here in Bagdad, where people gather from all parts of the world, there has not been a word said about it. That is the second lie, you shameless young fellow!" Pale with anger, Said tried to interrupt the wicked little man, but the merchant talked still louder, and gesticulated wildly with his arms. "And the third lie, you audacious liar, is the story of your life in Selim's camp. Selim's name is well known by every body who has ever seen an Arab, but Selim has the reputation of being the most cruel and relentless robber on the desert, and you pretend to say that you killed his son and was not at once hacked to pieces; yes, you even pushed your impudence so far as to state the impossible,--that Selim had protected you against his own tribe, had taken you into his own tent, and let you go without a ransom, instead of hanging you up to the first good tree; he who has often hanged travellers just to see what kind of faces they would make when they were hung up. O you detestable liar!" "And I can only repeat," cried the youth, "that by my soul and the beard of the Prophet, it was all true!" "What! you swear by your soul?" shouted the merchant, "by your black, lying soul? Who would believe that? And by the beard of the Prophet,--you that have no beard? Who would put any trust in that?" "I certainly have no witnesses," continued Said; "but did you not find me bound and perishing?" "That proves nothing to me," replied the merchant. "You were yourself dressed like a robber, and it might easily have happened that you attacked some one stronger than yourself, who conquered and bound you." "I should like to see any one, or even two," returned Said, "who could floor and bind me, unless they came up behind me and flung a noose over my head. Staying in your bazar as you do, you cannot have any notion of what a single man is able to do when he has been brought up to arms. But you saved my life, and my thanks are due you. What would you have me do? If you do not support me I must beg; and I should not care to ask a favor of any one of my station. I will go to see the caliph." "Indeed!" sneered the merchant, "you will ask assistance of no one but our most gracious master? I should call that genteel begging! But look you, my fine young gentleman! access to the caliph can be had only through my cousin Messour, and a word from me would acquaint him with your capacity for lying. But I will take pity on your youth, Said. You shall have a chance to better yourself, and something may be made out of you yet. I will take you into my shop at the bazar; you can serve me there for a year; and when that time is past, if you don't choose to remain with me any longer, I will pay you your wages and let you go where you will, to Aleppo or Medina, to Stamboul or Balsora, or, for aught I care, to the Infidels. I will give you till noon to decide; if you agree to my proposal, well and good; if you do not, I will make out an estimate of the expense you put me to on the journey, and for your seat on the camel, pay myself by taking your clothes and all you possess, and then throw you into the street; then you can beg where you like, of the caliph or the mufti, at the mosque or in the bazar." With these words the wicked man left the unfortunate youth. Said looked after him with loathing. He rebelled against the wickedness of this man, who had designedly taken him to his house so that he might have him in his power. He looked about to see if he could escape, but found the windows grated and the door locked. Finally, after his spirit had long revolted at the idea, he decided to accept the merchant's proposal for the present. He saw clearly that nothing better remained for him to do; for even if he were to run away, he could not reach Balsora without money. But he made up his mind to seek the caliph's protection as soon as possible. On the following day, Kalum-Bek led his new servant to his shop in the bazar. He showed Said the shawls, veils, and other wares in which he dealt, and instructed the youth in his strange duties. These required that Said, stripped of his soldierly costume and clad like a merchant's servant, should stand in the doorway of the shop, with a shawl in one hand and a splendid veil in the other, and cry out his wares to the passers-by, name the price, and invite the people to buy. And now, too it became evident to Said why Kalum-Bek had selected him for this business. The merchant was a short, ugly-looking man, and when he himself stood at the door and cried his wares, many of the neighbors, as well as the passersby, would make fun of his appearance, or the boys would tease him, while the women called him a scarecrow; but everybody was pleased with the appearance of young Said, who attracted customers by his graceful deportment and by his clever and tasteful way of exhibiting his shawls and veils. When Kalum-Bek saw that customers thronged to his shop since Said had taken his stand at the door, he became more friendly with the young man, gave him better things to eat than before, and was careful to keep him finely dressed. But Said was little touched by this display of mildness in his master; and the whole day long, and even in his dreams, tried to hit upon some means of returning to his native city. One day when the sales had been very large, and all the errand boys who delivered parcels at the houses were out on their rounds, a woman entered and made several purchases. She then wanted some one to carry her packages home. "I can send them all up to you in half an hour," said Kalum-Bek; "you will either have to wait that long or else take some outside porter." "Do you pretend to be a merchant and advise your customers to employ strange porters?" exclaimed the woman. "Might not such a fellow run off with my parcels in the crowd? And then whom should I look to? No, you are bound by the practice of the bazar to send my bundles home for me, and I insist on your doing it!" "But wait for just half an hour, worthy lady!" exclaimed the merchant excitedly. "All my errand boys have been sent out." "It's a poor shop that don't have errand boys constantly at hand," interrupted the angry woman. "But there stands one of your good-for-nothings now! Come, young fellow, take my parcel and follow after me." "Stop! Stop!" cried Kalum-Bek. "He is my signboard, my crier, my magnet! He cannot stir from the threshold!" "What's that!" exclaimed the old lady, thrusting her bundle under Said's arm without further parley. "It is a poor merchant that depends on such a useless clown for a sign, and those are miserable wares that cannot speak for themselves. Go, go, fellow; you shall earn a fee to-day." "Go then, in the name of Ariman and all evil spirits!" muttered Kalum-Bek to his magnet, "and see that you come right back; the old hag might give me a bad name all over the bazar if I refuse to comply with her demands." Said followed the woman, who hastened through the square and down the streets at a much quicker pace than one would have believed a woman of her age capable of. At last she stopped before a splendid house, and knocked; the folding doors flew open, and she ascended a marble stair-case, beckoning Said to follow. They came shortly to a high and wide salon, more magnificent than any Said had ever seen before. The old woman sank down exhausted on a cushion, motioned the young man to lay down his bundle, handed him a small silver coin, and bade him go. He had just reached the door, when a clear, musical voice called: "Said!" Surprised that any one there should know him, he looked around and saw, in place of the old woman, an elegant lady sitting on the cushion, surrounded by numerous slaves and maids. Said, mute with astonishment, crossed his arms and made a low obeisance. "Said, my dear boy," said the lady, "much as I deplore the misfortune that is the cause of your presence in Bagdad, yet this was the only place decided on by destiny where you might be released from the fate that would surely follow you if you left the homestead before your twentieth year. Said, have you still your whistle?" "Indeed I have," cried he joyfully, drawing out the golden chain, "and you perhaps are the kind fairy who gave me this token at my birth?" "I was the friend of your mother, and will be your friend also as long as you remain good. Alas! would that your father--unthinking man--had followed my counsel! You would then have been spared many sorrows." "Well, it had to come to pass!" replied Said. "But, most gracious fairy, harness a strong northeast wind to your carriage of clouds, and take me up with you, and drive me in a few minutes to my father in Balsora; I will wait there patiently until the six months are passed that close my nineteenth year." The fairy smiled. "You have a very proper mode of addressing us," answered she; "but, poor Said! it is not possible. I cannot do anything wonderful for you at present, because you left your homestead. Nor can I even free you from the power of the wretch, Kalum-Bek. He is under the protection of your worst enemy." "Then I have not only a kind female friend but a female enemy as well?" said Said. "I believe I have often experienced her influence. But at least you might assist me with your counsel. Had I not better go to the caliph and seek his protection? He is a wise man, and would protect me from Kalum-Bek." "Yes, Haroun is a wise man," replied the fairy; "but, sad to say, he is also only a mortal. He trusts his head chamberlain, Messour, as much as he does himself; and he is right in that, for he has tried Messour and found him true. But Messour trusts his friend Kalum-Bek as he does himself; and in that he is wrong, for Kalum is a bad man, even if he is a relative of Messour's. Kalum has a cunning head, and as soon as he had returned from his trip he made up a very pretty fable about you, which he confided to his cousin the chamberlain, who in turn told it to the caliph, so that you would not be very well received were you to go to the palace. But there are other ways and means of approaching him, and it is written on the stars that you shall experience his mercy." "That is really too bad," said Said, mournfully. "I must then serve for a long time yet as the servant of that scoundrel Kalum-Bek. But there is one favor, honored fairy, that is in your power to grant me. I have been educated to the use of arms, and my greatest delight is a tournament where there are some sharp contests with the lance, bow and blunt swords. Well, every week just such a tournament takes place in this city between the young men. But only people of the finest costume, and besides that only _free_ men will be allowed to enter the lists, and clerks in the bazar are particularly excluded. Now if you could arrange that I could have a horse, clothes and weapons every week, and that my face would not be easily recognizable----" "That is a wish befitting a noble young man," interrupted the fairy. "Your mother's father was the bravest man in Syria, and you seem to have inherited his spirit. Take notice of this house; you shall find here every week a horse, and two mounted attendants, weapons and clothes, and a lotion for your face that will completely disguise you. And now, Said, farewell! Be patient, wise and virtuous. In six months your whistle will sound, and Zulima's ear will be listening for its tone." The youth separated from his strange protectress with expressions of gratitude and esteem. He fixed the house and street clearly in his mind, and then went back to the bazar, which he reached just in the nick of time to save his master from a terrible beating. A great crowd was gathered before the shop, boys danced about the merchant and jeered at him, while their elders laughed. He stood just before the shop, trembling with suppressed rage, and sadly harassed--in one hand a shawl, in the other a veil. This singular scene was caused by a circumstance that had occurred during Said's absence. Kalum had taken the place of his handsome clerk at the door, but no one cared to buy of the ugly old man. Just then two men came to the bazar wishing to buy presents for their wives. They had gone up and down the bazar several times, looking in here and there, and Kalum-Bek, who had observed their actions for some time, thought he saw his chance, so he called out: "Here, gentlemen, here! What are you looking for? Beautiful veils, beautiful wares?" [Illustration] "Good sir," replied one of them, "your wares may do very well, but our wives are peculiar, and it has become the fashion in this city to buy veils only of the handsome clerk, Said. We have been looking for him this half-hour, but cannot find him; now if you can tell us where we will meet him, we will buy from you some other time." "Allah il Allah!" cried Kalum-Bek with a smirk. "The Prophet has led you to the right door. You wish to buy veils of the handsome Said? Good, just step inside; this is his place." One of the men laughed at Kalum's short and ugly figure, and his assertion that he was the handsome clerk; but the other, believing that Kalum was trying to make sport of him, did not remain long in his debt, but paid the merchant back in his own coin. Kalum-Bek was beside himself; he called his neighbors to witness that his was the only shop in the bazar that went by the name of "the shop of the handsome clerk;" but the neighbors, who envied him the run of custom he had enjoyed for some time, pretended not to know anything about the matter, and the two men then made an attack upon the old liar, as they called him. Kalum defended himself more with shrieks and curses than by the use of his fists, and thus attracted a large crowd before his shop. Half the city knew him to be a mean, avaricious old miser, nor did the bystanders grudge him the cuffs he received; and one of his assailants had just plucked the old man by the beard, when his arm was seized, and with a sudden jerk he was thrown to the ground with such violence that his turban fell off and his slippers flew to some distance. The crowd, which very likely would have been rejoiced to see Kalum-Bek well punished, grumbled loudly. The fallen man's companion looked around to see who it was that had ventured to throw his friend down; but when he saw a tall, strong youth, with flashing eyes and courageous mien, standing before him, he did not think it best to attack him, especially as Kalum regarding his rescue as a miracle, pointed to the young man and cried: "Now then! what would you have more? There he stands beyond a doubt, gentlemen; that is Said, the handsome clerk." The people standing about laughed, while the prostrate man got up shamefacedly, and limped off with his companion without buying either shawl or veil. "O you star of all clerks, you crown of the bazar!" cried Kalum, leading his clerk into the shop; "really, that is what I call being on hand at the right time, and the right kind of interference too. Why, the fellow was laid out as flat on the ground as if he had never stood on his legs, and I--I should have had no use for a barber again to comb and oil my beard, if you had arrived two minutes later! How can I reward you?" It had been only a momentary sensation of pity which had governed Said's hand and heart; but now that that feeling had passed, he regretted that he had saved this wicked man from a good chastisement. A dozen hairs from his beard, thought Said, would have kept him humble for twelve days. And now the young man thought best to make use of the favorable disposition of the merchant, and therefore asked to be given one evening in each week for a walk or for any other purpose he pleased. Kalum consented, knowing full well that his clerk was too sensible to run off without money or clothes. On the following Wednesday, the day on which the young men of the best families assembled in the public square in the city to go through their martial exercises. Said asked Kalum if he would let him have this evening for his own use; and on receiving the merchant's permission, he went to the fairy's house, knocked, and the door was immediately opened. The servants seemed to have prepared everything before his arrival; for without questioning him as to his desire, they led him upstairs to a beautiful room, and there handed him the lotion that was to disguise his features. He moistened his face with it, and then glanced into a metallic mirror; he hardly recognized himself, for he was now sunburnt, wore a handsome black beard, and looked to be at least ten years older than he really was. He was now conducted into a second room, where he found a complete and splendid costume, of which the Caliph of Bagdad need not have been ashamed, on the day when he reviewed his army in all his magnificence. Together with a turban of the finest texture, with a clasp of diamonds and a long heron's plume, Said found a coat of mail made of silver rings, so finely worked that it conformed to every movement of his body, and yet was so firm that neither lance nor sword could find a way through it. A Damascus blade in a richly ornamented sheath, and with a handle whose stones seemed to Said to be of priceless value, completed his warlike appearance. As he came to the door, armed at all points, one of the servants handed him a silk cloth and told him that the mistress of the house sent it to him, and that when he wiped his face with it, the beard and the complexion would disappear. In the court-yard stood three beautiful horses; Said mounted the finest, and his attendants the other two, and rode off with a light heart to the square where the contest was to be held. The splendor of his costume and the brightness of his weapons drew all eyes upon him, and a general buzz of astonishment followed his entrance into the ring. It was a brilliant assemblage of the bravest and noblest youths of Bagdad, where even the brothers of the caliph were seen flying about on their horses and swinging their lances. On Said's approach, as no one seemed to know him, the son of the grand vizier, with some of his friends, rode up to him, greeted him politely, and invited him to take part in their contests, at the same time inquiring his name and whence he came. Said represented to them that his name was Almansor, and he hailed from Cairo; that he had set out upon a journey, but having heard so much said about the skill and bravery of the young noblemen of Bagdad, he could not refrain from delaying his journey in order to get acquainted with them. The young men were highly pleased with the bearing and courageous appearance of Said-Almansor; handed him a lance, and had him select his opponent,--as the whole company were divided into two parties, in order that they might assault one another both singly and in groups. [Illustration] But the attention which had been attracted by Said was now concentrated upon the unusual skill and dexterity which he displayed in combat. His horse was swifter than a bird, while his sword whizzed about in still more rapid circles. He threw the lance at its mark as easily and with as much accuracy as if it had been an arrow shot from a bow. He conquered the bravest of the opposing force, and at the end of the tournament was so universally recognized as the victor, that one of the caliph's brothers and the son of the grand vizier, who had both fought on Said's side, requested the pleasure of breaking a lance with him. Ali, the caliph's brother, was soon conquered by Said; but the grand vizier's son withstood him so bravely that after a long contest they thought it best to postpone the decision until the next meeting. The day after the tournament, nothing was spoken of in Bagdad but the handsome, rich, and brave stranger. All who had seen him, even those over whom he had triumphed, were charmed by his well-bred manners. He even heard his own praises sounded in the shop of Kalum-Bek, and it was only deplored that no one knew where he lived. The next week, Said found at the house of the fairy a still finer costume and still more costly weapons. Half Bagdad had rushed to the square, while even the caliph looked on from a balcony; he, too, admired Almansor, and at the conclusion of the tournament he hung a large gold medal, attached to a gold chain, about the youth's neck, as a mark of his favor. It could not very well be otherwise than that this second and still more brilliant triumph of Said's should excite the envy of the young men of Bagdad. "Shall a stranger," said they to one another, "come here to Bagdad, and carry off all the laurels? He will now boast in other places that among the flower of Bagdad's youth there was not one who was a match for him." They therefore resolved, at the next tournament, to fall upon him, as if by chance, five or six at a time. These tokens of discontent did not escape Said's sharp eye. He noticed how the young men congregated at the street corners, whispered to one another, and pointed angrily at him. He suspected that none of them felt very friendly toward him, with the exception of the caliph's brother and the grand vizier's son, and even they rather annoyed him by their questions as to where they might call on him, how he occupied his time, what he found of interest in Bagdad, etc., etc. It was a singular coincidence that one of these young men, who surveyed Said-Almansor with the bitterest looks, was no other than the man whom Said had thrown down when the assault was made on Kalum-Bek a few weeks before, just as the man was about to tear out the unfortunate merchant's beard. This man looked at Said very attentively and spitefully. Said had conquered him several times in the tournament; but this would not account for such hostile looks, and Said began to fear lest his figure or his voice had betrayed him to this man as the clerk of Kalum-Bek--a discovery that would expose him to the sneers and anger of the people. The project which Said's foes attempted to carry out at the next tournament failed, not only by reason of Said's caution and bravery, but by the assistance he received from the caliph's brother and the grand vizier's son. When these two young men saw that Said was surrounded by five or six who sought to disarm or unseat him, they dashed up, chased away the conspirators, and threatened the men who had acted so treacherously with dismissal from the course. For more than four months, Said had excited the astonishment of Bagdad by his prowess, when one evening, on returning home from the tournament, he heard some voices which seemed familiar to him. Before him walked four men at a slow pace, apparently discussing some subject together. As Said approached nearer, he discovered that they were talking in the dialect which the men in Selim's tribe had used in the desert, and suspected that they were planning some robbery. His first thought was to draw back from these men; but when he reflected that he might be the means of preventing some great wrong, he stole up still nearer to listen to what they were saying. "The gate keeper expressly said it was the street to the right of the bazar," said one of the men; "he will certainly pass through it to-night, in company with the grand vizier." "Good!" added another. "I am not afraid of the grand vizier; he is old, and not much of a hero; but the caliph wields a good sword, and I wouldn't trust him; there would be ten or twelve of the body-guard stealing after him." "Not a soul!" responded a third. "Whenever he has been seen and recognized at night, he was always unattended except by the vizier or the head chamberlain. He will be ours to-night; but no harm must be done him." "I think," said the first speaker, "that the best plan would be to throw a noose over his head; we may not kill him, for it would be but a small ransom that they would pay for his body, and, more than that, we shouldn't be sure of receiving it." "An hour before midnight, then!" exclaimed they, and separated, one going this way, another that. Said was not a little horrified at this scheme. He resolved to hasten at once to the caliph's palace and warn him of the threatened danger. But after running through several streets, he remembered the caution that the fairy had given him--that the caliph had received a bad report about him. He reflected that his warning might be laughed at, or regarded as an attempt on his part to ingratiate himself with the Caliph of Bagdad; and so he concluded that it would be best to depend on his good sword, and rescue the caliph from the hands of the robbers himself. So he did not return to Kalum-Bek's house, but sat down on the steps of a mosque and waited there until night had set in. Then he went through the bazar and into the street mentioned by the robbers, and hid himself behind a projection of one of the houses. He might have stood there an hour, when he heard two men coming slowly down the street. At first he thought it must be the caliph and his grand vizier; but one of the men clapped his hands, and immediately two other men hurried very noiselessly up the street from the bazar. They whispered together for a while, and then separated; three hiding not far from Said, while the fourth paced up and down the street. The night was very dark, but still, so that Said had to depend almost entirely upon his acute sense of hearing. Another half-hour had passed, when footsteps were heard coming from the bazar. The robber must have heard them too, for he stole by Said towards the bazar. The steps came nearer, and Said was just able to make out some dark figures, when the robber clapped his hands, and, in the same moment, the three men waiting in ambush rushed out. The persons attacked must have been armed, for Said heard the ring of clashing swords. At once he drew his own Damascus blade, and sprang upon the robber's with the cry: "Down with the enemies of the great Haroun!" He struck one of them to the ground with the first blow, and turned upon two others, who were just in the act of disarming a man over whom they had thrown a rope. Said lifted the rope blindly in order to cut it, but in the effort to use his sword he struck one of the robber's arms such a blow, as to cut off his hand, and the robber fell to his knees with cries of pain. The fourth robber, who had been fighting with another man, now came towards Said, who was still engaged with the third, but the man who had been lassoed no sooner found himself free than he drew his dagger, and, from one side, plunged it into the breast of the advancing robber. When the remaining robber saw this, he threw away his sword and fled. Said did not remain long in doubt as to whom he had saved, for the taller of the two men said: "The one thing is as strange as the other; this attack upon my life or liberty, as the incomprehensible assistance and rescue. How did you know who I was? Did you know of the scheme of these robbers?" "Ruler of the Faithful," answered Said, "for I do not doubt that you are he, I walked down the street El Malek this evening behind some men, whose strange and mysterious dialect I had once learned. They spoke of taking you prisoner and of killing your vizier. As it was too late to warn you, I resolved to go to the place where they would lie in ambush for you, and give you my assistance." "Thank you," said Haroun; "but it is not best to remain long in this place; take this ring, and come in the morning to my palace; we will then talk over this affair, and see how I can best reward you. Come, vizier, it is best not to stop here; they might come back again." Thus saying, he placed a ring on Said's finger, and attempted to lead off the grand vizier, but the latter, begging him to wait a moment, turned and held out to the astonished Said a heavy purse: "Young man," said he, "my master, the caliph, can do anything for you that he feels inclined to do, even to making you my successor; but I myself can do but little, and that little had better be done to-day, rather than to-morrow. Therefore, take this purse. That does not, however, cancel my debt of gratitude; so whenever you have a wish, come in confidence to me." Overpowered with his good fortune, Said hurried home. But here he was not so well received. Kalum-Bek was at first angry at his long absence, and then anxious, for the merchant thought he might easily lose the handsome sign of his shop. Kalum therefore received him with abusive words, and raved like a madman. But Said--who had taken a look into his purse and found it filled with gold pieces, and reflected that he could now travel home, even without the caliph's favor, which was certainly not worth less than the gratitude of his vizier--declared roundly that he would not remain in his service another hour. At first Kalum was very much frightened by this declaration; but shortly he laughed sneeringly and said: "You loafer and vagabond! You miserable creature! Where would you run to, if I were to give up supporting you? Where would you get a dinner or a lodging?" "You need not trouble yourself about that, Mr. Kalum-Bek," answered Said audaciously. "Farewell; you will never see me again!" With these words, Said left the house, while Kalum-Bek looked after him speechless with astonishment. The following morning, however, after thinking over the matter well, he sent out his errand boys, and had the runaway sought for every-where. For a long time their search was a vain one; but finally one of the boys came back and reported that he had seen Said come out of a mosque and go into a caravansary. He was, however, much changed, wore a beautiful costume, a dagger sword, and splendid turban. When Kalum-Bek heard this, he shouted with an oath: "He has stolen from me, and bought clothes with the money. Oh, I am a ruined man!" Then he ran to the chief of police, and as he was known to be a relative of Messour, the head chamberlain, he had no difficulty in having two policemen sent out to arrest Said. Said sat before a caravansary, conversing quietly with a merchant whom he had found there, about a journey to Balsora, his native city, when suddenly he was seized by some men, and his hands tied behind his back before he could offer any resistance. He asked them whose authority they were acting under, and they replied that they were obeying the orders of the chief of police, on complaint of his rightful master, Kalum-Bek. The ugly little merchant then came up, abused and jeered at Said, felt in the young man's pocket, and to the astonishment of the bystanders, and with a shout of triumph, drew out a large purse filled with gold. "Look! He has robbed me of all that, the wicked fellow!" cried he, and the people looked with abhorrence at the prisoner, saying: "What! so young, so handsome, and yet so wicked! To the court, to the court, that he may get the bastinado!" Thus they dragged him away, while a large procession of people of all ranks followed in their wake, shouting: "See, that is the handsome clerk of the bazar; he stole from his master and ran away; he took two hundred gold pieces!" The chief of police received the prisoner with a dark look. Said tried to speak, but the official told him to be still, and listened only to the little merchant. He held up the purse, and asked Kalum whether this gold had been stolen from him. Kalum-Bek swore that it had; but his perjury, while it gained him the gold, did not help to restore to him his clerk, who was worth a thousand gold pieces to him, for the judge said: "In accordance with a law that my all-powerful master, the caliph, has recently made, every theft of over a hundred gold pieces that transpires in the bazar, is punished with banishment for life to a desert island. This thief comes at just the right time; he makes the twentieth of his class, and so completes the lot; to-morrow they will be put on a vessel and taken out to sea." Said was in despair. He besought the officers to listen to him, to let him speak only one word with the caliph; but he found no mercy. Kalum-Bek, who now repented of his oath, also pleaded for him, but the judge said: "You have your gold back, and should be contented; go home and keep quiet, or I will fine you ten gold pieces for every contradiction." Kalum quieted down; the judge made a sign, and the unfortunate Said was led away. He was taken to a dark and damp dungeon, where nineteen poor wretches, scattered about on straw, received him as their companion in misfortune, with wild laughter and curses on the judge and caliph. Terrible as was the fate before him, fearful as was the thought of being banished to a desert island, he still found consolation in the thought that the morrow would take him out of this horrible prison. But he was very greatly in error in supposing that his situation would be bettered on the ship. The twenty men were thrown into the hold, where they could not stand upright, and there they fought among themselves for the best places. The anchor was weighed, and Said wept bitter tears as the ship that was to bear him far away from his fatherland began to move. They received bread and fruits, and a drink of sweetened water, but once a day: and it was so dark in the ship's hold, that lights always had to be brought down when the prisoners were to be fed. Every two or three days one of their number was found dead, so unwholesome was the air in this floating prison, and Said's life was preserved only by his youth and his splendid health. They had been on the sea for fourteen days, when one day the waves roared more violently than ever, and there was much running to and fro on the deck. Said suspected that a storm was at hand, and he welcomed the prospect of one, hoping that then he might be released by death. The ship began to pitch about, and finally struck on a ledge with a terrible crash. Cries and groans were heard on the deck, intermingled with the roar of the storm. At last all was still again; but at the same time one of the prisoners discovered that the water was pouring into the ship. They pounded on the hatch-door, but could get no answer; and as the water poured in more and more rapidly, they united their strength and managed to break the hatch open. They ascended the steps, but found not a soul on board. The whole crew had taken to the boats. Most of the prisoners were in despair, for the storm increased in fury, the ship cracked and settled down on the ledge. For some hours they sat on the deck and partook of their last repast from the provisions they found in the ship, then the storm began to rage again, the ship was torn from the ledge on which it had been held, and broken up. Said had climbed the mast, and held fast to it when the ship went to pieces. The waves tossed him about, but he kept his head up by paddling with his feet. Thus he floated about, in ever-increasing danger, for half an hour, when the chain with whistle attached once again fell out of his bosom, and once more he tried to make it sound. With one hand he held fast to the mast, and with the other put the whistle to his lips, blew, and a clear musical tone was the result. Instantly the storm ceased, and the waves became as smooth as if oil had been poured on them. He had hardly looked about him, with an easier breath, to see whether he could discern land, when the mast beneath him began to expand in a very singular manner, and to move as well; and, not a little to his terror, he perceived that he was no longer riding on a wooden mast, but upon the back of an enormous dolphin. But after a few moments his courage returned; and as he saw that the dolphin swam along on his course quietly and easily, although swiftly, he ascribed his wonderful rescue to the silver whistle and to the kind fairy, and shouted his most earnest thanks into the air. [Illustration] His wonderful horse carried him through the waves with the speed of an arrow; and before night he saw land, and also a broad river, into which the dolphin turned. Up stream it went more slowly, and, that he might not starve, Said, who remembered from old stories of enchantment how one should work a charm, took out the whistle again, blew it loudly and heartily, and wished that he had a good meal. The dolphin stopped instantly, and out of the water rose a table, as little wet as if it had stood in the sun for eight days, and richly furnished with the finest dishes. Said attacked the food like a famished person, for his rations during his imprisonment were scant and of miserable quality; and when he had eaten to his fill, he expressed his thanks; the table sank down again, while he jogged the dolphin in the side, and the fish at once responded by continuing on its course up stream. The sun was setting when Said perceived in the dim distance a large city, whose minarets seemed to bear a resemblance to those of Bagdad. This discovery was not a pleasant one; but his confidence in the kind fairy was so great that he felt sure she would not permit him to fall again into the clutches of the unscrupulous Kalum-Bek. To one side, about three miles distant from the city, and close to the river, he noticed a magnificent country house, and, to his astonishment, the fish seemed to be making directly towards this house. Upon the roof of the house stood a group of handsomely dressed men, and on the bank of the river Said saw a large crowd of servants, who were looking at him in wonder. The dolphin stopped at some marble steps that led up to the house, and hardly had Said put foot on the steps when the dolphin disappeared. A number of servants now ran down the steps, and requested him in the name of their master to come up to the house, at the same time offering him a suit of dry clothes. Said dressed himself quickly, and followed the servants to the roof, where he found three men, of whom the tallest and handsomest came forward to meet him in a pleasant manner. "Who are you, wonderful stranger," said he, "you who tame the fishes of the sea, and guide them to the right and left, as the best horseman governs his steed. Are you a sorcerer, or a being like us?" "Sir," replied Said, "things have gone very badly with me for the last few weeks; but if it will please you to hear me, I will relate my story." Then he told the three men all of his adventures, from the moment of leaving his father's house up to his wonderful rescue from the sea. He was often interrupted by their expressions of astonishment; and when he had ended, the master of the house, who had received him in so kind a manner, said: "I trust your words, Said; but you tell us that you won a medal in the tournament, and that the caliph gave you a ring; can you show them to us?" "I have preserved them both upon my heart," said the youth, "and would sooner have parted with my life than with these precious gifts, for I esteem it my most valiant and meritorious deed that I freed the caliph from the hands of his would-be murderers." So saying, he drew from his bosom the medal and ring, and handed them to the men. "By the beard of the Prophet! It is he! It is my ring!" cried the tall, handsome man. "Grand vizier, let us embrace him, for here stands our savior." To Said it was like a dream. The two men embraced him, and Said, prostrating himself, said: "Pardon me, Ruler of the Faithful, that I have spoken so freely before you, for you can be no other than Haroun-al-Raschid, the great Caliph of Bagdad." "I am he, and your friend," replied Haroun; "and from this hour forth, all your sad misfortunes are at an end. Follow me to Bagdad, remain in my dominion, and become one of my most trustworthy officers; for you have shown you were not indifferent to Haroun's fate, though I should not like to put all of my faithful servants to such a severe test." Said thanked the caliph, and promised to remain with him,--first requesting permission to make a visit to his father, who must be suffering much anxiety on his account; and the caliph thought this just and commendable. They then mounted horses, and were soon in Bagdad. The caliph showed Said a long suite of splendidly decorated rooms that he should have, and, more than that, promised to build a house for his own use. At the first information of this event, the old brothers-in-arms of Said's--the grand vizier's son and the caliph's brother--hastened to the palace and embraced Said as the deliverer of their noble caliph, and begged him to become their friend. But they were speechless with astonishment when Said, drawing forth the prize medal, said: "I have been your friend for a long time." They had only seen him with his false beard and dark skin; and when he had related how and why he had disguised himself--when he had the blunt weapons brought to prove his story, fought with them, and thus gave them the best proof that he was the brave Almansor--then did they embrace him with joyful exclamations, considering themselves fortunate in having such a friend. The following day, as Said was sitting with the caliph and grand vizier, Messour, the chamberlain, came in and said: "Ruler of the Faithful, if there is no objection, I would like to ask a favor of you." "I will hear it first," answered Haroun. "My dear first-cousin, Kalum-Bek, a prominent merchant of the bazar, stands without," said Messour. "He has had a singular transaction with a man from Balsora, whose son once worked for Kalum-Bek, but who afterward stole from him and then ran away, no one knows whither. Now the father of this youth comes and demands his son of Kalum, who hasn't him. Kalum therefore begs that you will do him the favor of deciding between him and this man, by the exercise of your profound wisdom." "I will judge in the matter," replied the caliph. "In half an hour your cousin and his opponent may enter the hall of justice." When Messour had expressed his gratitude and gone out, Haroun said: "That must be your father. Said; and now that I am so fortunate as to know your story, I shall judge with the wisdom of Salomo. Conceal yourself, Said, behind the curtain of my throne; and you, grand vizier, send at once for that wicked police justice. I shall want his testimony in this case." Both did as the caliph ordered. Said's heart beat fast as he saw his father, pale and stricken with grief, enter the hall of justice with tottering steps; while Kalum-Bek's smile of assurance, as he whispered to his cousin, made Said so furious that he had difficulty in refraining from rushing at him from his place of concealment, as his greatest sufferings and sorrows had been caused by this cruel man. There were many people in the hall, all of whom were anxious to hear the caliph speak. As soon as the Ruler of Bagdad had ascended the throne, the grand vizier commanded silence, and asked who appeared as complainant before his master. Kalum-Bek approached with an impudent air, and said: "A few days ago I was standing before the door of my shop in the bazar, when a crier, with a purse in his hand, and with this man walking near him, went among the booths, shouting: 'A purse of gold to him who can give any information about Said of Balsora.' This Said had been in my service, and therefore I cried: 'This way, friend! I can win that purse.' This man, who is now so hostile to me, came up in a friendly way and asked me what information I possessed. I answered: 'You must be Benezar, Said's father.' and when he affirmed that he was, I told him how I had found the young fellow in the desert, rescued him and restored him to health, and brought him back with me to Bagdad. In the joy of his heart he gave me the purse. But when now this unreasonable man heard, as I went on to tell him, how his son had worked for me, had been guilty of very wicked acts, had stolen from me and then run away, he would not believe it, and quarrelled with me for several days, demanding his son and his money back; and I can not return them both, for the gold is mine as compensation for the news I furnished him, and I can not produce his ungrateful son." It was now Benezar's turn to speak. He described his son, how noble and good he was, and the impossibility of his ever having become so degraded as to steal. He requested the caliph to make the most thorough examination of the case. "I hope," said Haroun, "that you reported the theft, Kalum-Bek, as was your duty?" "Why, certainly!" exclaimed that worthy, smiling. "I took him before the police justice." "Let the police justice be brought!" ordered the caliph. To every body's astonishment, this official appeared as suddenly as if brought by magic. The caliph asked whether he remembered that Kalum-Bek had come before him with a young man, and the official replied that he did. "Did you listen to the young man; did he confess to the theft?" asked Haroun. "No, he was actually so obstinate that he would not confess to any one but yourself," replied the justice. "But I don't remember to have seen him," said the caliph. "But why should you? If I were to listen to them, I should have a whole pack of such vagabonds to send you every day." "You know that my ear is open for every one," replied Haroun; "but perhaps the proofs of the theft were so clear that it was not necessary to bring the young man into my presence. You had witnesses, I suppose, Kalum, that the money found on this young man belonged to you?" "Witnesses?" repeated Kalum, turning pale; "no, I did not have any witnesses, for you know, Ruler of the Faithful, that one gold piece looks just like another. Where, then, should I get witnesses to testify that these one hundred gold pieces are the same that were missing from my cash-box." "How, then, can you tell that that particular money belonged to you?" asked the caliph. "By the purse," replied Kalum. "Have you the purse here?" continued the caliph. "Here it is," said the merchant, drawing out a purse which he handed to the vizier to give to the caliph. But the vizier cried with feigned surprise: "By the beard of the Prophet! Do you claim the purse, you dog? Why it is my own purse, and I gave it filled with a hundred gold pieces, to a brave young man who rescued me from a great danger." "Can you swear to that?" asked the caliph. "As surely as that I shall some time be in paradise," answered the vizier, "for my daughter made the purse with her own hands." "Why, look you then, police Justice!" cried Haroun, "you were falsely advised. Why did you believe that the purse belonged to this merchant?" "He swore to it," replied the justice, humbly. "Then you swore falsely?" thundered the caliph, as the merchant, pale and trembling, stood before him. "Allah, Allah!" cried Kalum. "I certainly don't want to dispute the grand vizier's word; he is a truthful man, but alas! the purse does belong to me and that rascal of a Said stole it. I would give a thousand tomans if he was in this room now." "What did you do with this Said?" asked the caliph. "Speak up! where shall we have to send for him, that he may come and make confession before me?" "I banished him to a desert island," said the police justice. "O Said! my son, my son!" cried the unhappy father. "Indeed, then he acknowledged the crime, did he?" inquired Haroun. The police justice turned pale. He rolled his eyes about restlessly, and finally said: "If I remember rightly--yes." "You are not certain about it, then?" continued the caliph in a terrible voice; "then we will ask the young man himself. Step forth, Said, and you Kalum-Bek, to begin with, will count out one thousand gold pieces, as Said is now in the room." Kalum and the police justice thought it was a ghost that stood before them. They prostrated themselves and cried: "Mercy! Mercy!" Benezar, half-fainting with joy, fell into the arms of his long-lost son. But, with great severity of manner, the caliph said: "Police Justice, here stands Said; did he confess?" "No," whined the justice; "I listened only to Kalum's testimony, because he was a respectable man." "Did I place you as a judge over all that you might listen only to the people of rank?" demanded Haroun-al-Raschid, with noble scorn. "I will banish you for ten years to a desert island in the middle of the sea; there you can reflect on justice. And you, miserable wretch, who bring the dying back to life, not in order to rescue them, but to make them your slaves--you will pay down, as I said before, the thousand tomans that you promised if Said were only present to be called as witness." Kalum congratulated himself at having got out of a very bad scrape so easily, and was just going to thank the kind caliph, when Haroun continued: "For the perjury you committed about the hundred gold pieces, you will receive a hundred lashes on the soles of your feet. Further than this Said will have the choice of taking your shop and its contents and you as a porter, or of contenting himself with ten gold pieces for every day's work he did for you." "Let the wretch go, Caliph!" cried the youth; "I would not take anything that ever belonged to him." "No," replied Haroun, "I prefer that you should be compensated. I will choose for you the ten gold pieces a day, and you can reckon up how many days you were in his claws. Away with this wretch!" The two offenders were led away, and the caliph conducted Benezar and Said to another apartment, where he related to Benezar his rescue by Said, interrupted by the shrieks of Kalum-Bek, upon the soles of whose feet a hundred gold pieces of full weight were being counted out. The caliph invited Benezar to come to Bagdad and live with him and Said. Benezar consented, and made only one more journey home in order to fetch his large possessions. Said lived in the palace which the grateful caliph built for him, like a prince. The caliph's brother and grand vizier's son were his constant companions; and it soon became a proverb in Bagdad: "I would that I were as good and as fortunate as Said, the son of Benezar." "I could keep awake for two or three nights without experiencing the least sensation of sleepiness, with such entertainment," said the compass-maker, when the huntsman had concluded. "And I have often proved the truth of what I say. I was once apprentice to a bell-founder. The master was a rich man and no miser, and therefore our wonder was all the more aroused on a certain occasion, when we had a big job on hand, by a display of parsimony on his part. A bell was being cast for a new church, and we apprentices had to sit up all night and keep the fire up. We did not doubt that the master would tap a cask of the best wine for us. But we were mistaken. He began to talk about his travels, and to tell all manner of stories of his life; then the head apprentice's turn came, and so on through the whole row of us, and none of us got sleepy, so intent were we all in listening. Before we knew it, day was at hand. Then we perceived the master's stratagem of keeping us awake by telling stories; for when the bell was done he did not spare his wine, but brought out what he had wisely saved on those nights." "He was a sensible man," said the student. "There is no remedy for sleepiness like conversation. And I should not have cared to sit alone to-night, for about eleven o'clock I should have succumbed to sleep." "The peasantry have found that out also," said the huntsman. "In the long Winter evenings the women and girls do not remain alone at home to spin, lest they should fall asleep in the middle of their task; but a large number of them meet together, in a well-lighted room, and tell stories over their work." "Yes," added the wagoner, "and their stories are often of a kind to make one shudder, for they talk about ghosts that walk the earth, goblins that create a hubbub in their rooms at night, and spirits that torment men and cattle." "They don't entertain themselves very well then, I fear," said the student. "For my part, I confess that there is nothing so displeasing to me as ghost stories." "I don't agree with you at all," cried the compass-maker. "I find a story that causes one to shudder very entertaining. It is just like a rain-storm when one is sheltered under the roof. He hears the drops _tick-tack_, _tick-tack_, on the tiles, and then run off in streams, while he lies warm and dry in bed. So when one listens to ghost stories in a lighted room, with plenty of company, he feels safe and at ease." "But how is it afterwards?" asked the student. "When one has listened who shares in this silly belief in ghosts, will he not tremble when he is alone again and in the dark? Will he not recall all the horrible things he has heard? I can even now work myself into quite a rage over these ghost stories, when I think of my childhood. I was a cheerful, lively boy, but perhaps somewhat noisier than was agreeable to my nurse, who could not think of any other means to quiet me than of giving me a fright. She told me all sorts of horrible stories about witches and evil spirits who haunted the house. I was too young then to know that all these stories were untrue. I was not afraid of the largest hound, could throw every one of my companions; but whenever I was alone in the dark, I would shut my eyes in terror. I would not go outside the door alone after dark without a light; and how often did my father punish me when he noticed my conduct! But for a long time I could not free my mind from this childish fear, for which my foolish nurse was wholly to blame." "Yes, it is a great mistake," observed the huntsman, "to fill a child's head with such absurdities. I can answer you that I have known brave, daring men, huntsmen, who did not fear to encounter several of their foes at once--who, when they were searching for game at night, or on the lookout for poachers, would, all of a sudden, lose their courage, taking a tree for a ghost, a bush for a witch, and a pair of fire-flies for the eyes of a monster that was lurking for them in the dark." "And it is not only for children," said the student, "that I hold entertainment of that kind to be in the highest degree hurtful and foolish, but for every body; for what intelligent person could amuse himself with the doings and sayings of things that exist only in the brain of a fool? There is where the ghost walks, and nowhere else. But these stories do the most harm among the country people. Their faith in absurdities of this kind is firm and unwavering, and this belief is nourished in the inns and spinning rooms, where they huddle close together and in a timid tone relate the most horrible stories they can call to mind." "Yes," responded the wagoner; "many a misfortune has occurred through these stories, and, indeed, my own sister lost her life thereby." "How was that? Through these ghost stories, did you say?" exclaimed the men, in surprise. "Yes, certainly, by such stories," continued the wagoner. "In the village where our father lived it was the custom for the wives and maidens to get together with their spinning on a Winter's evening. The young men would also be there and tell many stories. So it happened that one evening when they were speaking about ghosts, the young men told about an old store-keeper who died ten years before, but found no rest in his grave. Every night he would throw up the earth, rise from his grave, steal slowly along to his store, coughing as was his wont in life, and there weigh out sugar and coffee, mumbling meanwhile: "Twelve ounces, twelve ounces, at dark midnight, Equal sixteen, in broad daylight. "Many claimed that they had seen him, and the maids and wives got quite frightened. But my sister, a girl of sixteen, wishing to show that she was less foolish than the others, said: 'I don't believe a word of that; he who is once dead never comes back!' She said this, unfortunately, without a conviction of its truth, for she had been frightened many times herself. Thereupon one of the young people said: 'If you believe that, then you would have no reason to be afraid of him; his grave is only two paces from that of Kate's, who recently died. If you dare, go to the church-yard, pick a flower from Kate's grave, and bring it to us; then we will begin to believe that you are not afraid of the store-keeper's ghost. My sister was ashamed of being laughed at by the others, therefore she said: 'Oh, that's easy enough; what kind of a flower do you want?' 'The only white rose in the village blooms there; so bring us a bunch of those,' answered one of her friends. She got up and went out, and all the men praised her spirit; but the women shook their heads and said: 'If it only ends well!' My sister passed on to the cemetery; the moon shone brightly, but she began to tremble as the clock struck twelve while she was opening the church-yard gate. She clambered over many mounds which she knew, and her heart beat faster and faster the nearer she came to Kate's white rose bush and the ghostly store-keeper's grave. At last she reached it, and kneeled down, trembling with fear, to pluck some roses. Just then she thought she heard a noise close by; she turned around, and saw the earth flying out of a grave two steps away from her, and a form straightened itself up slowly in the grave. It was that of an old, pale-faced man, with a white night-cap on his head. My sister was greatly frightened; she turned to look once more to make sure that she had seen aright; but when the man in the grave began to say, in a nasal tone: 'Good evening, Miss! where do you come from so late?' she was seized with a deathly terror, and collecting all her strength, she sprang over the graves, ran to the house she had just left, and breathlessly related what she had seen; then she became so weak that she had to be carried home. Of what use was it that we found out the next day that it was the grave-digger who was making a grave there, and who had spoken to my poor sister? Before she could comprehend this she had fallen into a high fever, of which she died three days afterwards. She had gathered the roses for her own burial wreath." A tear dropped from the wagoner's eye as he concluded, while the others regarded him with sympathy. "So the poor child died in this implicit faith," said the young goldsmith. "I recollect a legend in that connection, which I should like to tell you, and that unfortunately is connected with such a tragedy." THE CAVE OF STEENFOLL. A SCOTTISH LEGEND. On one of Scotland's rocky islands, there dwelt many years ago, two fishermen, who lived in complete harmony. Both were unmarried; neither of them had any relatives living; and their common labor, although differently directed, sufficed to support them both. They were of about the same age, but in person and disposition they resembled each other as little as do an eagle and a sea-calf. Kaspar Strumpf was a short, stout man, with a broad, fat, full-moon face, and good-natured, laughing eyes, to which sorrow and care appeared to be strangers. He was not only fat, but sleepy and lazy as well; and therefore the house work, cooking and baking, and repairing of nets for the capture of fish for their own table and for the market, devolved on him, as well as a large part of the cultivation of the small field attached to their cabin. Quite the opposite was his companion--tall and lank, with Roman nose and keen eyes; he was known as the most industrious and luckiest fisherman, the most daring cliff-climber after birds and down, the hardest field worker, on the whole island. Besides all this, he was considered the keenest trader on the Kirkwall market; but as his wares were good, and his transactions above reproach, every one dealt willingly with him. Thus William Falcon and Kaspar Strumpf--with whom the former, avaricious as he was, freely divided his hardly-earned gains--not only made a good living, but were in a fair way of acquiring a certain degree of wealth. But a competence would not satisfy Falcon's covetous soul; he wanted to be rich, extremely rich, and as he had already found out that riches accumulate but slowly in the usual course of industry, he at last settled into the conviction that he should have to attain his riches through some extraordinary stroke of fortune. When this idea had once taken possession of his mind, there was no room left for any thing else, and he began to talk this shadowy windfall over with Kaspar Strumpf, as though it had already come to pass. Kaspar, who received everything that Falcon said as scripture, repeated all this to his neighbors: and so the report was spread abroad that William Falcon had either sold his soul to the evil one, or had at least received an offer for it from the prince of the infernal regions. At first, these reports caused much amusement to Falcon; but gradually he began to entertain the notion that a spirit might sometime reveal a treasure to him, and he no longer contradicted his acquaintances when they twitted him on the subject. He continued his usual occupations, but with far less zeal than before, and often consumed a great part of the time, that he had formerly passed in fishing or other useful avocations, in idle search for some kind of an adventure by which he should suddenly become rich. To still further complete this unfortunate tendency of his mind, it happened that as he was standing one day on the lonely sea-shore, looking out on the restless sea as if he were expecting his good fortune would come from thence, a large wave rolled a yellow ball to his feet amongst a mass of moss and loosened stone--a ball of gold! Falcon stood as if bewitched. His hopes, then, had not been unsubstantial dreams; the sea had given him gold, beautiful shining gold, the fragment probably of a heavy bar of gold which the sea had rolled on its bottom into the size and shape of a musket ball. And now it was clear to his mind that somewhere on this coast there must have been a treasure ship wrecked, and that he had been selected as the chosen one to raise this buried treasure from the sea. From this time forth, this search for treasure became the passion of his life. He strove to conceal the golden nugget even from his friend, so that others might not discover his purpose. He neglected everything else, and spent his days and nights on this coast, not casting his net for fishes, but throwing out a scoop, that he had specially prepared for the purpose, for gold. But he found poverty instead of wealth; for he earned nothing now himself, and Kaspar's sleepy efforts would not support them both. In the search for the larger mass of gold, not only the nugget was used up, but the entire property of the two men as well. But as Strumpf had formerly received the largest part of his living by Falcon's efforts, taking it all as a matter of course, so now he looked on the profitless undertaking of his friend silently and without a murmur; and it was just this meek forbearance on the part of his friend that spurred Falcon on to continue his restless search for wealth. But what made him still more active in his search was, that as often as he laid down to rest and closed his eyes in sleep, a word was sounded in his ear that he seemed to have heard very plainly, and that always appeared to be the same word, and yet he could never recall it. To be sure, he did not see what connection this circumstance, singular as it was, might have with his present purpose; but upon a spirit like William Falcon's everything made an impression, and even this mysterious whisper helped to strengthen his belief that great good luck was in store for him, which he expected to find only in a heap of gold. One day he was surprised by a storm on the shore in the same place where he had found the nugget, and he was forced to take refuge from its fury in a cave near by. This cave, which the inhabitants called the cave of Steenfoll, consists of a long underground passage opening on the sea, with two entrances, and permitting a free passage of the waves that were continually foaming through them with a loud roar. This cave could be entered only from one place--through a fissure from above, that was but seldom approached except by venturesome boys, as in addition to the natural dangers of the spot, the cavern was reported to be haunted. Falcon let himself down through this opening with some difficulty, for about twelve feet, and took a seat on a projecting piece of rock beneath an overhanging ledge, where, with the roaring waves beneath his feet and the raging storm above his head, he fell into his usual train of thought about the wrecked ship and what kind of a ship it might have been; for in spite of all his inquiries, he could not obtain any information of a vessel having been wrecked on this spot, even from the oldest inhabitants. How long he sat thus he did not know himself; but when he finally awoke from his reveries, he found that the storm was over, and he was about to clamber up again, when a voice from out of the depths pronounced the word "_Car-milhan_" very distinctly. He climbed up to the top again, and looked down into the abyss once more in great terror. "Great Heavens!" exclaimed he, "that is the word that disturbs my sleep! What does it mean?" "_Carmilhan!_" was the sighing response that came once more from the cave; and he fled to his hut like a frightened deer. Falcon was no coward; his fright was more from surprise than fear; and, more than this, the greed for gold was too powerful in him to allow of his being easily driven from his dangerous path. Once, as he was fishing with his scoop for treasure by moonlight, opposite the cave of Steenfoll, his scoop caught on something. He pulled with all his strength, but the mass was immovable. In the meantime the wind had risen, dark clouds overcast the sky, the boat rocked and threatened to turn over; but Falcon did not lose his presence of mind; he pulled and pulled at his scoop until the resistance ceased, and as he felt no weight he concluded that his rope had broken. But just as the clouds were about to obscure the moon's light, a round, black mass appeared on the surface of the water, and the word that haunted him, "_Carmilhan_," was spoken. He made a quick effort to seize the object; but as soon as he stretched out his arm it disappeared in the darkness, and the coming storm forced him to seek protection under the rocks near by. Here, overcome by exhaustion, he fell asleep, only to be tormented in dreams by an unbridled imagination, and to suffer anew the pangs experienced in his waking hours, caused by his restless search for wealth. When Falcon waked, the first rays of the rising sun fell upon the bosom of the sea, as smooth now as a mirror. He was just about to set out on his accustomed work, when he saw something coming towards him from the distance. He soon recognized it as a boat. Within it sat a human figure; but what aroused his greatest astonishment was that the vessel came on without the aid of sail or oar, and its prow pointed for land without the person sitting in the boat paying any attention to the rudder, if there were one. The boat came nearer, and finally stopped near William's boat. Its occupant proved to be a little dried-up old man, dressed in yellow linen, and wearing a red peaked night-cap. His eyes were closed, and he sat as motionless as a mummy. After vainly shouting at him and jarring the boat. Falcon was in the act of making a line fast to the boat to tow it off, when the little man opened his eyes, and began to bestir himself in such a manner as to fill even the bold fisherman's mind with dread. "Where am I?" asked he in Dutch, after a deep sigh. Falcon who had learned something of that language from the Dutch herring-fishermen, told him the name of the island, and inquired who he was and what errand brought him here. "I have come to look for the _Carmilhan_." "The _Carmilhan_? for Heaven's sake, what is that?" cried the curious fisherman. "I won't give an answer to questions addressed to me in such a manner," replied the little man. "Well then," shouted Falcon, "what is the _Carmilhan_?" "The _Carmilhan_ is nothing now; but once it was a beautiful ship, carrying more gold than ever a vessel carried before." "Where was it wrecked, and when?" "It was a hundred years ago; where, I do not know exactly. I come to search for the spot and recover the lost gold; if you will help me we will divide what we find." "With my whole heart; only tell me what I must do." "What you will have to do requires courage. You must go just before midnight to the wildest and loneliest region on the island, leading a cow, which you must slaughter there, and get some one to wrap you up in the cow's fresh hide. Your companion must then lay you down and leave you alone, and before it strikes one o'clock you will know where the treasures of the _Carmilhan_ lies." "It was in just such a way that old Engrol was destroyed, body and soul!" cried Falcon, with horror. "You are the evil one himself," continued he as he rowed quickly away. "Go back to hell! I won't have anything to do with you." The little man gnashed his teeth, and cursed him; but Falcon, who had seized both oars, was soon out of hearing, and on turning round a rocky promontory was out of sight as well. But the discovery that the evil one was taking advantage of his avarice by seeking to ensnare him with gold, did not open the eyes of the blinded fisherman, but on the contrary he determined to make use of the information the little man had given him, without putting himself in the power of the evil one. So while he continued to fish for gold on the desolate coast, he neglected the prosperity offered by large schools of fish off other parts of the coast as well as all other expedients to which he had once turned his attention, and sank with his companion into deeper poverty from day to day, until the common necessaries of life began to fail them. But although this ruin might be wholly ascribed to Falcon's obstinacy and cupidity, and the maintenance of both had fallen on Kaspar Strumpf alone, yet the latter never once reproached his companion, but on the other hand continued to display the same subjection to him, and the same confidence in his superior understanding, as at the time when everyone of his undertakings was successful. This circumstance increased Falcon's sorrows not a little, but drove him into a still keener search for gold, hoping thereby soon to be able to indemnify his companion for so great forbearance. The word _Carmilhan_ still haunted him in his sleep. In short, need, disappointed hopes, and avarice, drove him finally into a species of insanity, so that he really resolved to do that which the little man had advised--although knowing that, as the legend ran, he thereby gave himself up to the powers of darkness. Kaspar's objections were all in vain. Falcon became the more determined, the more Kaspar besought him to give up his desperate purpose; and finally the good, weak-minded fellow consented to accompany him and assist him in carrying out his plan. The hearts of both men were saddened, as they tied a rope to the horns of a beautiful cow that they had owned since she was a calf, and that was now their last piece of property; they had often refused to sell her before, because they could not bear the thought of letting her go into strange hands. But the evil spirit that now controlled Falcon's actions triumphed over his better nature; nor did Kaspar know how to restrain him in anything. It was now September, and the long nights of the Scottish Winter had already begun. The night clouds were driven along before the raw night wind, and were banked up in masses like icebergs. Deep shadows filled the ravines between the mountains and the peat-bogs, and the troubled channels of the streams appeared black and fearful. Falcon led the way and Strumpf followed, shuddering at his own boldness. Tears filled Kaspar's eyes as often as he looked at the poor creature that was going so unconsciously and trustfully to its death, to be dealt it by the hand that had always fed and caressed it. With much difficulty they entered a narrow marshy valley, which was here and there strewn with rocks, with patches of moss and heathers, and was shut in by a chain of wild mountains whose outlines were lost in a gray mist, and whose steep sides had seldom been ascended by a human foot. They approached a large rock in the centre of the valley over the shaking bog, from which a frightened eagle flew screaming into the sky. The poor cow lowed, as if aware of the terrors of the place and the fate that awaited her. Kaspar turned aside to wipe away the fast falling tears. He looked down to the rocky opening through which they had come, from which point could be heard the breakers on the distant coast, and then up to the mountain peaks, upon which a coal-black cloud had settled, from which might be heard from time to time dull mutterings of thunder. As he looked toward Falcon he found that his friend had made the cow fast to the rock, and now stood with uplifted ax in the very act of dealing her death blow. This was too much for Kaspar. Wringing his hands, he fell upon his knees. "For God's sake, William Falcon!" shouted he in despairing tones, "save yourself! Spare the cow! Save yourself and me! Save your soul! Save your life! And if you will persist in tempting God, wait at least until to-morrow and sacrifice some other animal than our own cow!" "Kaspar, are you crazy?" shrieked Falcon, like a madman, while he still held the ax swinging in the air. "Shall I spare the cow and starve?" "You shall not starve," answered Kaspar, resolutely. "As long as I have hands you shall not suffer hunger. I will work for you day and night, so that you do not endanger the peace of your soul, and let the poor creature live for my sake!" "Then take the ax and split my head!" shouted Falcon, in desperation. "I won't move from this spot until I have what I desire. Can you raise the treasures of the _Carmilhan_ for me? Can your hands earn more than the merest necessaries of life? But you can put an end to my misery. Come, and let me be the victim!" "William, kill the cow, kill me! It does not matter to me, I was only anxious about the salvation of your soul. Alas! this was the altar of the Picts, and the sacrifice that you would bring belongs to the darkness." "I don't know anything about that," cried Falcon, laughing wildly, like one who is resolved not to listen to anything that might swerve him from his purpose. "Kaspar, you are crazy and make me crazy, too. But there," continued he, throwing away the ax and picking up his knife from the stone as if about to stab himself; "there, I will kill myself instead of the cow!" Kaspar was at his side in a twinkling, tore the murderous weapon from his hand, seized the ax, poised it high in the air, and brought it down with such a force on the poor cow's head, that she fell dead at her master's feet. A flash of lightning, accompanied by a peal of thunder, followed this rash act, and Falcon stared at his friend in astonishment. But Strumpf was disturbed neither by the thunder-clap nor by the fixed stare of his companion; and without speaking a word, fell to work at removing the hide. When Falcon had recovered from his amazement, he assisted his companion at this task, but with as evident aversion as he had before manifested eagerness to see the sacrifice completed. During their work the thunder-storm had gathered, the thunder reverberated among the mountains, and fearful flashes played about the rock; while the wind roared through the lower valleys and along the coast. And when at last the two fishermen had stripped the hide off, they found that they were wet through to the skin. They spread the hide out on the ground, and Kaspar wrapped and tied Falcon up in it. Then, for the first time, when all this was done, poor Kaspar broke the long silence by saying in a trembling voice, as he looked down at his deluded friend: "Can I do anything more for you, William?" "Nothing more," replied the other; "farewell!" "Farewell," responded Kaspar. "God be with you, and pardon you, as I do." These were the last words Falcon heard from him, for Kaspar disappeared in the darkness; and immediately thereafter the most terrible thunder-storm occurred that William had ever experienced. It began with a flash, that revealed to Falcon's sight not only the mountains and rocks in his immediate vicinity, but also the valley below, with the foaming sea and the rocky islets in the bay, between which he thought he had a vision of a large foreign ship, dismasted; though the sight was instantly lost again in the inky darkness. The thunder-claps were deafening. A mass of splintered rock rolled down the mountain-side and threatened to crush him. The rain poured down in such torrents that the narrow, marshy valley was flooded with a stream that soon reached to Falcon's shoulders; fortunately Kaspar had laid him with the upper part of his body on a slight elevation, else he would surely have drowned. The water rose still higher, and the more Falcon exerted himself to get out of his dangerous situation, the tighter did the hide seem to wrap itself about his limbs. All in vain did he call for Kaspar. Kaspar was far away. He did not dare to call on God in his distress, and a shudder ran through his frame whenever he thought of appealing for assistance to the powers into whose clutches he was conscious of having delivered himself. Already the water crept into his ears; now it touched the edge of his lips. "Oh, God! I am lost!" screamed he, as he felt the water sweep over his face; but in the same instant the sound of a waterfall close by came dimly to his ears, and his face was immediately uncovered. The flood had forced a passage through the stone; and as the rain slackened and the sky grew lighter, so did his despair abate, and a ray of hope returned to his mind. But although he felt as exhausted as if just emerged from a death-struggle, and ardently wished to be released from his imprisonment, still the purpose of his desperate efforts was not yet accomplished, and with the vanishing of immediate deadly peril, the demon of greed returned to his breast. But, convinced that he must remain in his present situation in order to attain his end, he kept very quiet, and finally, overcome by cold and exhaustion, fell into a sound sleep. He might have slept two hours, when a cold wind blowing over his face, and a roaring, as of oncoming waves, aroused him from his happy state of oblivion. The sky was darkened anew. A flash, like that which had ushered in the first storm, lighted up once more the surrounding region, and he fancied he had another vision of the strange ship, that was now poised for an instant on the crest of an enormous wave close to the Steenfoll cliffs, and then appeared to shoot suddenly into the rocky chasm. He continued to stare after the phantom, as the sea was now illuminated by unceasing flashes of lightning, when suddenly a water-spout rose from the valley, near where he lay, and dashed him so violently against a rock as to deprive him of his senses. When he recovered consciousness, the weather had cleared, the sky was bright, but the lightning still continued. He lay close at the base of the mountains that shut in this valley, feeling so badly bruised that he had no desire to stir. He heard the quieter beating of the surf, mingled with a solemn melody like that of a psalm. These tones were at first so faint that he thought they must be an illusion; but they occurred again and again, each time clearer and nearer, and at last he thought he could distinguish the melody of a psalm which he had heard on board a Dutch fishing-smack the Summer before. Finally he could also make out voices, and he seemed to be able to distinguish the words of the song. The voices were now in the valley, and he pushed himself, with difficulty, to a stone, upon which he raised his head, and perceived a procession of human figures, evidently the singers he had heard, and who were coming directly towards him. Care and grief were expressed on the faces of these people; and water was dripping from their clothes. Now they were close to him, and their song ceased. At their head were several musicians; then followed some seamen, and after these came a tall and strong man in a costume richly decorated with gold, apparently belonging to a past age. A sword hung at his side, and he carried in his hand a stout Spanish cane with a gold head. At his left side walked a negro boy, who, from time to time, handed his master a long-stemmed pipe, from which the latter would take several grave puffs and then walk on. He stopped bolt upright before Falcon, while other men, less splendidly dressed, ranged themselves on either side of him. They all had pipes in their hands, not, however, as costly as that of their leader. Behind them came still other persons, among them being several women, some of whom had children in their arms or at their apron-strings, and all in costly foreign costumes. A crowd of Dutch sailors brought up the rear of the procession, each one having a quid of tobacco in his mouth, and holding between his teeth a little cutty-pipe, which he smoked in gloomy silence. The fisherman shuddered as he looked at this singular assembly; but his expectation that something would come of it all kept his courage up. For some time the strange people stood around him thus, and the smoke from their pipes floated over them like a cloud, through which peeped the stars. The men closed in on Falcon in an ever-narrowing circle; the smoking became more and more vehement, and the clouds that arose from pipe and mouth increased in density. Falcon was a bold, daring man; he had prepared himself beforehand for extraordinary occurrences; but when he saw this innumerable crowd pressing in on him as if to crush him by their numbers, his courage failed him, great drops of sweat stood out on his forehead, and he thought he would perish in a spasm of fright. But one may imagine his horror when, as he chanced to turn his eyes, he saw, sitting motionless and erect, close by his head, the little old man in the yellow linen suit, looking just as he had the first time except that now, as if making fun of the whole assembly, he, too, had a pipe in his mouth. In the mortal fright that now took possession of him, Falcon cried out to the leader of this assembly: "In the name of whomsoever you serve, who are you? and what do you want with me?" The tall man drew three whiffs, even more gravely than before; then gave the pipe to his servant and answered very coldly: "I am Alfred Frank van Swelder, commander of the ship _Carmilhan_, of Amsterdam, which, on the voyage home from Batavia, went to the bottom with man and mouse on this rocky coast. These are my officers, those my passengers, and beyond, my brave crew who were all drowned with me. Why have you summoned us from our dwellings deep in the sea? Why do you disturb our rest?" "I wish to know where the treasure of the _Carmilhan_ lies." "On the bottom of the sea." "Where?" "In the cave of Steenfoll." "How can I recover it?" "A goose dives into the abyss for a herring; is not the treasure of the _Carmilhan_ of as much value?" "How much of it shall I recover?" "More than you will ever spend." The little man in yellow grinned horribly at this reply, while all the others laughed aloud. "Are you through?" inquired the commander, further. "I am. Farewell!" "Farewell, until we meet again!" replied the Dutchman, and turned to go; the musicians took the lead again, and the whole procession marched away in the same order in which it had come, and with the same solemn song, which grew ever fainter and fainter in the distance, until finally it was lost in the roar of the breakers. Falcon now exerted his utmost strength to get out of the hide, and he at last succeeded in freeing one arm, with which he was able to loosen the rope that was wound round him, and soon had stepped out of the hide. Without stopping to look about him, he hastened down to his hut, and found poor Kaspar Strumpf lying on the ground in an insensible condition. With some difficulty he restored him to consciousness, and the good fellow shed tears of joy on once more beholding the friend of his youth, whom he had given up for lost. But this happy consolation vanished quickly, when he learned what a desperate undertaking Falcon now had in mind. "I would rather cast myself into hell than to look any longer at these bare walls and reflect on our misery. Follow me, or stay here; I am going at any rate." [Illustration] With these words. Falcon seized a torch, a tinder-box, and a rope, and hastened away. Kaspar ran after him as fast as he could, and found his friend standing on the ledge of the rock upon which he had once sought safety from the storm, and ready to let himself down into the raging abyss. When Kaspar found that his entreaties had no effect on the crazed man, he prepared to descend after him; but Falcon ordered him to remain where he was and hold on to the rope. With an amount of exertion that could only have been supplied by the blindest of passions, greed, Falcon clambered down into the cave, and at last came to a projecting piece of rock, just below which the black waves, crested with foam, rushed along with a dreadful roar. He looked about him eagerly, and finally saw something glistening in the water directly beneath where he stood. He laid down his torch, plunged in, and seized a heavy object which he managed to bring back with him. It was an iron box filled with gold pieces. He shouted up to his companion what he had found; but he would not pay the least attention to Kaspar's entreaties to content himself with what he had. Falcon believed that this was only the first fruit of his long endeavors. He plunged into the waves once more--a peal of laughter arose from the sea, and William Falcon was never seen again. Kaspar went back to the hut, but as a changed man. The strange shocks which his weak head and sensitive heart had experienced, wrecked his mind. He wandered about, day and night, staring before him in an imbecile way, pitied and yet avoided by all his former acquaintances. One stormy night a fisherman claimed to have recognized William Falcon on the shore among the crew of the _Carmilhan_, and on that same night Kaspar Strumpf disappeared. He was sought for every-where, but no trace of him was ever found; but the legend runs that he has often been seen, together with Falcon, among the crew of the spectre ship, which since his loss appears at stated times at the cave of Steenfoll. "It is long past midnight," said the student, when the young goldsmith had concluded his story; "there cannot well be any further danger, and I, for my part, am so sleepy that I would advise that we all lay down and go to sleep with a sense of perfect security." "I should not feel safe before two o'clock in the morning," said the huntsman; "the proverb says, from eleven till two is the thief's hour." "I am of the same opinion," observed the compass-maker; "for if they mean us any harm, there is certainly no time so well adapted to their purpose as the small hours. Therefore, I think it would be well if the student were to continue his story, which he did not finish." "I will not refuse your request," responded the student, "although our neighbor, the huntsman, did not hear the beginning of it." "I will try to imagine it, only go on," replied the huntsman. "Well then,"--the student had just begun, when they were interrupted by the barking of a dog. All held their breaths and listened. At the same instant one of the servants rushed in from the countess's room, and announced that from ten to twelve armed men were approaching the inn. The huntsman seized his rifle, the student his pistol, the journeymen their canes, while the wagoner drew a large knife from his pocket. Thus they stood staring at one another helplessly. "Let us station ourselves at the head of the stairs!" cried the student. "Two or three of these villains shall meet their death before we are overpowered." So saying he gave the compass-maker his other pistol, with the understanding that they should fire one after the other. They took their places on the stairs--the student and the huntsman first, and near them the courageous compass-maker, who kept his pistol pointed down the centre of the stair-way. The goldsmith and the wagoner stood behind them, ready to do their best if it should come to a hand-to-hand fight. They had stood thus but a few moments, when the house-door opened, and they heard several voices whispering. Now they heard the steps of many men nearing the stair-way. The steps came up the stairs, and when about half way up three men were made out, who were evidently not prepared for the reception that awaited them. As they turned round the pillar that supported the flooring above, the huntsman called out: "Halt! One step further, and you are dead men. Cock your guns, friends, and take good aim!" The robbers shrank back; returned hastily to their companions below, and conferred with them. After a while one of them came back and said: "Gentlemen, it would be folly in you to sacrifice your lives for nothing; for there are enough of us to completely destroy you; but return to your rooms and not one of you shall be harmed in the least, nor will we take a farthing from you." "What is your purpose, then?" demanded the student. "Do you think we will trust such villains as you? No indeed! If you have any business with us, come on, in God's name; but the first one who ventures up here I will brand on the forehead so that he will never suffer from headache again!" "Surrender the lady to us then," answered the robber. "She shall not suffer harm; we will merely conduct her to a safe place, where she can remain in comfort, while her servants return to the count and inform him that he can ransom her for twenty thousand guldens!" "Shall we listen to such propositions?" exclaimed the huntsman, furious with rage as he cocked his gun. "I will count three, and if you are not off before I say three, I will pull the trigger! One, two--" "Hold!" shouted the robber in a tone of command. "Is it customary to shoot at an unarmed man, who is holding a friendly parley with you? Foolish fellow, you might shoot me dead, and after all not perform a very heroic deed; but here stand twenty of my comrades who would avenge me. How would it benefit your lady countess if you lay dead or stunned on the floor? Believe me, if she will go with us without offering resistance she shall be treated with every consideration, but if you don't put down your gun before I have counted three, it shall fare hard with her. Put down your gun!--One, two, three!" "These dogs are not to be trifled with," whispered the huntsman to his companion, as he obeyed the robber's command. "Really I am not afraid of my own life, but if I were to shoot down one of them, it might be so much the worse for my lady. I will consult with the countess." Then turning to the robber he continued: "Give us a truce of half an hour in order to prepare the countess. It would kill her if she were to be informed of this suddenly." "Granted," replied the robber, at the same time stationing a guard of six men on the stair-case. Bewildered and irresolute, the unfortunate travellers followed the huntsman to the countess's chamber, which was close to the stairs, and so loudly had the men spoken that the lady had not missed a word of what had been said. She was pale, and trembled violently, but nevertheless was firmly resolved to accept her fate. "Why should I jeopardize the lives of so many brave men?" said she. "Why demand of you, to whom I am a stranger, an idle defence? No; I see no other chance of rescue than to follow these wretches." All were impressed by the lady's spirit and misfortune. The huntsman wept, and swore that he could not survive this disgrace. The student reviled himself and his stature of six feet. "If I were only half a head shorter and had no beard," said he, "I should know how to act; I would dress myself in the lady countess's clothes, and these wretches should find out only too late what a blunder they had made." Felix also had been deeply moved by the lady's misfortune. Her whole presence came so familiarly and affectingly before him, that it seemed to him as if the mother whom he had lost in his youth was now in this terrible situation. He would cheerfully have given his life for hers. And, as the student spoke, his words awakened an idea in his mind; he forgot all anxiety and every consideration but that of the rescue of this lady. "If that is all," said he, stepping forward timidly, and coloring as he spoke, "if only a short stature, a beardless chin, and a courageous heart are needed to rescue this lady, then perhaps I am not unfit for that purpose. Put on my coat, gracious lady, hide your beautiful hair beneath my hat, take my bundle on your back and go your way as Felix, the goldsmith." All were astonished at the youth's spirit, while the huntsman fell on his neck in an ecstasy of joy. "Goldsmith," cried he, "you will do that? You will slip into my gracious lady's clothes and thus save her? The good God has prompted you to do it. But you shall not go alone; I will share your captivity, will remain at your side as your best friend, and while I live they shall not harm you." "I too will go with you, as true as I live!" exclaimed the student. Much persuasion was required before the countess would consent to this scheme. She could not bear the thought that a stranger should sacrifice himself for her; she could not help thinking that if the robbers should afterward discover the deception practiced on them, they would take a terrible revenge on the unfortunate youth. But finally she was over-persuaded, partly by the entreaties of the young man, and partly by the reflection that if she was saved she would make every exertion to rescue her savior. The huntsman and the other travellers accompanied Felix into the student's room, where he quickly threw on some of the countess's clothes. To still further disguise him, the huntsman secured some locks of the maid's false hair to the goldsmith's head, and tied on the lady's hat. All declared that he would never be known; while the compass-maker roundly asserted that if he had met him on the street he should take off his hat without the slightest suspicion that he was bowing to his courageous comrade. The countess in the meanwhile, with the help of her maid, had dressed herself in the clothes she found in the goldsmith's knapsack. With the hat drawn down over the forehead, the staff in her hand, and the knapsack on her back, she was completely disguised; and the travellers would have laughed not a little at any other time, over this comical masquerade. The new travelling journeyman thanked Felix with tears, and promised the speediest assistance. "I have only one request to make," answered Felix. "In the knapsack you have on your back there is a small box; preserve this with the utmost care, for if it should be lost, I should never be happy again. I must carry it to my godmother and----" "Godfried, the huntsman, knows where my castle is," interrupted the lady. "Every thing shall be given back to you just as it was; for I hope you will come yourself, noble young man, to receive the thanks of my husband and myself." Before Felix could reply, the harsh voices of the robbers were heard calling from the stairs that the time was up, and that everything was ready for the countess's journey. The huntsman went down to them, and declared that he could not leave the countess, and would rather go with them, wherever they might lead, than to return to his master without his mistress. The student also insisted that he should be allowed to accompany the lady. The robbers discussed the matter for some time, and finally consented to the arrangement, provided that the huntsman should at once surrender his weapons. Then they gave orders that the other travellers should remain perfectly quiet while the countess was being taken away. Felix pulled down the veil that was spread over his hat, sat down in a corner with one hand supporting his head, and, with the manner of one in deep grief, awaited the robbers. The travellers had withdrawn to the other room, but left the door ajar so that they could see all that occurred. The huntsman sat down with an appearance of sadness, but keeping a sharp eye on the corner of the room that the countess had occupied. After they had sat thus for a few moments, the door opened, and a handsome stately man of about thirty-six years of age entered the room. He wore a kind of military uniform, an order on his breast, a long sabre at his side, and in his hand he carried a hat decorated with beautiful feathers. Two of his men guarded the door immediately after his entrance. He approached Felix with a low bow; he seemed to be somewhat embarrassed in the presence of a lady of rank, as he made several attempts before he was able to speak connectedly. "Gracious lady," said he, "cases happen now and then in which one must have patience; such an one is yours. Do not think that I shall for even a moment lose sight of the respect due to so superior a lady. You shall have every comfort, and will have nothing to complain of except perhaps the fright you have suffered this evening." He paused here, as if awaiting an answer; but as Felix made no reply, he continued: "Do not look upon me as a common thief. I am an unfortunate man, whom adverse circumstances have forced into this life. We are desirous of leaving this region forever, but need money for that purpose. It would have been an easy matter for us to fall upon merchants and stages, but thereby we should have brought lasting misfortune on many people. Your husband, the count, inherited half a million thalers not six weeks ago. We ask for twenty thousand guldens of this superabundance; certainly a just and moderate demand. You will, therefore, have the goodness to write a note to the count at once, informing him that we are holding you for a ransom, that he must send the money as quickly as possible, and that unless he does so--you understand me, we should be compelled to treat you with much less consideration. The ransom will not be accepted unless brought by a single man, under a pledge of the strictest secrecy." This scene was viewed with the most anxious interest by all the guests of the inn, but most anxiously of all by the countess. She trembled every moment lest the young man should betray himself. She was firmly resolved to ransom him for a large sum, but just as strong was her resolve not to take a single step with these robbers for any earthly consideration. She had found a knife in the goldsmith's coat pocket. She held it open in her hand, prepared to kill herself rather than suffer such a fate. Not less anxious was Felix himself. To be sure, he was consoled and strengthened by the reflection that it was a manly and praiseworthy act to come to the assistance of a helpless lady as he was doing, but he feared lest he should betray himself by each movement or by his voice. His alarm increased when the robber spoke of his writing a letter. How should he write it? By what title should he address the count? In what style should he write the letter, without betraying himself? But his anxiety rose to the highest pitch, when the robber chief laid paper and pen before him, and requested him to lift his veil and write the letter. Felix did not know how becoming this disguise was to him, or he would not have entertained the least fear of discovery. For, as he finally felt forced to raise his veil, the robber chief, surprised by the beauty of the lady and her somewhat manly and spirited features, regarded her with still greater respect. This fact did not escape the young goldsmith's attention; and satisfied that at least for a moment there was no danger of discovery, he took up the pen and wrote to his pretended husband, after a form that he had once read in an old book: "My Lord and Husband:--I, unhappy woman, have been seized, on my journey, in the dead of night, by people whom I cannot credit with good intentions. They will keep me a prisoner until you, Sir Count, have paid down the sum of twenty thousand guldens for me. This is provided you do not inform the authorities of this matter, or seek their assistance; and that you send the money by a single messenger to the forest inn in the Spessart. Otherwise I am threatened with a long and severe imprisonment. Begging for the speediest deliverance, I am your unhappy WIFE." He handed this remarkable letter to the robber chief, who read it through and signified his approbation. "It rests with you now to decide," said he, "whether you will be accompanied by the huntsman or your maid. I shall send one of them to your husband with this letter." "The huntsman, and that gentleman there, will accompany me," answered Felix. "Very well," returned the robber, going to the door and summoning the countess's maid. "Just give this woman her instructions." The maid appeared, shivering and shaking. Felix too turned pale when he reflected that here he was in danger once more of betraying himself. Still the unexpected courage that had carried him safely through the former ordeal, returned. "I have no further commands for you," said he, "except that you desire the count to take me from this unfortunate situation as quickly as possible." "And," added the robber, "that you recommend the count most earnestly and explicitly to keep silent about all this, and not to undertake any action against us, before his wife is in his hands. Our spies would give us timely warning of any such demonstrations on his part, and I would not then be answerable for the consequences." The trembling maid promised to obey these instructions. She was further ordered to pack what dresses and linen the lady countess might need in a small bundle, as they could not hamper themselves with much luggage; and when this had been done, the robber chief, with a low bow, requested the lady to follow him. Felix stood up, the huntsman and the student followed, and, preceded by the robber, all three descended the stairs. Before the inn stood a large number of horses. One of them was pointed out to the huntsman; another, a beautiful pony provided with a side-saddle, stood ready for the countess; while a third was given to the student. The leader lifted the young goldsmith to the saddle, fixed him firmly in his seat, and then mounted a horse himself. He rode to the right of the lady, while another of the robbers rode at her left side. The student and huntsman were similarly guarded. As soon as the band of robbers were mounted, the leader gave a loud and clear whistle as a signal to start, and shortly the whole troop had disappeared in the forest. The company gathered in the chamber of the inn, gradually recovered from their terror after the departure of the robbers. As is generally the case after some great misfortune or sudden danger has passed by, they would have been very cheerful had not their thoughts been occupied with their three companions, who had been led away before their very eyes. They all broke out in praise of the young goldsmith, and the countess wept when she reflected how deeply she was indebted to one upon whom she had no claim, whom she had never even known. It was a consolation for them all to know that the heroic huntsman and the brave student had accompanied him, and could comfort him in his hours of despondency. They even entertained a hope that the experienced forester would discover a means of escape for himself and companions. They consulted together as to what they had better do. The countess resolved that, as she was bound by no oath to the robbers, she would at once return to her husband, and make every exertion to discover their hiding-place, and set their prisoners free. The wagoner promised to go to Aschaffenburg and summon the officials to organize a pursuit of the robbers, while the compass-maker was to continue his journey. The travellers were not disturbed any more that night; silence reigned in the forest inn, that had an hour before been the theatre of terrible scenes. But in the morning, when the servants of the countess went below to prepare for her departure, they came running back, and reported that they had found the landlady and her hostler bound on the floor, and begging for assistance. The travellers gazed at one another in astonishment. "What?" cried the compass-maker. "Then these people must have been innocent. We have done them wrong, for they can have no association with the robbers." "I will allow myself to be hanged in their place," returned the wagoner, "if we were not right after all. This is only a sham, designed to prevent their conviction. Don't you remember the suspicious appearance of this inn? Don't you remember how, when I started to go down-stairs, the trained dog would not let me pass? how the landlady and the hostler appeared instantly, and asked in a surly way what I was after? Still, all this was well for us, or at least for the lady countess. If things had worn a less suspicious air in the public room, if the landlady had not aroused our distrust, we should not have remained together, nor have kept awake. The robbers could have attacked us in our sleep, or at least would have guarded our doors, so that the substitution of the brave young goldsmith for the countess would not have been possible." They all agreed with the wagoner, and determined to lodge a complaint against the landlady and her servant, before the magistrate. Still, in order to be on the safe side, they concluded not to manifest the least token of suspicion just yet. The servants and the wagoner went down-stairs, loosened the bonds of the robbers' accomplices, and conducted themselves as sympathetically and sorrowfully as possible. In order to conciliate her guests still more, the landlady charged each one but a very small amount, and extended them a hearty invitation to call again. The wagoner paid his reckoning, took leave of his companions in misfortune, and started on his road. After him the two journeymen went off. Light as the goldsmith's bundle had been made, it still seemed heavy to the delicate lady. But still heavier was her heart, when the traitorous landlady stretched out her hand to take leave of her at the door. "Why," cried she, "what kind of a spark are you, to be going out into the world so young? You must be a spoiled fellow, whom the master chased out of his shop. But that's none of my business; do me the honor to stop here on your return journey. Good luck to you!" The countess was so nervous, and trembled so, that she did not dare reply, least she should be betrayed by her voice. The compass-maker, noticing her confusion, took his companion by the arm, bade good-bye to the landlady, and sang a jovial song as they struck out into the forest. "Now I am really in safety," cried the countess, when they had put a hundred paces between them and the inn. "To the last moment I feared that the landlady would recognize me, and have her servant lock me up. Oh, how can I thank you for all you have done? Come to my castle; you must at least return to meet your travelling companions again." The compass-maker consented, and while they were thus speaking, the countess's carriage came rolling up behind them; the door was quickly opened, the lady sprang inside, waved a farewell to the young journeyman, and was driven rapidly away. About this time, the robbers and their prisoners reached the camping place of the band. They had ridden over a rough forest road at a fast trot, exchanging not a word with their prisoners, and conversing among themselves in low tones only when they changed their course. They finally came to a halt just above a deep ravine. The robbers dismounted, and their leader assisted the goldsmith from his horse, apologizing for the fast and wearisome ride he had forced him to take, and inquiring whether the gracious lady felt very much fatigued. Felix answered him in as gentle a tone as he could assume, that he was in need of rest; and the robber offered his arm to escort him into the ravine. The descent was a very steep one, and the footpath was narrow and precipitous. At last they were safely down. Felix saw before him by the faint light of the opening day, a small narrow valley not more than a hundred paces in circumference, that lay deep in a basin formed by the precipitous rocks. Some six or eight small, board and log huts were built in this ravine. A few untidy women peeped out curiously from these hovels, and a pack of twelve large dogs and their countless puppies surrounded the new-comers, howling and barking. The chief led the countess to the best one of these huts, and told her that this was exclusively for her own use; and granted Felix's request that the huntsman and the student might be permitted to remain with him. The hut was furnished with deer-skins and mats, which served at once for a carpet and for seats. Some jugs and dishes, made out of wood, a rusty old fowling-piece, and in the further corner a couch made of a couple of boards and a few woollen blankets, which could hardly be dignified by the name of a bed, were the only appointments of the place. Left alone together for the first time in this miserable hut, the three prisoners had time to think over their strange situation. Felix, who did not for a moment repent of his noble action, but who was still nervous as to what would become of him in case of a discovery, gave utterance to loud complaints; but the huntsman quickly checked him, and whispered: "For God's sake, be quiet, dear boy; don't you know that they will be listening to us." "Each word uttered in such a tone as that would create suspicion in their minds," added the student. Nothing remained to poor Felix but to weep silently. "Believe me, Mr. Huntsman," said he, "I do not weep for fear of these robbers, or because of this miserable hut; no, it is quite another kind of sorrow that oppresses me. How easily might the countess forget what I said to her so hastily, and then I should be considered a thief and thus made miserable forever. "But what is it, then, that causes you so much anxiety?" inquired the huntsman, wondering at the demeanor of the young man, who, up to this time, had borne himself so courageously. "Listen, and you will do me justice," answered Felix. "My father was a clever goldsmith of Nuremberg, and my mother, previous to her marriage, had served as maid to a lady of rank, and when she married my father she was finely fitted out by the countess whom she had served. The countess remained a good friend to my parents, and after my birth she stood as my godmother and made me many presents. And when my parents died of a pestilence, and I, left alone in the world, was about to be sent to the poorhouse, this lady godmother heard of my misfortune and placed me in a boarding-school. When I was of the proper age, she wrote to know if I would like to learn my father's trade. I jumped at the chance, and she apprenticed me to a master of the art in Wuerzburg. I took readily to the work, and had soon made such progress that I was given a certificate, and could set out as a travelling journeyman. I wrote this to my lady godmother, and she answered at once that she would give me the money for my outfit. With the letter she sent some splendid stones, and requested me to give them a beautiful setting, and bring the ornament to her myself as a proof of my skill, and receive my travelling money at the same time. I have never seen my lady godmother, and you may imagine with what pleasure I undertook her commands. I worked day and night on the ornament, and turned out such a beautiful and delicate piece of work that even the master was astonished at my skill. When it was completed, I packed my knapsack carefully, took leave of my master, and started out on the journey to my lady godmother's castle. Then," continued he, breaking into tears, "these villainous robbers happened along and destroyed all my hopes. For if your lady countess loses the ornament, or forgets what I told her and throws away my old knapsack, how shall I ever face my lady godmother? How should I prove my story? How could I replace the stones? And my travelling money would also be lost, and I should appear as an ungrateful fellow who had foolishly surrendered his charge. And, finally, would any one believe me if I were to relate this wonderful adventure?" "Be of good cheer!" replied the huntsman. "I do not believe that your ornament can be lost while in the keeping of the countess; and even if such a thing should occur, she would be sure to make the loss good to her deliverer, and would herself bear witness to these mischances. We will leave you now for some hours, for we really need sleep, and after the excitement of this night you ought to take some rest. Afterwards in conversing with one another let us forget our misfortune for the time being, or, better still, let us think about our escape." They went away Felix remained alone, and made an attempt to follow the huntsman's advice. When, after some hours, the student and huntsman returned, they found their young friend in a much better mood. The huntsman told the goldsmith that the chief of the band had assured him that the lady should have every attention; and that in a few moments one of the women whom they had seen about the huts would serve the lady countess with coffee, and offer her services as attendant. They resolved, in order not to be disturbed, to refuse this favor; and when the ugly old gypsy woman came, set the breakfast before them, and inquired in an obsequious manner whether she could be of any further service, Felix motioned to her to leave, and as she still lingered, the huntsman drove her out of the door. The student then narrated all that they had learned about the camp. "The hut in which you live, beautiful lady countess," began he, "seems originally to have been designed for the leader of the band. It is not so roomy, but it is much finer than the others. Beside this, there are six others, in which the women and children live, for there are seldom more than six robbers at home. One stands guard not far from this hut; another below him, on the way to the path that leads out of the ravine; and a third stands as sentinel above, at the entrance to the ravine. Every second hour they are relieved by the three others. More than this, each guard has two large dogs near him, and they are all so wide-awake that one can not set foot outside the hut without being barked at. I have no hope that we can steal out of this place." "Don't make me sad; I feel more cheerful after my nap," returned Felix. "Don't give up all hope, and if you fear discovery, let us rather talk about something else, and not be troubled about the future. Herr Student, you began a story in the inn; continue it now, for we have time to amuse ourselves." "I can scarcely remember what it was," answered the young man. "You were relating the legend of 'The Marble Heart,' and had reached the point where the landlord and the other gambler had put Charcoal Pete out of doors." "All right; it comes back to me now," replied he. "Well, if you wish to hear more of it, I will continue." THE MARBLE HEART. SECOND PART. When Peter went to his glass-works on Monday morning, he found not only his workmen there, but also other people who do not make very pleasant visitors--the sheriff and three bailiffs. The sheriff bade Peter good morning, asked how he had slept, and then took out a long register, on which were inscribed the names of Peter's creditors. "Can you pay or not?" demanded the sheriff in a severe tone. "And be quick about the matter too, for I have not much time to spare, and the prison is a three hours ride from here." Peter, in great despondency, confessed that he was unable to pay the claims, and left it to the sheriff to appraise his house, glass-works, stable, and horses and carriage. While the officials were conducting their examination, it occurred to Peter that the Tannenbuehl was not far away, and as the little man had not helped him, he would try the big man. He ran to the Tannenbuehl as fast as though the officers had been at his heels; and it seemed to him, as he rushed by the spot where he had first spoken to the Little Glass-Man, that an invisible hand seized him--but he tore himself out of its grasp, and ran on till he came to the boundary line, which he remembered well; and hardly had he shouted: "Dutch Michel! Dutch Michel!" when the giant raftsman, with his immense pole, stood before him. "Have you come at last?" said the giant, laughing. "Do they want to strip you for the benefit of your creditors? Well, be quiet; your whole trouble comes, as I told you it would, from the Little Glass-Man--the hypocrite. When one gives, one should give generously, and not like this miser. But come," continued he, turning towards the forest, "follow me to my house, and we will see whether we can make a trade." "Make a trade?" reflected Peter. "What can he want from me? How can I make a bargain with him? Does he want me to do him some service, or what is it he's after?" They walked over a steep forest path, and suddenly came upon a dark and deep ravine. Dutch Michel sprang down the rocks as if they were an easy marble stair-case; but Peter came near fainting with fright, when Dutch Michel on reaching the bottom, made himself as tall as a church steeple, and stretched out an arm as long as a weaver's beam, with a hand as broad as the table in the tavern, and shouted in a voice that echoed like a deep funeral bell: "Set down on my hand and hold fast to the fingers, and you will not fall." Peter tremblingly obeyed him, taking a seat on the giant's hand, and holding on to his thumb. They went down and down for a great distance, but still, to Peter's astonishment it did not grow darker; on the contrary, it seemed to be lighter in the ravine, so that for some time his eyes could not endure the light. The farther they descended, the smaller did Dutch Michel make himself, and he now, in his former stature, stood before a house neither better nor worse than those owned by wealthy peasants in the Black Forest. The room into which Peter was conducted did not differ from the rooms of other houses, except that an indescribable air of loneliness pervaded it. The wooden clock, the enormous Dutch tile stove, the utensils on the shelves, were the same as those in use every-where. Michel showed him to a seat behind the large table and then went out, returning soon with a pitcher of wine and glasses. He poured out the wine, and they talked at random, until Dutch Michel began to tell about the pleasures of the world, of strange lands, and of beautiful cities and rivers, so that Peter at last became possessed of a strong desire to travel also, and told the giant so openly. "However desirous you might be of undertaking anything, a couple of quick beats of your silly heart would make you tremble; and as for injured reputation, for misfortune, why should a sensible fellow trouble himself with such matters? Did you feel the insult in your head when recently you were called a cheat and swindler? Did your stomach pain you when the sheriff came to turn you out of house and home? Tell me, where were you conscious of pain?" "In my heart," answered Peter, laying his hand on his breast; for it seemed to him as though his heart was swinging to and fro unsteadily. "You have--don't take it amiss--you have thrown away many hundred guldens on idle beggars and other low fellows; how did that benefit you? They blessed you, and wished you a long life; do you therefore expect to live the longer? For the half of that wasted money you could have employed physicians in your illness. Blessings?--Yes, it's a fine blessing to have your property seized and yourself put out of doors! And what was it that induced you to put your hand in your pocket whenever a beggar held out his tattered hat?--your heart, once more your heart; and neither your eyes nor your tongue, your arms nor your legs, but your heart. You took it--as the saying is--too much to heart." "But how can one train himself so that it would not be so any more? I am exerting myself now to control my heart, and still it beats and torments me." "Yes, no doubt you find that the case," replied the giant, with a laugh. "You, poor fellow, can not manage it at all; but give me the little beating thing, and then you will see how much better off you will be." "Give you my heart?" shrieked Peter in terror. "I should certainly die on the spot! No, never!" "Yes, if one of your learned surgeons was to perform the operation of removing the heart from your body, you would certainly die; but with me it would be quite another thing. Still, come this way, and satisfy yourself." So saying, he got up, opened a chamber door, and took Peter inside. The young man's heart contracted spasmodically as he stepped over the sill, but he paid no attention to it, for the sight that met his eyes was strange and surprising. On a row of shelves stood glasses filled with a transparent fluid, and in each of these glasses was a human heart; the glasses were also labeled with names, written on paper slips, and Peter read them with great curiosity. Here was the heart of the magistrate at F., of the Stout Ezekiel, of the King of the Ball, of the head gamekeeper; there were the hearts of six corn factors, of eight recruiting officers, of three scriveners--in short, it was a collection of the most respectable hearts within a circumference of sixty miles. "Look!" said Dutch Michel. "All these have thrown away the cares and sorrows of life. Not one of these hearts beats anxiously any longer, and their former possessors are glad to be well rid of their troublesome guests." "But what do they carry in the breast in place of them?" asked Peter, whose head began to swim at what he had seen. "This," answered the giant, handing him, from a drawer, a _stone heart_. "What!" exclaimed Peter, as a chill crept over him. "A heart of marble? But look you, Dutch Michel, that must be very cold in the breast." "Certainly; but it is an agreeable coolness. Why should a heart be warm? In winter the warmth of it is of no account; good cherry rum you would find a better protection against the cold than a warm heart, and in summer, when you are sweltering in the heat, you can not imagine how such a heart will cool you. And, as I said before, there will be no further anxiety or terror, neither any more silly pity, nor any sorrow, with such a heart in your breast." "And is that all you are able to give me?" asked Peter discontentedly. "I hope for money, and you offer me a stone!" "Well, I think a hundred thousand guldens will do you to start with. If you handle that well, you can soon become a millionaire." "One hundred thousand!" shouted the poor charcoal burner joyfully. "There, don't beat so violently in my breast, we will soon be through with one another. All right, Michel; give me the stone and the money, and you may take the restless thing out of its cage." "I thought you would show yourself to be a sensible fellow," said Dutch Michel smiling. "Come, let us drink once more together, and then I will count out the money." So they sat down to the wine again, and drank until Peter fell into a deep sleep. He was finally awakened by the ringing notes of a bugle horn, and behold, he sat in a beautiful carriage, driving over a broad highway, and as he turned to look out of the carriage, he saw the Black Forest lying far behind him in the blue distance. At first he could hardly realize that it was he himself who sat in the carriage; for even his clothes were not the same that he had worn yesterday. But he remembered every thing that had occurred so clearly, that he said: "I am Charcoal Pete, that is certain, and nobody else." He was surprised that he felt no sensation of sorrow, now that for the first time he was leaving behind him his home and the woods where he had lived so long. He could neither sigh nor shed a tear, as he thought of his mother whom he was leaving in want and sorrow; for all this was a matter of indifference to him now. "Tears and sighs," thought he, "homesickness and melancholy, come from the heart, and--thanks to Dutch Michel--mine is cold and stony." He laid his hand on his breast, and it was perfectly quiet there. "If he has kept his word as well with the hundred thousand guldens as he has about the heart, I shall be happy," said he, and at once began a search in his carriage; he found all manner of clothes, as fine as he could wish them, but no money. At last he came upon a pocket which contained many thousand thalers in gold, and drafts on bankers in all the large cities. "Now it's all just as I wanted it," thought he; and settling himself comfortably in a corner of the carriage, he journeyed out into the wide world. He traveled for two years about the world, looking out from his carriage to the right and left at the buildings he passed by; and when he entered a city he looked out only for the sign of the tavern. After dinner he would be driven about the town, and have the sights pointed out to him. But neither picture, house, music, dancing, nor any thing else, rejoiced him. His heart of stone could not feel an interest in any thing, and his eyes and ears were dulled to all that was beautiful. No pleasures remained to him but those of eating, drinking and sleeping. Now and then, it is true, he recalled the fact, that he had been happier when he was poor and worked for his own support. Then every beautiful view in the valley, the sound of music and song, had rejoiced him; then he had been satisfied with the simple fare that his mother had prepared and brought out to his fires. When he thus thought of the past, it seemed very singular to him that he could not laugh at all now, while then every little jest had amused him. When others laughed, he simply affected to do the same as a mere matter of politeness; but his heart did not join in the merriment. He felt then that although he was destitute of emotion, yet he was far from being contented. It was not homesickness or melancholy, but dullness, weariness, and a joyless life, that finally drove him back to his native place. As he passed by Strasbourg and saw the dark forest in the distance, as he once more saw the strong forms and honest, faithful faces of the inhabitants of the Black Forest, as his ear caught the strong, deep, well-remembered tones of his countrymen's voices, he put his hand quickly to his heart, for his blood danced through his veins, and he thought he should both weep and rejoice; but--how could he be so foolish?--he had only a heart of stone, and stones are without feeling, and neither laugh nor weep. His first visit was to Dutch Michel, who received him with much show of friendliness. "Michel," said Peter, "I have travelled and have seen every thing, but experienced only weariness. Upon the whole, the stone I carry in my breast saves me from many things; I never get angry, am never sad, but at the same time I am never happy, and it seems to me as if I only half lived. Can not you make the stone heart a little more sensitive? or, give me back rather my old heart. I was accustomed to it for twenty-five years, and even if it did sometimes lead me into a foolish act, still it was a contented and happy heart." The Spirit of the Forest laughed scornfully. "When you are once dead, Peter Munk," replied he, "your heart shall not be missing; then you shall have back your soft, sensitive heart, and then you will have an opportunity to feel whatever comes, joy or sorrow. But in this world it can never be yours again. Still, Peter, although you have travelled, it won't do you any good to live in the way you have been doing. Settle down somewhere here in the forest, build a house, marry, double your wealth; you were only in want of some employment. Because you were idle, you experienced weariness; and now you would charge it all to this innocent heart." Peter saw that Michel was right, so far as idleness was concerned, and resolved to devote his energies to acquiring more and more riches. Michel presented him with another hundred thousand guldens, and the two parted on the best of terms. The news soon spread throughout the Black Forest that Charcoal Pete, or Gambler Pete, was back again, and richer than before. Things went on as they had done. When he had been reduced to beggary, he was kicked out of the tavern door; and when now, on one Sunday afternoon he drove up to the tavern, his old associates shook his hand, praised his horse, inquired about his journey; and when he began to play with the Stout Ezekiel again for silver thalers, he stood higher than ever in the esteem of the hangers-on. Instead of the glass business, he now went into the timber trade; but this was only for sake of appearance, as his chief business was that of a corn factor and money lender. Fully half of the inhabitants of the Black Forest gradually fell into his debt, as he only lent money at ten per cent interest, or sold corn to the poor, who could not pay cash for it, at three times what it was worth. He stood in intimate relations with the sheriff, and if one did not pay Mr. Peter Munk on the day his note fell due, the sheriff would ride over to the debtor's place, seize his house and land, sell it without delay, and drive father, mother and child into the forest. At first this course of action caused Peter some little trouble, for the people who had been driven out of their homes blockaded his gates,--the men pleading for time, the women attempting to soften his heart of stone, and the children crying for a piece of bread. But when he had provided himself with a couple of savage mastiffs, this charivari, as he called it, very soon ceased. He whistled to the dogs, and set them on the pack of beggars, who would scatter with screams in all directions. But the most trouble was given him by an old woman, who was none other than Peter's mother. She had been plunged into misery and want, since her house and lot had been sold, and her son, on his return, rich as he was, would not look after her wants. Therefore she occasionally appeared at his door, weak and old, leaning on a staff. She dared not enter the house, for he had once chased her out of the door; but it pained her to live on the charity of other people, when her own son was so well able to provide for her old age. But the cold heart was never disturbed by the sight of the pale, well-known features, by her pleading looks or by the withered, outstretched hand, or the tottering form. And when on a Saturday she knocked at his door, he would take out a sixpence, grumbling meanwhile, roll it up in a piece of paper, and send it out to her by a servant. He could hear her trembling voice as she returned thanks and wished that all happiness might be his; he heard her steal away from the door coughing, but gave her no further thought, except to reproach himself with having thrown away a good sixpence. [Illustration] Finally Peter began to think about getting married. He knew that there was not a father in the whole Black Forest who would not have been glad to give him his daughter; but he meant to be particular in his choice, for he wished that in this matter, too, his luck and his judgment should be recognized. Therefore he rode all through the forest, searching here and there, but not one of the beautiful Black Forest maidens seemed beautiful enough for him. Finally, after he had looked through all the ball rooms in a vain search for his ideal beauty, he one day heard that the daughter of a certain woodchopper was the most beautiful and virtuous of all the Black Forest maidens. She lived a very quiet life, kept her father's house in the neatest order, and never showed herself at a ball, not even on holidays. When Peter heard of this Black Forest beauty, he resolved to obtain her, and rode to the hut to which he was directed. The father of the beautiful Lisbeth received the gentleman in much surprise, but was still more astonished to hear that this was the wealthy Mr. Peter Munk, and that the gentleman wished to become his son-in-law. Believing that now all his cares and his poverty were at an end, the old man did not hesitate very long, but consented to the match without stopping to consult his daughter's inclinations, and the good child was so dutiful that she made no objections, and soon became Mrs. Peter Munk. But things did not go as well with the poor girl as she had dreamed. She thought she had a perfect knowledge of how to manage a house; but she could not do any thing that seemed to please her husband. She had sympathy with poor people, and, as her husband was so rich, she thought it would be no sin to give a farthing to a poor beggar woman or to hand an old man a cup of tea. But when Peter saw her do this one day, he said, in a harsh voice and with angry looks: "Why do you waste my means on idlers and vagabonds? Did you bring anything into the house, that you can throw money away like a princess? If I catch you at this again, you shall feel my hand!" The beautiful Lisbeth wept in her chamber over the cruel disposition of her husband, and often did she feel that she would rather be back in her father's hut than to live with the rich but miserly and hard-hearted Peter. Alas, had she known that her husband had a marble heart, and could neither love her nor any one else, she would not have wondered so much at his actions. But whenever she sat at the door, and a beggar came up, took off his hat and began to speak, she now cast her eyes down that she might not see the poor fellow, and clasped her hands lighter lest she should involuntarily feel in her pocket for money. So it happened that the beautiful Lisbeth came to be badly spoken of throughout the entire Forest, and it was asserted that she was even more miserly than Peter himself. But one day while Lisbeth was sitting before the house, spinning, and humming a song--for she felt in unusually good spirits, as the weather was fine and Peter had ridden off--a little old man came up the road, carrying a large, heavy sack. Lisbeth had heard him panting while he was still at some distance, and she looked at him sympathetically, thinking that so old and weak a man ought not to carry so heavy a burden. In the meantime the man had staggered and panted up, and when he was opposite Lisbeth, he almost fell down under the sack. "Alas, take pity on me, madame, and hand me a glass of water," said the little man; "I can not go another step, and I fear I shall faint." "But at your age you ought not to carry such a heavy load," said Lisbeth. "Yes, if I was not forced by poverty to serve as a messenger," answered he. "Alas, a rich lady like you does not know how poverty pinches, and how refreshing a drink of water would be on such a hot day." On hearing this Lisbeth rushed into the house, took a pitcher from the shelf and filled it with water; but when she returned with it, and had come within a few feet of the man, she saw how miserable he appeared as he sat on the sack, and, remembering that her husband was not at home, she set the pitcher of water to one side, got a goblet and filled it with wine, laid a slice of rye bread on top of it, and brought it out to the old man. "There; a sip of wine, at your age, will do you more good than water," said she. "But don't drink it so hastily, and eat your bread with it." The little man looked at her in astonishment, while tears gathered in his eyes. He drank the wine and then said: "I have grown old, but I have seen few people who were so merciful, and who knew how to make gifts as handsomely and heartily as you do, Frau Lisbeth. And for this your life on earth shall be a happy one; such a heart will not remain without a reward." "No, and she shall have her reward on the spot!" shouted a terrible voice; and as they turned, there stood Peter with an angry face. "So you were pouring out my best wine for beggars, and giving my own goblet to the lips of a vagrant? There, take your reward!" Lisbeth threw herself at his feet and begged his forgiveness; but the heart of stone felt no pity; he turned the whip he held in his hand, and struck such a blow with the butt of it on her beautiful forehead, that she sank lifeless into the arms of the old man. When Peter saw this, he seemed to regret it on the instant, he bent down to see if there was still life in her, but the little man said to him in a well-known voice: "Don't trouble yourself. Charcoal Peter! It was the sweetest and loveliest flower in the Black Forest; but you have destroyed it, and it will never bloom again." The blood left Peter's cheeks, as he said: "It is you then, Herr Schatzhauser? Well, what is done, is done, and must have come to pass. I hope, however, that you won't charge me with being her murderer before the magistrate." "Wretch!" exclaimed the Little Glass-Man, "how would it console me to bring your mortal frame to the gallows? It is not earthly judges whom you have to fear, but other and severer ones, for you have sold your soul to the evil one." "And if I have sold my heart," shrieked Peter, "you and your miserable treasures are to blame for it! You, malicious spirit, have led me to perdition, driven me to seek help of another, and you are answerable for it all." But hardly had Peter said this, when the Little Glass-Man swelled and grew, and became both tall and broad, while his eyes were as large as soup plates, and his mouth was like a heated oven from which flames darted forth. Peter threw himself on his knees, and his marble heart did not prevent his limbs from trembling like an aspen tree. The Spirit of the Forest seized him by the neck with the talons of a hawk, and whirled him about as a whirlwind sweeps up the dead leaves, and then threw him to the ground with such force that all his ribs cracked. "Earth-worm!" cried he, in a voice like a roll of thunder, "I could dash you to pieces if I chose, for you have insulted the Master of the Forest. But for this dead woman's sake, who has given me food and drink, you shall have an eight days' reprieve. If you don't mend your ways by that time, I will come and grind your limbs to powder, and you shall die in all your sins!" Night had come on, when some men who were passing saw the rich Peter Munk lying on the ground. They turned him over, and searched for signs of life; but for some time their efforts to restore him were in vain. Finally one of them went into the house and brought out some water, with which they sprinkled his face. Thereupon Peter drew a long breath, groaned, and opened his eyes, looked about him, and inquired after Lisbeth; but none of them had seen her. He thanked the men for the assistance they had rendered him, slipped into his house and searched every-where; but Lisbeth was nowhere to be found, and what he had taken for a horrible dream was the bitter truth. While he was sitting there quite alone, some strange thoughts came into his mind; he was not afraid of anything, for his heart was cold; but when he thought of his wife's death, the thought of his own death came to him and he reflected how heavily he should be weighted on leaving the world--burdened with the tears of the poor, with thousands of their curses, with the agony of the poor wretches on whom he had set his dogs, with the silent despair of his mother, with the blood of the good and beautiful Lisbeth; and if he could not give an account to the old man, her father, if he should come and ask, "Where is my daughter?" how should he respond to the question of Another, to whom all forests, all seas, all mountains, and the lives of all mortals, belong? His sleep was disturbed by dreams, and every few moments he was awakened by a sweet voice calling to him: "Peter, get a warmer heart!" And when he woke he quickly closed his eyes again; for the voice that gave him this warning was the voice of Lisbeth, his wife. The following day he went to the tavern to drown his reflections in drink, and there he met the Stout Ezekiel. He sat down by him; they talked about this and that, of the fine weather, of the war, of the taxes, and finally came to talk about death, and how this and that one had died suddenly. Peter asked Ezekiel what he thought about death and a future life. Ezekiel replied that the body was buried, but that the soul either rose to heaven or descended to hell. "But do they bury one's heart also?" asked Peter, all attention, "Why, certainly, that is also buried." "But how would it be if one did not have his heart any longer?" continued Peter. Ezekiel looked at him sharply as he spoke those words. "What do you mean by that? Do you imagine that I haven't a heart?" "Oh, you have heart enough, and as firm as a rock," replied Peter. Ezekiel stared at him in astonishment, looked about him to see if any one had overheard Peter, and then said: "Where do you get this knowledge? Or perhaps yours does not beat any more?" "It does not beat any more, at least not here in my breast!" answered Peter Munk. "But tell me--now that you know what I mean--how will it be with our hearts!" "Why should that trouble you, comrade?" asked Ezekiel laughing. "We have a pleasant course to run on earth, and that's enough. It is certainly one of the best things about our cold hearts, that we experience no fear in the face of such thoughts." "Very true; but still one will think on these subjects, and although I do not know what fear is, yet I can remember how much I feared hell when I was a small and innocent boy." "Well, it certainly won't go very easy with us," said Ezekiel. "I once questioned a school-master on that point, and he told me that after death the hearts were weighed, to find out how heavily they had sinned. The light ones then ascended, the heavy ones sank down; and I think that our stones will have a pretty good weight." "Alas, yes," replied Peter; "and I often feel uncomfortable, that my heart is so unsympathetic and indifferent, when I think on such subjects." On the next night, Peter heard the well-known voice whisper in his ear, five or six times: "Peter, get a warmer heart!" He experienced no remorse at having killed his wife, but when he told the domestics that she had gone off on a journey, the thought had instantly occurred to him: "Where has she probably journeyed to?" For six days he had lived on in this manner, haunted by these reflections, and every night he heard this voice, which brought back to his recollection the terrible threat of the Little Glass-Man; but on the seventh morning he sprang up from his couch crying: "Now, then, I will see whether I can procure a warmer heart, for this emotionless stone in my breast makes my life weary and desolate." He quickly drew on his Sunday attire, mounted his horse, and rode to the Tannenbuehl. In the Tannenbuehl the trees stood too closely together to permit of his riding further, so he tied his horse to a tree, and with hasty steps went up to the highest point of the hill and when he reached the largest pine he spoke the verse that had once caused him so much trouble to learn: "Keeper of green woods of pine, All its lands are only thine; Thou art many centuries old; Sunday-born children thee behold." Thereupon the Little Glass-Man appeared, but not with a pleasant greeting as before; his expression was sad and stern. He wore a coat of black glass, and a long piece of crape fluttered down from his hat. Peter well knew for whom the Spirit of the Wood sorrowed. "What do you want of me, Peter Munk?" asked the Little Glass-Man in a hollow voice. "I have still one wish left, Herr Schatzhauser," answered Peter, with downcast eyes. "Can hearts of stone have any wishes?" said the Glass-Man. "You have every thing needful for your wicked course of life, and it is doubtful whether I should grant your wish." "But you promised me three wishes; and I have one left yet." "Still, I have the right to refuse it if it should prove a foolish one," continued the Glass-Man. "But proceed, I will hear what it is you want." "I want you to take this lifeless stone out of my breast, and give me in its place my living heart," said Peter. "Did I make that bargain with you? Am I Dutch Michel, who gives riches and cold hearts? You must look to him for your heart." "Alas, he will nevermore give it back to me," replied Peter. "Wicked as you are, I pity you," said the Little Glass-Man after a pause. "But as your wish is not a foolish one, I can not refuse you my assistance at least. So listen. You can not recover your heart by force, but possibly you may do so by stratagem; and this may not prove such a hard matter after all, for Michel, although he thinks himself uncommonly wise, is really a very stupid fellow. So go directly to him, and do just as I shall tell you." The Little Glass-Man then instructed Peter in what he was to do, and gave him a small cross of clear crystal. "He can not harm you while you live, and he will let you go free if you hold this up before him and pray at the same time. And if you should get back your heart, then return to this place, where I shall be awaiting you." Peter Munk took the cross, impressed on his memory all the words he was to say, and went to Dutch Michel's ravine. He called him three times by name, and immediately the giant stood before him. "Have you killed your wife?" asked the giant, with a fiendish laugh. "I should have done it in your place, for she was giving away your wealth to the beggars. But you had better leave the country for a while, for an alarm will be given if she is not found. You will need money, and have probably come after it." "You have guessed rightly," said Peter, "and make it a large amount this time, for America is far away." Michel preceded Peter into the hut, where he opened a chest in which was piled a large amount of money, and took out whole rolls of gold. While he was counting them out on the table, Peter said: "You are a frivolous fellow, Michel, to cheat me into thinking that I had a stone in the breast and that you had my heart!" "And is that not so?" asked Michel, surprised. "Can you feel your heart? Is it not as cold as ice? Can you experience fear or sorrow, or can any thing cause you remorse?" "You have only made my heart stand still, but I have it just the same as ever in my breast, and Ezekiel, too, says that you have lied to us. You are not the man who can tear a heart from another's breast without his knowing it, and without endangering his life; you would have to be a sorcerer to do that." "But I assure you," cried Michel indignantly, "that you and Ezekiel, and all the rich people who have had dealings with me, have hearts as cold as your own, and I have their true hearts here in my chamber." "Why, how the lies slip over your tongue!" laughed Peter. "You may tell that to some body else. Do you suppose that I haven't seen dozens of just such imitations on my travels? The hearts in your chamber are fashioned from wax! You are a rich fellow, I admit, but no sorcerer." The giant, in a rage, flung open the chamber door. "Come in here, and read all these labels; and look! that glass there holds Peter Munk's heart. Do you see how it beats? Can one imitate that too in wax?" "Nevertheless, it is made of wax;" exclaimed Peter. "A real heart doesn't beat in that way; and besides, I still have my own in my breast. No indeed, you are not a sorcerer!" "But I will prove it to you!" cried the giant, angrily. "You shall feel it yourself, and acknowledge that it is your heart." He took it out, tore Peter's jacket open, and took a stone from the young man's breast and held it up to him. Then taking up the beating heart, he breathed on it, and placed it carefully in its place, and at once Peter felt it beating in his breast, and he could once more rejoice thereat. "How is it with you now?" asked Michel smiling. "Verily, you were right," answered Peter, meanwhile drawing the little crystal cross from his pocket. "I would not have believed that one could do such a thing!" "Is it not so? And I can practice magic, as you see; but come, I will put the stone back again now." "Gently, Herr Michel!" cried Peter, taking a step backward, and holding up the cross between them. "One catches mice with cheese, and this time you are trapped." And forthwith, Peter began to pray, speaking whatever words came readily to his mind. Thereupon, Michel became smaller and smaller, sank down to the floor, writhed and twisted about like a worm, and gasped and groaned, while all the hearts began to beat and knock against their glass cages, until it sounded like the workshop of a clock-maker. Peter was very much frightened, and ran out of the house, and, driven on by terror, scaled the cliffs; for he heard Michel get up from the floor, stamp and rage, and shout after him the most terrible curses. On arriving at the top of the ravine, Peter ran towards the Tannenbuehl. A terrible thunderstorm came up; lightning flashed to the right and left, and shattered many trees, but he reached the Little Glass-Man's territory unharmed. His heart beat joyfully, because of the very pleasure it seemed to take in beating. But soon he looked back at his past life with horror, as at the thunder storm that had shattered the trees behind him. He thought of Lisbeth, his good and beautiful wife, whom he had murdered in his avarice. He looked upon himself as an outcast from mankind, and wept violently as he came to the Glass-Man's hill. Herr Schatzhauser sat under the pine tree, smoking a small pipe, but looking more cheerful than before. "Why do you weep, Charcoal Pete?" asked he. "Did you not get your heart? Does the cold one still lie in your breast?" "Alas, Master!" sighed Peter, "when I had the cold stone heart, I never wept. My eyes were as dry as the earth in July; but now the old heart is nearly broken in thinking of what I have done. I drove my debtors into misery and want, set my dogs on the poor and sick, and--you yourself saw how my whip fell on her beautiful forehead!" "Peter, you were a great sinner!" said the Little Glass-Man. "Money and idleness ruined you, until your heart, turned to stone, knew neither joy nor sorrow, remorse nor pity. But repentance brings pardon, and if I were only sure that you were very sorry for your past life, I might do something for you." "I do not want any thing more," replied Peter, with drooping head. "It is all over with me. I shall never know happiness again. What can I do, now that I am alone in the world? My mother will never pardon my behavior toward her; and perhaps I, monster that I am, have already brought her to the grave. And Lisbeth, my wife! No; rather kill me, Herr Schatzhauser, and make an end of my miserable life at once." "Very well," replied the little man, "if you will have it so; my ax is close by." He took his pipe quietly from his mouth, knocked out the ashes, and stuck it in his pocket. Then he rose slowly and went behind the tree. Peter sat weeping on the grass, caring nothing for his life, and waiting patiently for the death-blow. After some time he heard light steps behind him, and thought: "Now he is coming." "Look round once more, Peter Munk!" shouted the little man. Peter wiped the tears from his eyes and looked about him, and saw--his mother, and Lisbeth, his wife, who both looked at him pleasantly. He sprang up joyfully saying: "Then you are not dead, Lisbeth? And you too, mother, have you forgiven me?" "They will forgive you," said the Little Glass-Man, "because you feel true repentance, and every thing shall be forgotten. Return home now to your father's hut, and be a charcoal burner as before, and if you are honest and just you will honor your trade, and your neighbors will love and esteem you more highly than if you had ten tons of gold." Thus spake the Little Glass-Man, and bade them farewell. The three praised and blessed him, and then started home. The splendid house of the rich Peter Munk had vanished. The lightning had struck and consumed it, together with all its treasures. But it was not far to his mother's hut; thence they took their way, untroubled by the loss of Peter's palace. But how astonished were they on coming to the hut to find that it had been changed into a large house, like those occupied by the well-to-do peasants, and every thing inside was simple, was good and substantial. "The good Little Glass-Man has done this!" exclaimed Peter. "How beautiful!" cried Lisbeth; "and here I shall feel much more at home than in the great house with so many servants." From this time forth, Peter Munk was a brave and industrious man. He was contented with what he had, carried on his trade cheerfully, and so it came to pass that through his own efforts he became well-to-do and was well thought of throughout the Black Forest. He never quarreled again with his wife, honored his mother, and gave to the poor who passed his door. When, in due course of time, a beautiful boy was born to him, Peter went to the Tannenbuehl and spoke his verse. But the Little Glass-Man did not respond. "Herr Schatzhauser," cried Peter, "hear me this time; I only want to ask you to stand as godfather to my little boy!" But there was no reply; only a puff of wind blew through the pines and threw some cones down into the grass. "I will take these with me as a memento, since you will not show yourself," said Peter. He put the cones in his pocket, and went home; but when he took off his Sunday jacket and gave it to his mother to put away, four large rolls of coin fell from the pockets, and when they were opened they proved to be good, new Baden thalers, with not a counterfeit among them. And this was the godfather's gift from the little man in the Tannenbuehl to the little Peter. Thus they lived on, quietly and contentedly; and often afterwards, when the gray hairs began to show on Peter's head, he would say: "It is better to be contented with a little than to have gold and estates with a _marble heart_." Some five days had now passed, and Felix, the huntsman and the student were still the prisoners of the robbers. They were well treated by the chief and his men, but still they longed for their freedom, for each day that passed added to their fear of discovery. On the evening of the fifth day, the huntsman declared to his companions in misfortune that he was fully resolved to escape that night or die in the attempt. He incited his companions to the same resolve, and showed them how they should set about the attempt. "The guard who is posted nearest to us, I will look after," said he. "It is a case of necessity, and necessity knows no law;--he must die!" "Die!" repeated Felix in horror; "you would kill him?" "I am firmly resolved to do it, when it comes to the question of saving two human lives. You must know that I overheard the robbers whispering, in an anxious manner, that the woods were being scoured for them; and the old women, in their anger, let out the wicked designs of the band; they cursed about us, and it is an understood thing that if the robbers are attacked we shall die without mercy." "God in Heaven!" exclaimed the young man, hiding his face in his hands. "Still, they have not put the knives to our throats as yet," continued the huntsman, "therefore, let us get the start of them. When it gets dark I will steal up to the nearest guard; he will challenge me; I shall whisper to him that the countess has been suddenly taken very sick, and while he is off his guard I will stab him. Then I will return for you, and the second guard will not escape us any more easily; and between us three the third sentinel will not stand much of a show." The huntsman, as he spoke, looked so terrible that Felix was actually in fear of him. He was about to beg of him to give up these bloody designs, when the door of the hut opened softly, and a man's form stole in quickly. It was the robber chief. He closed the door carefully behind him, and motioned to the prisoners to keep quiet. He then sat down near Felix, and said: "Lady countess, your situation is a desperate one. Your husband has not kept faith with us; not only has he failed to send the ransom, but he has also aroused the government against us, and the militia are scouring the forest in all directions to capture me and my men. I have threatened your husband with your death, if an attempt was made to seize us; still either your life must be of very little account to him, or else he does not think we are in earnest. Your life is in our hands, and is forfeited under our laws. Have you any thing to say on the subject?" The prisoners looked down in great perplexity; they knew not what to answer, for Felix felt sure that a confession of his disguise would only increase their danger. "It is impossible for me," continued the robber, "to place a lady, for whom I have the utmost esteem, in danger. Therefore I will make a proposition for your rescue; it is the only way out that is left you; _I will fly with you._" Surprised, astonished beyond measure, they all looked at him while he continued: "The majority of my comrades have decided to go to Italy, and join a band of brigands there; but for my part it would not suit me to serve under another, and therefore I shall make no common cause with them. If, now, you will give me your word, lady countess, to speak a good word for me, to use your influence, with your powerful connections, for my protection, then I will set you free before it is too late." Felix was at a loss what to say. His honest heart was opposed to willfully exposing a man, who was offering to save his life, to a danger from which he might not afterwards be able to protect him. As he still remained silent, the robber continued: "At the present time, soldiers are wanted every-where; I will be satisfied with the most common position. I know that you have great influence, but I will not ask for any thing further than your promise to do something for me in this case." "Well, then," replied Felix, with eyes cast down, "I promise you to do what I can, whatever is in my power, to be of use to you. There is some consolation for me in the fact that of your own free will you are anxious to give up this life of a brigand." The robber chief kissed his hand with much emotion, and added, in a whisper, that the countess must be ready to go two hours after night had set in; and then left the hut with as much caution as he had entered it. The prisoners breathed freer, when he had gone. "Verily," exclaimed the huntsman, "God has softened his heart. How wonderful our means of escape! Did I ever dream that any thing like this could happen in the world, and that I should fall in with such an adventure?" "Wonderful, certainly!" said Felix; "but have I done right in deceiving this man? What will my protection amount to? Shall I not be luring him to the gallows, if I do not confess to him who I am?" "Why, how is it possible you can have such scruples, dear boy?" exclaimed the student; "and after you have played your part to such perfection, too! No, you needn't feel anxious on that score at all; that is nothing but a lawful subterfuge. Did he not attempt the outrage of kidnapping a noble lady? No, you have not done wrong; moreover I believe he will win favor with the authorities, when he, the head of the band, voluntarily surrenders himself." This last reflection comforted the young goldsmith. In joyful anticipations alternating with uneasy apprehensions over the success of the plan of escape, they passed the succeeding hours. It was already dark when the chief returned, laid down a bundle of clothes, and said: "Lady countess, in order to facilitate our flight, it is necessary for you to put on this suit of men's clothes. Get all ready. In an hour we shall begin our march." With these words, he left the prisoners; and the huntsman had great difficulty in refraining from laughter. "This will be the second disguise," cried he, "and I am sure that this will be better suited to you than the first one was!" They opened the bundle and found a handsome hunting costume, with all its belongings, which fitted Felix well. After he had put it on, the huntsman was about to throw the countess's clothes into a corner of the hut; but Felix would not consent to leave them there; he made a small bundle of them, and hinted that he meant to ask the countess to present them to him, and that he would preserve them all his life as a memento of these eventful days. Finally the robber chief came. He was fully armed, and brought the huntsman the rifle that had been taken away from him, and a powder-horn as well. He also gave the student a musket, and handed Felix a hunting knife, with the request that he would carry it and use it in case of necessity. It was fortunate for the three men that it was so dark, for the eager air with which Felix received this weapon might have betrayed his sex to the robber. As they stole carefully out of the hut, the huntsman noticed that the post near their hut was not guarded, so that it was possible for them to slip away from the huts unnoticed; yet the leader did not take the path that led up out of the ravine, but brought them all to a cliff that was so nearly perpendicular as to seem quite impassible. Arriving there, their guide showed them a rope-ladder secured to the rocks above. He swung his rifle on his back, and climbed up a little way, telling the countess to follow him, and offering his hand to assist her. The huntsman was the last to climb up. Arriving at the top of the cliff, they soon struck a foot-path, and walked away at a fast pace. [Illustration] "This foot-path," said their guide, "leads to the Aschaffenburg road. We will go to that place, as I have received information that your husband, the count, is stopping there now." They walked on in silence, the robber chief keeping the lead, and the others following close at his heels. After a three hours' walk, they stopped. The robber recommended Felix to sit down and rest. He then brought out some bread, and a flask of old wine, and offered this refreshment to the weary ones. "I believe that within an hour we shall strike some of the outposts established by the militia all around the forest. In that case I beg you to bespeak good treatment for me of the commanding officer." Felix assented, although he expected but little good to result from his interference. They rested for half an hour, and then continued their walk. They had gone on for about an hour, and had nearly reached the highway; the day was just breaking, and the shadows of night were disappearing from the forest, when their steps were suddenly arrested by a loud "Halt!" Five soldiers surrounded them, and told them that they must be taken before the commanding officer, and give an account of their presence in the forest. When they had gone fifty paces further, under the escort of the soldiers, they saw weapons gleaming in the thicket to the right and left of them; a whole army seemed to have taken possession of the forest. The mayor sat, with several other officers, under an oak tree. When the prisoners were brought before him, and just as he was about to question them as to whence they came and whither they were bound, one of the men sprang up exclaiming: "Good Heaven! what do I see? that is surely Godfried, our forester!" "You are right, Mr. Magistrate!" answered the huntsman, in a joyful voice. "It is I, and I have had a wonderful rescue from the hands of those wretches." The officers were astonished to see him; and the huntsman asked the mayor and the magistrate to step aside with him, when he related to them, in a few words, how they had escaped, and who the fourth man that accompanied them was. Rejoiced at this news, the mayor at once made preparations to have this important prisoner conveyed to another point; and then he led the young goldsmith to his comrades, and introduced him as the heroic youth that had, by his courage and presence of mind, saved the countess; and they all took Felix by the hand, praised him, and could not hear enough from him and the huntsman about their adventures. In the meantime it had become broad daylight. The mayor decided to accompany the rescued ones to the town. He went with them to the nearest village, where a wagon stood, and invited Felix to take a seat with him in the wagon; while the student, the huntsman, the magistrate, and many other people, rode before and after them; and thus they entered the city in triumph. Reports of the attack on the forest inn, and of the sacrifice of the young goldsmith, had spread over the country like wildfire; and just as rapidly did the news of their rescue now pass from mouth to mouth. It was, therefore, not to be wondered at, that they found the streets of the city crowded with people who were eager to catch a glimpse of the young hero. Everybody pressed forward, as the wagon rolled slowly through the streets. "There he is!" shouted the crowd. "Do you see him there in the wagon beside the officer! Long live the brave young goldsmith!" And the cheers of a thousand voices rent the air. Felix was deeply moved by the hearty welcome of the crowd. But a still more affecting reception awaited him at the court-house. A middle-aged man met him on the steps, and embraced him with tears in his eyes. "How can I reward you, my son?" cried he. "You have saved me my wife, and my children their mother; for the shock of such an imprisonment her gentle frame could not have survived." Strongly as Felix insisted that he would not accept of any reward for what he had done, the more did the count seem resolved that he should. At last the unfortunate fate of the robber chief occurred to the youth's mind, and he related to the count how this man had rescued him, thinking that he was the countess, and that therefore the robber was really entitled to the count's gratitude. The count, moved not so much by the action of the robber chief as by this fresh display of unselfishness on Felix's part, promised to do his best to save the robber from the punishment due his crimes. On the same day, the count took the young goldsmith, accompanied by the stout-hearted huntsman, to his palace, where the countess, still anxious for the fate of the young man, was waiting for news from the forest. Who could describe her joy when her husband entered her room, holding her deliverer by the hand? She was never through questioning and thanking him; she brought her children and showed to them the noble-hearted youth to whom their mother owed so much, and the little ones seized his hands, and the child-like way in which they spoke their thanks and their assurances that, next to their father and mother, they loved him better than any one else in the whole world, were to him a most blessed recompense for many sorrows, and for the sleepless nights he had passed in the robbers' camp. After the first moments of rejoicing were over, the countess beckoned to a servant, who presently brought the clothes and the knapsack that Felix had turned over to the countess in the forest inn. "Here is every thing," said she, with a kindly smile, "that you gave me on that terrible night; they enveloped me with a glamour that blinded my pursuers. They are once more at your service; still I will make you an offer for these clothes, that I may have some mementoes of you. And I ask you to take in exchange the sum which the robbers demanded for my ransom." Felix was confounded by the munificence of this present; his nobler self revolted against accepting a reward for what he had done voluntarily. "Gracious countess," said he, deeply moved, "I can not consent to this. The clothes shall be yours as you wished; but the money of which you spoke I can not take. Still, as I know that you are desirous of rewarding me in some way, instead of any other reward, let me continue to be blessed with your best wishes, and should I ever happen to be in need of assistance, you may be sure that I will call on you." In vain did the countess and her husband seek to change the young man's resolution; and the servant was about to carry the clothes and knapsack out again, when Felix remembered the ornament, which the occurrence of these happy scenes had put out of his mind. "Wait," cried he; "there is one thing in my knapsack, gracious lady, that you must permit me to take; every thing else shall be wholly and entirely yours." "Just as you please," said she; "although I should like, to keep every thing just as it is, to remember you by; so please take only what you can not do without. Yet, if I may be permitted to ask, what is it that lies so near to your heart that you don't wish to give it to me?" While she was speaking, the young man had opened the knapsack, and now produced a small red morocco case. "Every thing that belongs to me, you are welcome to," replied he, smiling; "but this belongs to my dear lady godmother. I did the work on it myself, and must carry it to her with my own hands. It is a piece of jewelry, gracious lady," continued he as he opened the case and held it out to her, "an ornament that I myself prepared." She took the case, but hardly had she looked at the ornament when she started back in surprise. "Did you say that these stones were intended for your godmother?" exclaimed she. "Yes, to be sure," answered Felix; "my lady godmother sent me the stones, I set them, and am now on the way to deliver them to her myself." The countess looked at him with deep emotion; the tears started from her eyes. "Then you are Felix Perner of Nuremberg?" said she. "Yes; but by what means did you find out my name so quickly?" asked the youth, in great perplexity. "O wonderful dispensation of heaven!" exclaimed she, turning to her astonished husband. "This is Felix, our little godson, the son of our maid, Sabine! Felix! I am the one whom you were on your way to see; and you saved your godmother from the robbers without knowing it." "What? Are you then the Countess Sandau, who did so much for me and my mother? And is this the Castle Maienburg, to which I was bound! How grateful I am to the kind fate that brought us together so strangely; thus I have been able to prove indeed, even if in small measure, my great thankfulness to you." "You did more for me than I shall ever be able to do for you; still while I live I shall try to show you how deeply indebted to you we all feel. My husband shall be to you a father, my children shall be as sisters, while I will be your true mother; and this ornament, that led you to me in the hour of my greatest need, shall be my most precious souvenir, for it will always remind me of you and of your noble spirit." Thus spake the countess; and well did she keep her word. She gave the fortunate Felix abundant support on his wanderings, and when he returned as a clever master of his art she bought a house for him in Nuremberg and fitted it up completely. Not the least striking among the appointments of his parlor were finely painted pictures, representing the scenes in the inn, and Felix's life among the robbers. There Felix lived as a clever goldsmith. The fame of his work, together with the wonderful story of his heroism, brought him customers from all parts of the realm. Many strangers, on coming to the beautiful city of Nuremberg, found their way to the shop of the famous Master Felix, in order to have a look at him, also to order an ornament made by him. But his most welcome visitors were the forester, the compass-maker, the student, and the wagoner. Whenever the latter travelled from Wuerzburg to Fuerth, he stopped to speak with Felix. The huntsman brought him presents from the countess nearly every year; while the compass-maker, after wandering about in all lands, settled down with Felix. One day they were visited by the student. He had grown to be an important man in the country, but was not ashamed to drop in now and then and take supper with Felix and the compass-maker. They lived over again all the scenes in the forest inn, and the former student related that he had seen the robber chief in Italy; he had improved very much for the better, and served as a brave soldier under the King of Naples. Felix was rejoiced to hear this. Without this man, it is true, he might never have been placed in so dangerous a situation as in those days of his captivity; but neither could he have escaped from the robber band without his aid. And thus it was that the brave master goldsmith had only peaceful and agreeable recollections of the _Inn in the Spessart_. PART III. * * * * * TALES OF THE PALACE. TALES OF THE PALACE. THE SHEIK'S PALACE AND HIS SLAVES. Ali Banu, Sheik of Alessandria, was a singular man. When he passed down the street of a morning, with a superb cashmere turban wound about his head, and clad in a festival habit, and sash worth not less than fifty camels, walking with slow and solemn steps, his forehead so contracted that his eyebrows met, his eyes cast down, and at every fifth step stroking his long black beard with a thoughtful air--when he thus took his way to the mosque, to give readings from the Koran to the Faithful, as required by his office; then the people on the street paused, looked after him, and said to one another: "He is really a handsome, stately man." "And rich,--a rich gentleman," another added; "extremely wealthy; has he not a palace on the harbor of Stamboul? Has he not estates and lands, and many thousand head of cattle, and a great number of slaves?" "Yes," spoke up a third; "and the Tartar who was recently sent here from Stamboul, with a message for the sheik from the sultan (may the Prophet preserve him), told me that our sheik was thought highly of by the minister of foreign affairs, by the lord high admiral, by all the ministers, in fact; yes, even by the sultan." "Yes," exclaimed a fourth, "fortune attends his steps. He is a wealthy distinguished gentleman; but--but--you know what I mean!" "Yes, certainly," interrupted the others; "it is true he has his burden to carry, and I wouldn't care to change places with him. He is rich, and a man of rank, but, but--" Ali Banu had a splendid house on the finest square in Alessandria. In front of the house was a broad terrace, surrounded by a marble wall, and shaded by palm trees. Here the sheik often sat of an evening smoking his nargileh. At a respectable distance, twelve richly costumed slaves awaited his orders; one carried his betel, another held his parasol, a third had vessels of solid gold filled with rare sherbet, a fourth carried a fan of peacock's feathers to drive away the flies from his master's person, others were singers and carried lutes and wind instruments to entertain him with music when he so desired, while the best educated of them all carried scrolls from which to read to their master. But they waited in vain for him to signify his pleasure. He desired neither music nor song; he did not wish to hear passages or poems from the wise poets of the past; he would not taste of the sherbet, nor chew of the betel; and even the slave with the fan had his labor for his pains, as the master was indifferent to the flies that buzzed about him. The passers-by often stopped and wondered over the splendor of the house, at the richly dressed slaves, and the signs of comfort that prevailed every-where; but when their eyes fell on the sheik, sitting so grave and melancholy under the palms, with his gaze never once wandering from the little blue clouds of his nargileh, they shook their heads and said: "Truly, this rich man is a poor man. He, who has so much, is poorer than one who has nothing; for the Prophet has not given him the sense to enjoy it." Thus spake the people; they laughed at him and passed on. One evening, as the sheik again sat under the palms before his door, in all his pomp, some young men standing in the street looked at him and laughed. "Truly," said one, "Sheik Ali Banu is a foolish man; had I his wealth, I should make a different use of it. Every day I would live sumptuously and in joy; my friends should dine with me in the large _salons_ of the house, and song and laughter should fill these sad halls." "Yes," rejoined another, "all that might be very fine; but many friends would make short work of a fortune, even were it as large as that of the sultan (whom the Prophet preserve); but if I sat there under the palms, fronting this beautiful square, my slaves should sing and play, my dancers should come and dance and leap and furnish all sorts of entertainment. Then, too, I should take pleasure in smoking the nargileh, should be served with the costly sherbet, and enjoy myself in all this like a king of Bagdad." "The sheik," said a third young man, who was a writer, "should be a wise and learned man; and really his lectures on the Koran show him to be a man of extensive reading; But is his life ordered as is beseeming in a man of sense? There stands a slave, with an armful of scrolls; I would give my best suit of clothes just to read one of them, for they are certainly rare treasures. But he! Why, he sits and smokes, and leaves books--books--alone! If I were Sheik Ali Banu, the fellow should read to me until he was entirely out of breath, or until night came on; and even then he should read to me till I had fallen asleep." "Ha! you will grant that my plan for enjoying life is the best," laughed a fourth. "Eating and drinking, dancing and singing, hearing the tales and poems of miserable authors! No, I would have it all another way. He has the finest of horses and camels, and abundance of money. In his place, I would travel--travel to the ends of the earth, to the Muscovites, to the Franks; no distance should prevent my seeing the wonders of the world. That's what I would do, if I were that man yonder." "Youth is a beautiful season, and the age at which one is joyful," said an old man, of insignificant appearance, who stood near them, and had overheard their conversation. "But permit me to say that youth is also foolish, and talks thoughtlessly now and then without knowing what it says." "What were you saying, old man?" asked the young men in surprise. "Did you mean us? How does it concern you, if we find fault with the sheik's mode of life?" "If one is better informed than another, he should correct the other's errors; so says the Prophet," rejoined the old man. "The sheik, it is true, is blessed with plenty, and has every thing that the heart could desire; yet he has reason to be sad and melancholy. Did you suppose he was always thus? No; fifteen years ago he was cheerful and active as the gazelle, lived merrily, and enjoyed life. At that time he had a son, the joy of his life, handsome and talented, and those who saw and heard him talk envied the sheik his idol, for he was not more than ten years old, and yet there were few youths of eighteen as well educated." "And he died? The poor sheik!" cried the young writer. "It would be a consolation to the sheik to know that he had gone to the mansions of the Prophet, where he would be better off than here in Alessandria; but that which the sheik had to suffer is far worse. It was at the time when the Franks, like hungry wolves, invaded our land, and waged war against us. They took Alessandria, and from here they went on further and attacked the Mamelukes. The sheik was a wise man, and understood how to get along with the enemy. But whether it was because they had designs on his treasure, or because he had taken the Faithful into his house, I do not know for a certainty; but they came one day to him and accused him of having secretly supplied the Mamelukes with provisions, horses and weapons. It was of no use that he proved his innocence, for the Franks are a rough, hardhearted people, when it is a question of extorting money. They took his young son, Kairam, as a hostage to their camp. The sheik offered a large sum of money for his return, but they held on to the boy for a still higher bid. In the meantime they received an order from their pasha, or whatever his title might be, to embark on their vessels. Not a soul in Alessandria knew a thing about it, and all at once they were seen standing out to sea, having, it is believed, taken little Kairam with them, as nothing has ever been heard of him since." "Oh, the poor man! how terribly Allah has chastened him!" the young men exclaimed in concert, looking with pity at the sheik, who, with such magnificent surroundings, sat sad and lonely under the palms. "His wife, whom he loved so dearly, died from grief at the loss of her son. The sheik then bought a ship, fitted it out, and induced the Frank physician who lives down there by the fountain, to sail with him to the country of the Franks, to search for young Kairam. They set sail, and had a long passage before reaching the land of those Giaours, those Infidels, who had been in Alessandria. But there every thing was in a horrible tumult. They had just beheaded their sultan; and the pashas and the rich and the poor were now engaged in taking each other's heads off, and there was no order or law in the land. Their search for little Kairam was a vain one, and the Frank physician finally advised the sheik to embark for home, as their own heads might be endangered by a longer stay. So they came back again; and since their arrival the sheik has lived just as he does to-day, mourning for his son. And he is in the right. Must he not think, whenever he eats and drinks: 'Perhaps at this moment my poor Kairam hungers and thirsts?' And when he has arranged himself in costly shawls, and holiday suits, as required by his office and rank, must he not think: 'He has probably nothing now with which to cover his nakedness?' And when he is surrounded by singers, dancers, readers, who are all his slaves, does he not think: 'Now my son may be dancing and making music for his master in the Frank's country, just as he is ordered?' But what pains him most is the fear lest little Kairam, being so far from the land of his fathers, and surrounded by Infidels who jest at his religion, may become separated from the faith of his fathers, so that he will not at the last be able to embrace him in the gardens of paradise. This is what makes him so mild with his slaves, and prompts his large gifts to the poor; for he believes that Allah will recompense him by moving the heart of his son's master to treat Kairam with kindness. Also, on each anniversary of his son's abduction, he sets twelve slaves free." "I have heard of that," said the writer. "One hears curious stories floating about; but no mention was made to me of the son. But, on the other hand, it is said that the sheik is a singular man, and remarkably fond of stories, and that every year he institutes a story-telling match between his slaves, and the one who tells the best story is rewarded with his freedom." "Don't put any faith in these reports," said the old man. "It is just as I have told you; it is, however, possible that he seeks the relaxation afforded by a story, on this day of painful recollections; but still he frees the slaves on his son's account. But the night is cold, and I have far to go. _Schalem aleikum_--peace be with you, young gentlemen, and think better, in the future, of the good sheik." The young people thanked the old man for the information he had given them, glanced once more at the sorrowing father, and walked away saying to one another: "On the whole, I should not care to be the Sheik Ali Banu." Not long afterward, it so happened that these same young men passed down the street at the hour of morning prayers. The old man and his story recurred to their minds, and they expressed their sympathy for the sheik as they looked up at his house. But how astonished were they to find the house and grounds gaily decorated! From the roof, where comely slave women were promenading, banners waved; the porch of the house was covered with costly carpets; silks were laid down over the steps, and beautiful cloth, of a texture so fine that most people would have been glad to have a holiday suit cut from it, was spread well into the street. "Hey! How the sheik has changed in the last few days!" exclaimed the young writer. "Is he about to give a banquet? Will he test the powers of his singers and dancers? Only look at this carpet! Is there another as fine in all Alessandria? And this cloth laid right on the ground; really that is too wasteful!" "Do you know what I think?" said another. "He must be going to receive some guest of high rank; for these are preparations such as are made when a ruler of a great country or a minister of the sultan blesses a house with his presence. Who can possibly be coming today?" "Look! is not that our old friend below? He would be able to give us some information about this. Ho, there! old gentleman! Can't you come up here a moment?" The old man noticed their gestures, and approached them, recognizing them as the young men with whom he had conversed some days before. They called his attention to the changes in the sheik's house, and asked him if he knew what distinguished guest was expected. "You seem to think," replied he, "that Ali Banu has arranged for some festivities, or that he is to be honored by the visit of some great man. Such is not the case; but to-day is the twelfth day of the month of Ramadan, as you know, and is the day on which his son was taken prisoner." "But by the beard of the Prophet!" exclaimed one of the young fellows; "everything there has the appearance of a wedding or other festival; and still it is the anniversary of his greatest sorrow. Come, how will you harmonize this discrepancy? Confess that the sheik is somewhat shattered in mind." "Do you always render such a hasty verdict, my young friend?" asked the old man, smiling. "This time also your arrow was pointed and sharp, and the string of your bow drawn tight; and yet your arrow flew wide of the mark. Know, then, that to-day the sheik expects his son!" "Then he is found?" shouted the young men joyfully. "No, and it will probably be a long time before he is found. But listen: Eight or ten years ago, as the sheik was passing this anniversary in sorrow and lamentations, also freeing slaves and giving food and drink to the poor, it so happened that he also gave food and drink to a dervish, who, tired and faint, lay in the shadow of his house. Now the dervish was a holy man, and experienced in prophecies and the signs of the stars. After his refreshment by the kind hand of the sheik, he went up to him and said: 'I know the cause of your sorrow; is not today the twelfth of Ramadan, and was it not on this day that you lost your son? But cheer up, for this day of sadness shall be changed to one of joy; know that on this same day your son will sometime return to you.' "Thus spake the dervish. It would be a sin for a Mussulman to doubt the word of such a man, and although the sorrow of Ali Banu may not have been lessened thereby, yet he continues to look for the return of his son on this day, and adorns his house and porch and steps as though little Kairam might arrive at any moment." "Wonderful!" exclaimed the writer. "But I should like to see the decorations inside the house, and note how the sheik bears himself amongst all this splendor; but, above all, I should like to listen to the tales that are related to him by his slaves." "Nothing easier to arrange than that," replied the old man. "The steward of the slaves of that house has been my friend these many years, and would not grudge me a seat in the _salon_, where, among the crowd of servants and friends of the sheik, a single stranger would not be noticed. I will speak to him about letting you in; there are only four of you, and it might be arranged. Come at the ninth hour to this square, and I will give you an answer." The young men returned their thanks, and went away full of curiosity to see how all this would end. The young men were on hand at the appointed hour, and on the square before the sheik's house they met the old man, who told them that the steward would admit them. He went before them, not by way of the decorated steps and gate, but through a little side gate, that he closed carefully after them. Then he led them through many passages until they came to the large _salon_. Here there was a great crowd on all sides; there were richly dressed men of rank of the city--friends of the sheik, who had come to console him in his sorrow. There were slaves of every race and nation. But everybody wore a sorrowful expression, for they all loved their master and shared his grief. At one end of the _salon_, on a costly divan, sat the nearest friends of Ali Banu, who were waited upon by slaves. Near them, on the floor, sat the sheik, whose grief would not permit him to sit in state. His head was supported in his hands, and he seemed to be paying little attention to the consolations whispered to him by his friends. Opposite him sat some old and young men in slave costume. The old man informed his young friends that these were the slaves whom Ali Banu would free to-day. Among them were some Franks; and the old man called his friends' special attention to one of them, who was of extraordinary beauty, and was still quite young. The sheik had recently bought him, for an enormous sum, from some slave-dealers of Tunis, and was, notwithstanding his high cost, about to set him free, believing that the more Franks he returned to their fatherland the sooner the Prophet would restore his son. After refreshments had been handed around, the sheik gave a sign to the steward, who now stood up amid the deep silence that prevailed in the room. He stepped before the slaves who were shortly to be freed, and said in a clear voice: "Men, who will receive your freedom to-day, through the grace of my master Ali Banu, Sheik of Alessandria, conform now to the custom of this house on this day, and begin your narratives." After much whispering among themselves, an old slave arose and began his story. * * * * * THE DWARF NOSEY. Sire! They are wrong who believe that fairies and magicians existed only at the time of Haroun-al-Raschid, or who assert that the reports of the doings of the genii and their princes, which one hears on the market-place, are untrue. There are fairies to-day, and it is not so long ago that I myself was the witness of an occurrence in which genii were concerned. In an important city of my dear fatherland, Germany, there lived, some years ago, a poor but honest shoemaker and his wife. In the day time he sat at the corner of the street, repairing shoes and slippers, and even made new ones when he could find a customer, although he had to first purchase the leather, as he was too poor to keep any stock on hand. His wife sold vegetables and fruits, raised by her on a small plat before their door, and many people chose to buy of her because she was clean and neatly dressed, and knew how to make the best display of her vegetables. These worthy people had a pleasant-faced, handsome boy, well-shaped and quite large for a child of eight years. He was accustomed to sit by his mother's side on the market-place, and to carry home a part of the fruit for the women or cooks who bought largely of his mother; and he rarely returned from these errands without a beautiful flower, or a piece of money, or cakes;--as the masters of these cooks were always pleased to see the little fellow at their houses, and never failed to reward him generously. One day the shoemaker's wife sat, as usual, in the market-place; while ranged around her were baskets of cabbages and other vegetables, all kinds of herbs and seeds, and also, in a small basket, early pears, apples, and apricots. Little Jacob--this was the boy's name--sat near her and cried her wares in a manly voice: "This way, gentlemen! see what beautiful cabbages! how sweet-smelling are these herbs! early pears, ladies! early apples and apricots! Who buys? My mother offers them cheap." An old woman came to the market, torn and ragged, with a small sharp-featured face, wrinkled with age, and a crooked pointed nose that nearly reached the chin. She leaned on a long crutch; and it was not easy to see how she got over the ground, as she limped and slid and staggered along--as if she had wheels on her feet, and was in momentary danger of being tilted over and striking her pointed nose on the pavement. The shoemaker's wife looked attentively at this old woman. For sixteen years she had been in daily attendance at the market, but had never before seen this singular creature. But she involuntarily shrank back, as the old woman tottered towards her and stopped before her baskets. "Are you Hannah, the vegetable dealer?" asked the old woman, in a harsh cracked voice, her head shaking from side to side. "Yes, I am she," replied the shoemaker's wife. "Can I do any thing for you?" "We'll see, we'll see! Look at the herbs, look at the herbs, and see whether you have any thing I want," answered the old woman as she bent down over the baskets, and, pushing her dark skinny hands down among the herbs, seized the bundles that were so tastefully spread out, and raised them one after another to her long nose, snuffing at every part of them. It pressed heavily on the heart of the shoemaker's wife to see her rare herbs handled in such a way, but she did not dare to offer any objections, as purchasers were privileged to examine her goods; and, besides this, she experienced a singular fear of the old woman. When she had rummaged through the basket, the old woman muttered: "Miserable stuff! poor herbs! nothing there that I want; much better fifty years ago; bad stuff--bad stuff!" These remarks displeased little Jacob. "You are a shameless old woman!" cried he, angrily. "First you put your dirty brown fingers into the beautiful herbs and rumple them, then you put them up to your long nose, so that any one who saw it done will never buy them, and then you abuse our wares by calling them poor stuff, when, let me tell you, the duke's cook buys every thing of us!" The old woman squinted at the spirited boy, laughed derisively, and said in a husky voice: "Sonny--sonny! So my nose, my beautiful long nose, pleases you? You shall also have one in the middle of your face to hang down to your chin." While speaking, she slid along to another basket containing cabbages. She took the finest white head up in her hands, squeezed them together till they creaked, flung them down again into the basket in disorder, and repeated once more: "Bad wares! poor cabbages!" "Don't wabble your head about so horribly!" exclaimed the boy, uneasily. "Your neck is as thin as a cabbage-Stem; it might break and let your head fall into the basket; who then would buy of us?" "Don't you like my thin neck?" muttered the old woman, laughing. "You shall have none at all, but your head shall stick into your shoulders, so as not to fall from your little body." "Don't talk such stuff to the child!" said the shoemaker's wife, indignant at the continued inspection, fingering and smelling of her wares. "If you want to buy any thing, make haste; you are driving off all my other customers." "Good! it shall be as you say," cried the old woman, grimly. "I will take these six heads of cabbage. But look here--I have to lean on my crutch and cannot carry any thing; let your little son carry my purchases home; I will reward him." The child was unwilling to go, and began to cry, as he was afraid of the ugly old woman; but his mother bade him go, as she considered it a sin to burden a weak old woman with so heavy a load. Half crying, he obeyed her; gathered the cabbages together in a towel, and followed the old woman from the market. She went so slowly that it was three quarters of an hour before she reached a remote part of the city, and finally stopped before a tumble-down house. Then she drew a rusty old hook from her pocket, and inserted it skillfully into a small hole in the door, which sprung open with a bang. But how surprised was little Jacob as he entered! The interior of the house was splendidly fitted up; the ceilings and walls were of marble; the furniture of the finest ebony, inlaid with gold and mother-of-pearl; while the floor was of glass, and so smooth that the boy slipped and fell several times. The old woman then drew a silver whistle from her pocket and whistled a tune that resounded shrilly through the house. In response to this, some Guinea-pigs came down the stairs; but, as seemed strange to Jacob, they walked upright on two legs, wore nutshells in place of shoes, and had on clothes and even hats of the latest fashion. "Where are my slippers, you rabble?" demanded the old woman, striking at them with her crutch as they sprang squeaking into the air. "How long must I stand here waiting?" The pigs rushed quickly up the stairs, and soon returned, bringing a pair of cocoanut shells lined with leather, which the old woman put on. Now all her limping and stumbling disappeared. She threw her staff away, and glided with great rapidity over the glass floor, pulling little Jacob along by the hand. At last she stopped in a room containing all kinds of furniture, that bore some resemblance to a kitchen, although the tables were mahogany, and the divans were covered with rich tapestry, suitable for a room of state. "Take a seat," said the old woman pleasantly, placing Jacob in a corner of the divan and moving the table before him, so that he could not well get out of his seat. "Sit down; you have had a heavy load to carry. Human heads are not so light, not so light." "But, madame, what strange things you say!" cried the boy. "I am really tired; but then I carried cabbage-heads that you bought of my mother." "Eh! you are mistaken," laughed the old woman, as she lifted the cover of the basket and took out a human head by the hair. The child was frightened nearly out of his wits. He could not imagine how this had occurred; but he thought at once of his mother, and that if any one were to hear of this she would certainly be arrested. "I must now give you a reward for being so polite," muttered the old woman. "Have patience for a little while, and I will make you a soup that you will never forget as long as you live." With this she whistled once more. Thereupon many Guinea-pigs, all in clothes, came in; they had kitchen aprons tied around them, and in their waistbands were ladles and carving-knives. After these, a lot of squirrels came leaping in, dressed in wide Turkish trousers, standing upright, and wearing little velvet caps on their heads. They seemed to be the scullions, as they raced up and down the walls and brought pans and dishes, eggs and butter, herbs and meal, which they placed on the hearth. Then the old woman glided across the floor in her cocoanut shoes, bustled about now here and now there, and the boy saw she was about to cook him something. Now the fire crackled and blazed up; then the kettle began to smoke and steam; an agreeable odor was spread through the room: while the old woman ran back and forth, followed by the squirrels and Guinea-pigs, and whenever she came to the fire she stopped to stick her long nose into the pot. Finally the soup began to bubble and boil, clouds of steam shot up into the air, and the froth ran over into the fire. Thereupon the old woman took the kettle off, poured some of its contents into a silver bowl, and placed the same before little Jacob, saying: "There, sonny, there, eat some of this soup, and you shall have those things that so pleased you about me. You will also become a clever cook; but herbs--no, you will never find such herbs; why didn't your mother have them in her basket." The boy did not understand very well what she said, but he gave his whole attention to the soup, which was very much to his taste. His mother had often prepared him nice food, but never any thing that could equal this. The fragrance of choice herbs and spices rose from his soup, which was neither too sweet nor too sour, and very strong. While he was swallowing the last drops from the bowl, the Guinea-pigs burned some Arabic incense, the blue smoke of which swept through the room. Thicker and thicker became these clouds, till they filled the room from floor to ceiling. The odor of the incense had a magical effect on the boy; for, cry as often as he would that he must go back to his mother, at every attempt to rouse himself he sank back sleepily, and finally fell fast asleep on the old woman's divan. He dreamed strange dreams. It seemed to him that the old woman was pulling off his clothes, and giving him in their place the skin of a squirrel. Now he could leap and climb like a squirrel; he associated with the other squirrels and with the Guinea-pigs, all of whom were very nice well-bred people, and in common with them, thought himself in the service of the old woman. At first his duties were those of a shoe-black--that is, he had to put oil on the cocoanuts that served the old woman for slippers, and rub them until they shone brightly. However, as he had often done similar work at home, he was quite skillful at it. After the first year--as it seemed to him in his dream--he was given more genteel employment; with other squirrels, he was occupied in catching floating particles of dust, and when they had accumulated enough of these particles, they rubbed them through the finest hair sieve, for the old woman considered these dust atoms to be something superb, and as she had lost her teeth, she had her bread made of them. After another year's service, he thought, he was placed in the ranks of those whose duty it was to provide the old woman with drinking-water. You must not suppose that she had had a cistern sunk, or placed a barrel in the yard to catch rain-water for this purpose; no, there was much more refinement displayed; the squirrels--and Jacob among them--had to collect the dew of the roses in hazelnut shells for the old woman's drink. And as she was a very thirsty body, the water-carriers had a hard time of it. In the course of another year he was given some inside work, such as the position of floor-cleaner; and as the floor was of glass, on which even a breath would gather, he had no easy task. They had to sweep it, and were required to do their feet up in old cloths, and in that condition step around the room. In the fourth year he was employed in the kitchen. This was a position of honor that could be attained only after a long apprenticeship. Jacob served there, rising from a scullion to be first pastry-cook, and soon acquired such uncommon cleverness and experience in all arts of the kitchen, that he often wondered at himself. The most difficult dishes--such as pasties seasoned with two hundred different essences, and vegetable soup consisting of all the vegetables on earth--all this he was learned in, and could prepare any thing speedily. Thus had some seven years passed in the service of the old woman, when one day she took off her cocoanut shoes, grasped her crutch, and ordered Jacob to pluck a chicken, stuff it with herbs, and have it all nicely roasted by the time she came back. He did all this in accordance with the rules of his art. He wrung the chicken's neck, scalded it in hot water, pulled out the feathers, scraped the skin till it was nice and smooth, and, having drawn it, began to collect some herbs for the dressing. In the room where the vegetables were kept he discovered a closet which he had never noticed before, the door of which stood ajar. He went nearer, curious to see what was kept there; and beheld many baskets, from which a powerful but pleasant odor arose. He opened one of these baskets and found therein herbs of quite peculiar shape and color. The stems and leaves were of a bluish-green, and bore a small flower of brilliant red, bordered with gold. He examined this flower thoughtfully, smelt of it, and discovered that it gave forth the same strong odor that he had inhaled from the soup the old woman had cooked for him so long ago. But so strong was the fragrance that he began to sneeze; he sneezed more and more violently, and at last--woke up, sneezing. [Illustration] He lay on the divan and looked around him in astonishment. "Really, how true one's dreams do seem!" said he to himself. "Just now I should have been willing to swear that I was a mean little squirrel, the companion of Guinea-pigs and other low creatures, and from them exalted to be a great cook! How my mother will laugh when I tell her all this! But may she not scold me for going to sleep in a strange house, instead of hurrying back to help her at the market-place?" So thinking, he got up to go away; but found his limbs cramped, and his neck so stiff that he could not move it from side to side. He had to laugh at himself for being so helplessly sleepy; for every moment, before he knew it, he was striking his nose on a clothes-press, or on the wall, or knocked it against the door-frame when he turned around quickly. The squirrels and Guinea-pigs were whining around him, as if they wanted to accompany him, and he actually gave them an invitation to do so, as he stood upon the threshold, for they were nice little creatures; but they rushed quickly back into the house on their nutshells, and he could hear them squeaking from a distance. It was a remote quarter of the city into which the old woman had led him, and he had difficulty in finding his way out of the narrow alleys; besides, he was in the midst of a crowd who seemed to have discovered a dwarf in the vicinity, for all around him he heard shouts of: "Hey! look at the ugly dwarf! Where does the dwarf come from? Why, what a long nose he has! and look at the way his head sticks into his shoulders, and his ugly brown hands!" At any other time, Jacob would willingly have joined them, as it was one of the delights of his life to see giants or dwarfs, or any rare and strange sights; but now he felt obliged to hurry back to his mother. He was rather uneasy in his mind when he arrived at the market. His mother still sat there, and had quite a quantity of fruit in the basket; so that he could not have slept very long after all. But still he noticed, before reaching her, that she was very sad, as she did not call on the passers to buy, but supported her head in her hand; and when he came nearer he thought her much paler than usual. He hesitated as to what he should do, but finally mustered up courage to slip up behind her, laid his hand confidingly on her arm and said: "Mother, what is the matter? Are you angry with me?" His mother turned around, but on perceiving him sprang back with a cry of horror. "What do you want with me, ugly dwarf?" cried she. "Be off with you! I will not stand such tricks!" "But, mother, what is the matter with you?" asked Jacob, in a frightened way. "You are certainly not well; why do you chase your son away from you?" "I have already told you to go your way," replied Hannah, angrily. "You will get no money from me by your jugglery, you hateful monster!" "Surely, God has taken away her understanding!" said the child, sorrowfully, to himself. "What means shall I take to get her home? Dear mother, only be reasonable now; just look at me once closely; I am really your son, your Jacob." "This joke is being carried too far," cried Hannah to her neighbor. "Only look at this hateful dwarf, who stands there and keeps away all my customers, besides daring to make a jest of my misfortune. He says to me, 'I am your son, your Jacob,'--the impudent fellow!" Upon that Hannah's neighbors all got up and began to abuse him as wickedly as they knew how--and market-women, as you know, understand it pretty well--ending by accusing him of making sport of the misfortune of poor Hannah, whose son, beautiful as a picture, had been stolen from her seven years ago: and they threatened to fall upon him in a body, and scratch his eyes out, if he did not at once go away. Poor little Jacob knew not what to make of all this. Was it not true that he had gone to the market as usual with his mother, early this morning? that he had helped her arrange the fruits, and afterwards had gone with the old woman to her house, had there eaten a little soup, had indulged in a short nap, and come right back again? And now his mother and her neighbors talked about seven years, and called him an ugly dwarf! What, then, had happened to him? When he saw that his mother would not hear another word from him, tears sprang into his eyes, and he went sadly down the street to the stall where his father mended shoes. "Now I will see," thought he, "whether my father will not know me. I will stop in the door-way and speak to him." On arriving at the shoemaker's stall, he placed himself in the door-way, and looked in. The master was so busily occupied with his work, that he did not notice him at first, but when by chance he happened to look at the door, he let shoes, thread and awl drop to the ground, and exclaimed in affrights "In heaven's name!--what is that? what is that?" "Good evening, master," said the boy, as he stepped inside the shop. "How do you do?" "Poorly, poorly, little master," replied the father, to Jacob's great surprise; as he also did not seem to recognize him. "My business does not flourish very well, I have no one to assist me, and am getting old; and yet an apprentice would be too dear." "But have you no little son, who could one of these days assist you in your work?" inquired the boy. "I had one, whose name was Jacob, and who must now be a tall active fellow of twenty, who could be a great support to me were he here. He must lead a happy life now. When he was only twelve years old he showed himself to be very clever, and already understood a good deal about the trade. He was pretty and pleasant too. He would have attracted custom, so that I should not have to mend any more, but only make new shoes. But so it goes in the world!" "Where is your son, then?" asked Jacob, in a trembling voice. "God only knows," replied the old man. "Seven years ago,--seven years--he was stolen from us on the market-place." "Seven years ago!" exclaimed Jacob in amazement. "Yes, little master, seven years ago. I remember as though it were but yesterday how my wife came home weeping, and crying that the child had been gone the whole day, that she had inquired and searched everywhere, but could not find him. I had often said that it would turn out so; for Jacob was a beautiful child, as everybody said, and my wife was so proud of him, and was pleased when the people praised him, and she often sent him to carry vegetables and the like to the best houses. That was all well enough; he was richly rewarded every time; but I always said: 'Take care! the city is large, and many bad people live in it. Mind what I say about little Jacob?' Well, it turned out as I had predicted. An ugly old woman once came to the market, haggled over some fruits and vegetables, and finally bought more than she could carry home. My wife--compassionate soul--sent the child with her; and from that hour we saw him no more!" "And that was seven years ago you say?" "It will be seven years in the Spring. We had him cried on the streets, and went from house to house and inquired for him. Many had known and loved the pretty youngster, and now searched with us; but all in vain. Nor did any one know who the woman was that had bought the vegetables; but a decrepit old woman, some ninety years of age, said that it was very likely the wicked witch _Kraeuterweiss_, who comes once in every fifty years to the city to make purchases." Such was the story Jacob's father told him; and when the shoemaker had finished, he pegged away stoutly at his shoe, drawing the thread out with both fists as far as his arms could reach. By and by Jacob comprehended what had happened to him, namely: that he had not dreamed at all, but that he must have served the wicked witch as a squirrel for seven years. Anger and grief so swelled his heart that it almost broke. The old woman had stolen seven years of his youth; and what had he received as compensation therefor? The ability to make cocoanut slippers shine brightly; to clean a glass floor; and all the mysteries of cooking that he had learned of the guinea-pigs. He stood there a long time thinking over his fate, when his father finally asked him: "Is there any thing in my line you would like, young master? A pair of new slippers, or," he added, smiling, "perhaps a covering for your nose." "What's that about my nose?" asked Jacob. "What do I want of a cover for it?" "Well," responded the shoemaker, "every one to his taste; but I must say this much to you: if I had such a terrible nose, I would make for it a case of rose-colored patent leather. Look! I have a fine piece of it in my hand here; it would take at least a yard. But how well your nose would be protected! As it is now, I know you can't help striking your nose on every door-post, and against every wagon that you try to get out of the way of." Jacob stood mute with terror. He felt of his nose; it was thick, and at least two hands long! So, too, had the old woman changed his figure so that his mother did not know him, and everybody had called him an ugly dwarf! "Master," said he, half crying, "have you a mirror handy, where I can look at myself?" "Young master," replied his father gravely. "You do not possess a figure that should make you vain, and you can have no reason to look in a glass every hour. Break off the habit; it is an especially silly one for you to indulge in." "Oh, do but let me look in the glass!" cried Jacob. "I assure you it is not from vanity I ask it." "Leave me in peace--I have none. My wife has a small one, but I don't know where she keeps it. But if you are bound to look in a glass, across the street lives Urban, the barber, who has a mirror twice as large as your head; look into that; and in the meantime, good morning!" With these words, his father pushed him gently out of the door, closed it after him, and sat down once more to his work. Jacob, very much cast-down, went across the street to Urban, whom he had known well in the past. "Good morning, Urban," said he to the barber. "I have come to beg a small favor of you; be so good as to let me look into your glass a moment." "With pleasure; there it is," laughed the barber, and his customers, who were waiting for a shave, laughed with him. "You are a pretty fellow, tall and slim, with a neck like a swan, hands like a queen, and a stumpy nose that can not be equalled for beauty. You are a little vain of it, to be sure; but keep on looking; it shall not be said of me that I was so jealous I would not let you look in my glass." The barber's speech was followed by shouts of laughter that fairly shook the shop. Jacob, in the meantime, had approached the mirror and looked at his reflection in the glass. Tears came into his eyes. "Yes, surely you could not recognize your little Jacob, dear mother," thought he. "He did not look thus in those joyful days when you paraded with him before the people!" His eyes had become small, like those of the pigs; his nose was monstrous, and hung down over his mouth and chin; the neck seemed to have entirely disappeared, as his head sank deeply into his shoulders, and it was only with the greatest effort that he could move it to the right or left. His body was still of the same height as seven years before; but what others gain from the twelfth to the twentieth year in height, he made up in breadth. His back and breast were drawn out rounding, so as to present the appearance of a small but closely-packed sack. This stout, heavy trunk was placed on thin, weak legs that did not seem able to support the weight. But still larger were his arms; they were as large as those of a full-grown man; his hands were rough, and of a yellowish-brown; his fingers long and spindling, and when he stretched them down straight he could touch the ground with their tips without stooping. Such was the appearance of little Jacob, who had grown to be a misshapen dwarf. He recalled now the morning on which the old woman had come up to his mother's baskets. Every thing that he had criticised about her--the long nose, the ugly fingers, every thing, she had inflicted on him; only the long trembling neck she had left out entirely. "Well, have you seen enough of yourself, my prince?" said the barber, stepping towards him with a laugh. "Really, if one were to try and dream of any thing like it, it would not be possible. For I will make you a proposal, my little man. My barber shop is certainly well patronized, but not so well as it used to be, which results from the fact that my neighbor, Barber Schaum, has somewhere picked up a giant, who serves to allure customers to his shop. Now, to grow a giant no great art is required; but to produce a little man like you is quite another matter. Enter my service, little man; you shall have food, drink and lodging--every thing; for all which you shall stand outside of my door mornings, and invite the people to come in; you shall make the lather, and hand the customers the towel; and be assured we shall both be benefitted. I shall get more customers than the man with the giant, while each one of them will cheerfully give you a fee." Jacob's soul recoiled at the thought of serving as a sign for a barber. But was he not forced to suffer this abuse patiently? He therefore quietly told the barber that he had not the time for such services, and went on his way. Although the wicked old woman had changed his form, she had had no power over his spirit, and of this fact Jacob was well aware, as he no longer felt and thought as he had done seven years before. No; he knew he had grown wiser and more intelligent in this interval; he sorrowed not over his lost beauty, not over his ugly shape, but only over the fact that he had been driven like a dog from his father's door. He now resolved to make one more attempt to convince his mother of his identity. He went to her in the market, and begged her to listen to him quietly. He reminded her of the day on which he had gone home with the old woman, of all the little details of his childhood, told her of his seven years' service as a squirrel with the old witch, and how she transformed him because he had criticised her appearance. The shoemaker's wife did not know what to think of all this. His stories of his childhood agreed with her own recollections; but when he told her that he had been a squirrel for seven years, she exclaimed: "It is impossible! and there are no witches." And when she looked at him, she shuddered at the sight of the ugly dwarf, and did not believe he could be her son. Finally, she considered it best to lay the matter before her husband. So she collected her baskets and called the dwarf to go with her. On reaching the shoemaker's stall, she said: "Look here; this person claims to be our lost son, Jacob. He has told me all how he was stolen from us seven years ago, and how he was bewitched by an old hag." "Indeed!" interrupted the shoemaker, angrily. "Did he tell you that? Wait, you good-for nothing! I told him all this myself, not an hour ago, and now he runs over to jest with you! Enchanted are you, sonny? I will disenchant you again!" With this he picked up a bundle of thongs that he had just cut out, sprang at the dwarf, and lashed him on his back and arms till the dwarf cried out with pain and ran off weeping. In that city, as in every other, there were but few pitying souls who would assist a poor unfortunate about whom there was any thing ridiculous. Therefore it was that the unfortunate dwarf remained the whole day without food or drink, and at evening was forced to choose the steps of a church for his couch, cold and hard as they were. But when the rising sun awaked him, he began to think seriously of how he should support himself, now that his parents had cast him off. He was too proud to serve as a sign for a barber's shop; he would not travel round as a mountebank and exhibit himself for money. What should he do? It now occurred to him that as a squirrel he had made great progress in the art of cookery; he believed, not without reason, that he could hold his own with most cooks; and so he resolved to make use of his knowledge. As soon as the streets began to show signs of life, and the morning was fairly advanced, he entered the church and offered up a prayer. Then he started on his way. The duke, the ruler of the country, was a well-known glutton and high-liver, who loved a good table, and selected his cooks from all parts of the world. To his palace the dwarf betook himself. When he came to the outer gate, the guards asked him what he wanted, and had a little sport with him. He asked to see the master of the kitchen. They laughed, and led him through the court, and at every step servants stopped to look after him, laughed loudly, and fell in behind him, so that by and by a monster procession of servants of all degrees crowded the steps of the palace. The stable-boys threw away their curry-combs, the messengers ran, the carpet-beaters forgot to dust their carpets, everybody pushed and crowded, and there was as much noise and confusion as if the enemy had been before the gates; and the shout--"A dwarf! a dwarf! Have you seen the dwarf!"--filled the air. The steward of the palace now appeared at the door, with a stern face, and a large whip in his hand. "For heaven's sake, you dogs, why do you make such a noise? Don't you know that the duke still sleeps?" and thereupon he raised the lash and let it fall on the backs of some stable-boys and guards. "Oh, master!" cried they, "don't you see any thing? We bring here a dwarf--a dwarf such as you have never seen before." The steward was able to control his laughter only with great difficulty, when he saw the dwarf. But it would not do to compromise his dignity by a laugh, so he drove away the crowd with his whip, led the dwarf into the palace, and asked him what he wanted. When he heard that Jacob wanted to see the master of the kitchen, he replied: "You are mistaken, sonny; it is me, the steward of the palace, whom you wish to see. You would like to become body-dwarf to the duke. Isn't that so?" "No, master," answered the dwarf; "I am a clever cook, and experienced in all kinds of rare dishes; if you will take me to the master of the kitchen perhaps he can make use of my services." "Every one to his own way, little man; but you are certainly an ill-advised youth. In the kitchen! Why, as body-dwarf you would have no work to do, and food and drink to your heart's desire, and fine clothes. Still, we will see. Your art will hardly be up to the standard of a cook for the duke, and you are too good for a scullion." With these words the steward took him by the hand and led him to the rooms of the master of the kitchen. "Gracious master!" said the dwarf, bowing so low that his hands rested on the floor, "have you no use for a clever cook?" [Illustration] The master of the kitchen looked him over from head to foot, and burst into a loud laugh, "What? You a cook? Do you think that our hearths are so low that you can see the top of one by standing on your toes and lifting your head out of your shoulders? Oh dear, little fellow! Whoever sent you to me for employment as a cook has made a fool of you." So spoke the master of the kitchen, laughing loudly; and the steward and all the servants in the room joined in the laugh. But the dwarf did not allow himself to be disconcerted. "An egg or two, a little syrup and wine, and meal and spices, can be spared in a house where there is such plenty," said he. "Give me some kind of a dainty dish to prepare, furnish me with what I need, and it shall be made quickly before your eyes, and you will have to confess that I am a cook by rule and right." While the dwarf spoke, it was wonderful to see how his little eyes sparkled, how his long nose swayed from side to side, and his long spider-like fingers gesticulated in unison with his speech. "Come on!" cried the master of the kitchen, taking the arm of the steward. "Come on; just for a joke, let's go down to the kitchen!" They went through many passages, and at last reached the kitchen, which was a high roomy building splendidly fitted up. On twenty hearths burned a steady fire; a stream of clear water, in which fish were darting about, flowed through the middle of the room; the utensils for immediate use were kept in closets made of marble and costly woods, and to the right and left were ten rooms in which were preserved every thing costly and rare for the palate that could be found in the entire country of the Franks and even in the Levant. Kitchen servants, of all degrees, were running about, rattling kettles and pans, and with forks and ladles in their hands; but when the master of the kitchen entered, they all stopped and remained so still that one heard only the crackling of the fires and the splashing of the stream. "What has His Grace ordered for breakfast this morning?" inquired the master of the kitchen of the breakfast-cook. "Sir, he has been pleased to order Danish soup and red Hamburg dumplings." "Very well," said the master of the kitchen. "Did you hear, little man, what His Grace will have to eat? Do you feel capable of preparing these difficult dishes? In any event, you will not be able to make the dumplings, for that is a secret." "Nothing easier," replied the dwarf, to the astonishment of his hearers; for when a squirrel he had often made these dishes. "Nothing easier; for the soup, I shall require this and that vegetable, this and that spice, the fat of a wild boar, turnip, and eggs; but for the dumpling," continued he, in a voice so low that only the master of the kitchen and the breakfast-cook could hear, "for the dumpling, I shall use four different kinds of meat, a little wine, the oil of a duck, ginger, and a certain vegetable called 'stomach's joy.'" "Ha! By St. Benedict! What magician learned you this?" cried the cook, in astonishment. "He has given the receipt to a hair, and the 'stomach's joy' we did not know of ourselves. Yes, that would improve the flavor, no doubt. O you miracle of a cook!" "I would not have believed it," said the master of the kitchen; "but let him make the experiment; give him what things he wants, and let him prepare the breakfast." These commands were carried out, and every thing was laid out near the hearth, when it was discovered that the dwarf's nose barely came up to the fire-place. Therefore a couple of chairs were placed together, and upon them a marble slab was laid, and the little magician was then invited to try his skill. The cooks, scullions, servants, and various other people, formed a large circle around him, and looked on in astonishment to see how dexterous were his manipulations and how neatly his preparations were conducted. When he was through, he ordered both dishes to be placed on the fire, and to allow them to cook to the exact moment when he should call out. Then he began to count _one_, _two_, _three_, and so on, until he reached five hundred, when he sang out: "Stop!" The pots were then set to one side, and the dwarf invited the master of the kitchen to taste of their contents. The head cook took a gold spoon from one of the scullions, dipped it in the brook, and handed it to the master of the kitchen, who stepped up to the hearth with a solemn air, dipped his spoon into the food, tasted it, closed his eyes, smacked his lips, and said: "By the life of the duke, it's superb! Won't you take a spoonful, steward?" The steward bowed, took the spoon, tasted, and was beside himself with pleasure. "With all respect for your art, dear head cook, you have had experience, but have never made either soup or Hamburg dumpling that could equal this!" The cook now took a taste, shook the dwarf most respectfully by the hand, and said: "Little One! you are a master of the art; really, that 'stomach's joy' makes it perfect." [Illustration] At this moment the duke's valet came into the kitchen and announced that his grace was ready for his breakfast. The food was now placed on silver plates and sent in to the duke; the master of the kitchen taking the dwarf to his own room, where he entertained him. But they had not been there long enough to say a pater-noster, (such is the name of the Franks' prayer, O Sire, and it does not take half as long to say it as to speak the prayer of the Faithful,) when there came a message from the duke requesting the presence of the master of the kitchen. He dressed himself quickly in his court costume, and followed the messenger. The duke appeared to be in fine spirits. He had eaten all there was on the silver plates, and was wiping his beard as the master of the kitchen entered. "Hear me, master of the kitchen," said he, "I have always been very well pleased with your cooks up to the present time; now tell me who it was that prepared my breakfast this morning? It was never so delicious since I sat on the throne of my ancestors; tell me the cook's name that I may send him a present of a few ducats." "Sire, it is a strange story," replied the master of the kitchen; and went on to tell the duke how a dwarf had been brought to him that morning who wished a place as cook, and what had occurred afterwards. The duke was greatly astonished. He had the dwarf called, and asked him who he was, and where he came from. Now poor Jacob certainly could not say that he had been enchanted, and had once taken service as a squirrel; still he kept to the truth by saying that he had now neither father nor mother, and had learned how to cook from an old woman. The duke did not question him further, but examined the singular shape of his new cook. "If you will remain in my service," said the duke, "I will give you fifty ducats a year, a holiday suit, and two pair of trowsers besides. You will be expected to prepare my breakfast every morning with your own hands; must direct the preparation of dinner, and have a general oversight of my kitchen. As I am in the habit of naming all the people in my palace, you shall take the name of Nosey, and hold the office of assistant master of the kitchen." The dwarf, Nosey, prostrated himself before the mighty duke of the Franks, kissed his feet, and promised to serve him faithfully. Thus was the dwarf provided for. And he did his office honor; for it can be said that the duke was quite another man while the dwarf remained in his service. Formerly he had been wont to express his displeasure by throwing the dishes, that were taken in to him, at the heads of the cooks; in fact, once in his anger, he had thrown a roasted calf's foot, that was not tender enough, at the master of the kitchen, and it hit him on the forehead and disabled him for three days. To be sure, the duke made amends for his anger afterwards by distributing handfuls of ducats among his victims; but nevertheless the cooks never took his meals in to him without fear and trembling. Since the dwarf's arrival, however, there was a magical change. Instead of three meals a day, the duke now indulged in five, in order to do justice to the skill of the assistant master of the kitchen; and he never betrayed the least appearance of dissatisfaction. On the contrary, he found every thing new and rare, was sociable and pleasant, and grew fleshier and happier from day to day. He would often send for the master of the kitchen and the dwarf Nosey, in the middle of the meal, and giving them seats on either side of himself, would feed them the choicest morsels with his own fingers; a favor that they both knew how to prize. The dwarf became the wonder of the city. Permission was constantly sought of the master of the kitchen to see him cook, and a few gentlemen of the highest rank were able to induce the duke to let their cooks take lessons from Nosey, and this brought the dwarf in quite a sum of money, as each pupil had to pay half a ducat daily. And in order to keep the good will of the other cooks, and prevent them from becoming jealous, Nosey distributed this money among them. Thus lived Nosey, in exceptional comfort and honor, for nearly two years; and only when he thought of his parents did he feel sorrowful. One day, however, a curious incident occurred. Nosey was especially fortunate in his purchases. For this reason he was in the habit of going to market himself for fowls and fruits, whenever his duties would permit. One morning he went to the goose-market to look for some heavy fat geese, such as his master loved. His form, far from arousing jokes and laughter, commanded respect, for he was known to be the famous chief cook of the duke, and every woman who had geese to sell was happy if he turned his nose towards her. At the further end of a row of stalls, he saw a woman sitting in a corner, who had also geese to sell, but, unlike the other market-women, she did not cry her wares or attempt to attract buyers. To her he went and weighed her geese. They were just what he wanted, and he bought three, together with the cage, shouldered his burden, and started on his way home. It occurred to him as a very strange thing that only two of these geese cackled, as genuine geese are accustomed to do, while the third one sat quite still and reserved, occasionally sighing and sneezing like a human being. "It must be half-sick," said he, as he went along. "I must hurry back so as to kill and dress it." But, to his astonishment, the goose replied, quite plainly: "If you stick me, I will bite ye; If my neck you do not save, You will fill an early grave." Terribly frightened. Nosey sat the cage down, and the goose looked at him with beautiful intelligent eyes, and sighed. "Good gracious!" exclaimed the dwarf. "Can you speak. Miss Goose? I would not have thought it! Well, now, don't be anxious; one knows how to live without having any designs on such a rare bird. But I would be willing to bet that you have not always had these feathers. I was myself once a contemptible little squirrel." "You are right," replied the goose, "in saying that I was not born with this ignominious form. Alas! it was never sung to me in my cradle that Mimi, daughter of the great Wetterbock, would meet her death in the kitchen of a duke!" "Do not be uneasy, dear Miss Mimi," said the dwarf cheerfully. "On my word of honor, and as sure as I am the assistant master of the kitchen of His Grace, no one shall harm you. I will fix you up a coop in my own room, where you shall have plenty of food, and I will devote all my leisure time to your entertainment. The other kitchen servants shall be told that I am fattening a goose with different kinds of vegetables, for the duke; and whenever an opportunity offers, I will set you at liberty." The goose thanked him with tears, and the dwarf did as he had promised. Nor did he furnish her with common goose food, but with pastry and sweetmeats, and whenever he was at liberty he paid her visits of condolence. They told one another their histories, and in this way Nosey learned that she was a daughter of the magician Wetterbock, who lived on the island of Gothland, and who had begun a quarrel with an old witch, who in turn had vanquished him by a clever stratagem, and had then revenged herself upon him by transforming his daughter into a goose, and bringing her thus far from home. When the dwarf had told her his story, she said: "I am not inexperienced in these matters. My father gave my sisters and myself instructions in the art, as far as he thought best; your account of the quarrel you had with the old woman over the market baskets, your sudden transformation while inhaling the steam of that vegetable soup, taken in connection with some expressions of the old woman that you told me of, prove conclusively to me that you are bewitched by herbs; that is to say, if you can find the plant that the old woman used in your transformation, you can be restored to your former shape." This announcement was not very consoling to the dwarf, for where was he to find the plant? Still, he thanked the goose, and strove to be hopeful. About this time the duke received a visit from a neighboring prince who was on friendly terms with him. He sent for the dwarf, and said to him: "Now is the time when you will have to prove your devotion to me, and your mastery of the art of cooking. The prince who visits me is accustomed to the very best, as you know, and is an excellent judge of fine cooking as well as a wise man. See to it, therefore, that my table is provided daily with such dishes as will cause his wonder to increase from day to day. And, on the penalty of my displeasure, you must not make the same dish twice, during his stay here. My treasurer will supply you with all the money you may want for this purpose. And even though you be forced to cook gold and diamonds in lard, do it! I would rather be ruined than put to the blush before him." Thus spake the duke; and the dwarf replied with a low obeisance: "It shall be as you say, my master; God willing, I will so provide that this prince of epicures shall be satisfied." The little cook put forth all his skill. He spared neither his master's money nor himself. And he might be seen the livelong day in the midst of clouds of smoke and flame, while his voice sounded constantly through the kitchen, as he ordered the under-cooks and scullions about like a prince. (Sire, I might imitate the camel-drivers of Aleppo, who, in relating their stories to the travellers, make their heroes sit down to the most sumptuous banquets. They will use a whole hour in their description of the food with which the table is supplied, and thereby create such ardent longings and uncontrollable hunger in their hearers that the caravans are constantly halting for a meal, and the camel-drivers come in for a full share of the provisions so involuntarily opened. I say I might imitate them, but I will not.) The duke's guest had now been fourteen days with him, and had been well entertained. They ate not less than five times a day, and the duke was contented with the skill of his dwarf, for he saw satisfaction on the brow of his guest. But on the fifteenth day, it happened that the duke sent for the dwarf while they sat at table, and presented him to his guest, with the inquiry how the dwarf's cooking had pleased him. "You are a marvelous cook," replied the prince, "and know what constitutes good cheer. In all the time I have been here, you have not given us the same dish twice, and every thing has been well prepared. But tell me why it is you have let so long a time pass without producing the queen of dishes, the Pastry Souzeraine?" The dwarf was all of a tremble, for he had never heard of this queen of pastries; but still he recovered himself, and replied: "O Sire! I had hoped that the light of your countenance would be shed on this palace for many days yet; therefore I delayed this dish; for what could be a more appropriate compliment from the cook on the day of your departure, than the queen of the pastries?" "Indeed?" laughed the duke, "and were you waiting for the day of my death, before you should compliment me in the same manner? For you have never placed this pastry before me. But think of some other parting dish: for you must set this pastry on the table to-morrow." "It shall be as you say, master!" answered the dwarf, as he went out. But he was very much disturbed in mind, for he knew that the day of his disgrace and misfortune was at hand. He had not the slightest idea how to make the pastry. He therefore went to his chamber and wept over his hard fate. Just then the goose, Mimi, who had the run of his chamber, came up to him and inquired the cause of his sorrow. "Cease to weep," said she, on learning of the incident of the pastry. "This _entrée_ was a favorite dish of my father's, and I know about how it is made. You take this and that, so and so much, and if there should happen to be any little thing left out, why, the gentlemen will never notice it." The dwarf, on hearing Mimi's recipe, jumped for joy, blessed the day on which he had bought the goose, and ran off to make the queen of the pastries. He first made a small one by way of experiment, and lo, it tasted finely, and the master of the kitchen, to whom he gave a morsel, heartily praised his skill. On the following day, he baked the pastry in a larger form, and after decorating it with a wreath of flowers, sent it, hot from the oven, to the duke's table. He then donned his best suit of clothes, and followed after it. As he entered the dining-room, the head carver was in the act of cutting the pastry and serving it up to the duke and his guest, with a silver pie-knife. The duke took a large mouthful of the pastry, cast his eyes up at the ceiling, and said as soon as he had swallowed it: "Ah! ah! ah! They are right in calling this the queen of the pastries; but my dwarf is also king of all cooks--isn't that so, dear friend?" The prince helped himself to a small piece, tasted and examined it attentively, and then, with a scornful smile, pushed the plate away from him, exclaiming: "The thing is very cleverly made, but still it isn't the genuine Souzeraine. I thought it would turn out that way." The duke scowled, and reddening with mortification, cried: "Dog of a dwarf! How dare you bring this disgrace on your master? Shall I have your big head taken off as a penalty for your bad cookery?" "Alas, master, I prepared the dish in accordance with all the rules of art; there certainly can not any thing be wanting!" cried the dwarf trembling. "You lie, you knave!" exclaimed the duke, giving him a kick, "or my guest would not say that some ingredient was wanting. I will have you cut up in small pieces and made into a pastry yourself!" "Have pity!" cried the dwarf, falling on his knees before the guest, and clasping his feet. "Tell me what is wanting in this dish that it does not suit your palate? Do not let me die on account of a handful of meat and meal." "That wouldn't help you much, dear Nosey," answered the prince, laughing. "I felt pretty sure yesterday that you couldn't make this dish as my cook does. Know, then, that there is an herb wanting, that is not known at all in this country, called _Sneeze-with-pleasure_, and, without this, the pastry is tasteless and your master will never have it as good as mine." The last words aroused the anger of the duke to the highest pitch. "And yet I will have it!" exclaimed he, with flashing eyes. "For I swear on my princely word, that I will either show you the pastry just as you require it, or----the head of this fellow impaled on the gate of my palace. Go, dog! Once more I grant you twenty-four hours' time." The dwarf went back to his own room, and complained to the goose of his fate, for as he had never heard of this plant, he must die. "Is that all that is wanted?" said she. "I can help you in that case, for I learned to know all vegetables from my father. At any other time you might have been doomed; but fortunately now there is a full moon, and at this time the plant blooms. But tell me, are there any old chestnut trees in the vicinity of the palace?" "Oh, yes," replied the dwarf, with a lighter heart; "by the lake, two hundred steps from the house, there is a large group of them; but what has that to do with it?" "Well, at the foot of old chestnuts blooms this plant," replied Mimi. "Therefore, let us lose no time in our search. Take me under your arm, and set me down when we are in the garden, and I will assist you." He did as she said, and went with her to the palace entrance. But there he was stopped by the guard who extended his weapon, and said: "My good Nosey, it's all up with you; I have received the strictest orders not to let you out of the house." [Illustration] "But there can't be any objection to my going into the garden," urged the dwarf. "Be so kind as to send one of your comrades to the steward, and ask him whether I may not be allowed to look for vegetables in the garden." The guard did as requested, and the dwarf received permission to go into the garden, as it was surrounded by high walls and escape was impossible. When Nosey was safely outside, he put the goose down carefully, and she ran on before him to the lake where the chestnut trees stood. He followed her closely, with beating heart, as his last hope was centered on the success of their search, and if they did not find the plant, he was fully resolved that he would throw himself into the lake, rather than submit to being beheaded. The goose wandered about under all the trees, turning aside every blade of grass with her bill, but all in vain was her search, and she began to cry from pity and anxiety, as the night was at hand, and it was difficult to distinguish objects around her. Just then the dwarf chanced to look across the lake and he shouted: "Look, look! Across the lake stands an old chestnut tree; let us go over there and search--perhaps we shall find my luck blooming there." The goose took the lead, hopping and flying, and Nosey ran after as fast as his little legs would carry him. The chestnut tree cast a large shadow, so that nothing could be seen under its branches; but the goose suddenly stopped, clapped her wings with joy, put her head down into the long grass, and plucked something that she presented with her bill to the astonished dwarf, saying: "That is the plant, and there are a lot of them growing there, so that you will never lack for them." The dwarf examined the plant thoughtfully; it had a sweet odor, that reminded him involuntarily of the scene of his transformation. The stems and leaves were of a bluish-green color, and it bore a brilliant red flower with a yellowish border. "God be praised!" exclaimed he at length. "How wonderful! Do you know that I believe this is the very plant that changed me from a squirrel to this hateful form? shall I make an experiment with it?" "Not yet," replied the goose. "Take a handful of these plants with you and let us go to your room; collect what money and other property you have, and then we will try the virtue of this plant." Taking some of the plants with them, they went back to his room, the heart of the dwarf beating so that it might almost be heard. After packing up his savings, some fifty or sixty ducats, and his shoes and clothes in a bundle, he said: "God willing, I will now free myself of this shape," stuck his nose deep down into the plant and inhaled its fragrance. Thereupon a stretching and cracking took place in all his limbs; he felt his head being raised from his shoulders; he squinted down at his nose and saw it getting smaller and smaller; his back and breast began to straighten out, and his legs grew longer. The goose looked on in astonishment. "Ha! how tall, how handsome you are!" exclaimed she. "Thank God! nothing remains of your former shape?" Jacob, greatly rejoiced, folded his hands and prayed. But in his joy he did not forget how much he was indebted to the goose; he longed with all his heart to go at once to his parents, but gratitude caused him to forego this pleasure, and to say: "Whom but you have I to thank for my restoration. Without you I should never have found this plant, and should have forever remained a dwarf, or have died under the ax. Come, I will take you to your father; he, who is so experienced in magic, can easily disenchant you." The goose wept tears of joy, and accepted his offer. Jacob walked safely out of the palace with the goose, without being recognized, and started at once on his way to the coast to reach Mimi's home. What shall I say further? That they reached their journey's end safely; that Wetterbock disenchanted his daughter, and sent Jacob, loaded down with presents, back to his native city; and that his parents easily recognized their son in the handsome young man; that he bought a shop with the presents given him by Wetterbock; and that he became rich and happy. To this I will add, that after Jacob's escape from the palace, great trouble ensued; for on the following day, as the duke was about to carry out his threat of taking off the dwarf's head if he did not succeed in finding the plant, that individual was nowhere to be found. But the prince asserted that the duke had connived at his escape, so as not to be compelled to kill his best cook; and the prince accused the duke of breaking his word. From this a great war broke out between the two rulers, which is known to history as "The Vegetable War." Many battles were fought, but finally peace was restored, and this peace was called "The Pastry Peace," inasmuch as at the peace banquet, the Souzeraine, queen of the pastries, was prepared by the prince's cook, and rejoiced the palate of his grace, the duke. Thus do the most trivial causes often lead to great results; and this, O Sire, is the story of the _Dwarf Nosey_. Such was the story of the Frankish slave. When he had finished, Ali Banu had fruits served to him and the other slaves, and conversed, while they were eating, with his friends. The young men who had been introduced into the room so stealthily, were loud in their praises of the sheik, his house, and all his surroundings. "Really," said the young writer, "there is no pleasanter way of passing the time than in hearing stories. I could sit here the livelong day with my legs crossed, and one arm resting on a cushion, with my head supported by my hand, and, if allowable, the sheik's nargileh in my hand, and so situated listen to stories with the greatest zest. Something like this, I fancy, will be our existence in the Gardens of Mohammed." "So long as you are young and able to work," replied the old man, who had conducted the young men into the house, "you can not be in earnest in such an idle wish. At the same time, I admit that there is a peculiar charm about these narratives. Old as I am--and I am now in my seventy-seventh year--and much as I have already heard in my life, still I am not ashamed when I see a large crowd gathered round a story-teller at the corner, to take my place there too and listen to him. The listener dreams that he is an actor in the events that are narrated; he lives for the time being amongst these people, among these wonderful spirits, with fairies and other folk, whom one does not meet every day; and has afterwards, when he is alone, the means of entertaining himself, just as does the traveller through the desert, who has provided well for his wants." "I had never thought much about wherein the charm of these stories lay," responded another of the young men. "But I agree with you. When I was a child, I could always be quieted with a story. It mattered not, at first, of what it treated, so long as it was told me, so long as it was full of incidents and changes. How often have I, without experiencing the slightest fatigue, listened to those fables which wise men have devised, and in which they express a world of wisdom in a sentence: stories of the fox and the foolish stork, of the fox and the wolf, and dozens of stories of lions and other animals. As I grew older, and associated more with men, those short stories failed to satisfy me; I required longer ones, which treated too of people and their wonderful fortunes." "Yes, I recall that time very plainly," interrupted one of the last speaker's friends. "It was you who created in us the desire for stories of all kinds. One of your slaves knew as many as a camel-driver could tell on the trip from Mecca to Medina. And when he was through with his work, he had to sit down with us on the grassplot before the house, and there we would tease until he began a story; and so it went on and on until night overtook us." "And was there not then disclosed to us a new, an undiscovered realm?" said the young writer. "The land of genii and fairies, containing, too, all the wonders of the vegetable kingdom, with palaces of emeralds and rubies, inhabited by giant slaves, who appear when a ring was turned around on the finger and back again, or by rubbing a magical lamp, and brought splendid food in golden shells? We felt that we were transported to that country; we made those marvelous voyages with Sinbad, we accompanied Haroun-al-Raschid, the wise ruler of the Faithful, on his evening walks, and we knew his vizier as well as we knew each other; in short, we lived in those stories, as one lives in his nightly dreams, and for us there was no part of the day so enjoyable as the evening, when we gathered on the grass-plot, and the old slave told us stories. But tell us, old man, why it is that this craving for stories is as strong in us to-day as it was in our childhood?" The commotion that had arisen in the room, and the request of the steward for silence, prevented the old man from replying. The young men were uncertain whether they ought to rejoice at the prospect of hearing another story, or to feel vexed that their entertaining conversation with the old man had been broken off so suddenly. When silence had been restored, a second slave arose and began his story. ABNER, THE JEW, WHO HAD SEEN NOTHING. Sire, I am from Mogadore, on the coast of the Atlantic, and during the time that the powerful Emperor Muley Ismael reigned over Fez and Morocco, the following incident occurred, the recital of which may perhaps amuse you. It is the story of Abner, the Jew, who had seen nothing. Jews, as you know, are to be found every-where, and every-where they are Jews--sharp, with the eye of a hawk for the slightest advantage to be gained; and the more they are oppressed the more do they exhibit the craft on which they pride themselves. That a Jew may sometimes, however, come to harm through an exhibition of his smartness, is sufficiently shown by what befel Abner, one afternoon, as he took his way through the gates of Morocco for a walk. He strode along with a pointed hat on his head, his form enveloped in a plain and not excessively clean mantle, taking from time to time a stolen pinch from a gold box that he took special pains to conceal. He stroked his mustaches, and in spite of the restless eyes that expressed fear, watchfulness, and the desire to discover something that could be turned to account, a certain satisfaction was apparent in his shifting countenance, which plainly denoted he must have recently concluded some very good bargains. He was doctor, merchant, and every thing else that brought in money. He had this day sold a slave with a secret defect, had bought a camel-load of gum very cheap, and had prepared the last dose for a wealthy patient--not the last before his recovery, but the last before his death. He had just emerged from a small thicket of palm and date trees, when he heard the shouts of a number of people running after him. They were a crowd of the emperor's grooms, headed by the master of the horse, looking about them on all sides as they ran, as if in search of something. [Illustration] "Philistine!" panted the master of the horse. "Have you not seen one of the emperor's horses, with saddle and bridle on, run by?" "The best racer to be seen anywhere--a small neat hoof, shoes of fourteen carat silver, a golden mane, fifteen hands high, a tail three and a half feet long, and the bit of his bridle of twenty-three carat gold?" "That's he!" cried the master of the horse. "That's he!" echoed the grooms. "It is Emir," said an old riding-master. "I have warned the Prince Abdallah not to ride Emir without a snaffle. I know Emir, and said beforehand he would throw the prince, and though his bruises should cost me my head, I warned him beforehand. But quick! which way did he go?" "I haven't seen a horse at all!" returned Abner, smiling. "How then can I tell you where the emperor's horse ran?" Astonished at this contradiction, the gentlemen of the royal stables were about to press Abner further, when another event occurred, that interfered with their purpose. By one of those singular chances of which there are numerous examples, the empress's lap-dog had turned up missing; and a number of black slaves came running up, calling at the top of their voices: "Have you seen the empress's lap-dog?" "A small spaniel," said Abner, "that has recently had a litter, with hanging ears, bushy tail, and lame in the right fore-leg?" "That's she--her own self!" chorused the slaves. "That's Aline; the empress went into fits as soon as her pet was missed. Aline, where are you? What would become of us if we were to return to the harem without you? Tell us quickly, where did you see her run to?" "I have not seen any dog, and never knew that my empress--God preserve her--owned a spaniel!" The men from the stable and harem grew furious at Abner's insolence, as they termed it, in making jests over the loss of imperial property; and did not doubt for a moment that Abner had stolen both dog and horse. While the others continued the search, the master of the horse and the chief eunuch seized the Jew, and hurried him, with his half-sly and half-terrified expression, before the presence of the emperor. Muley Ismael, as soon as he heard the charge against Abner, sent for his privy-counsellor, and, in view of the importance of the subject, presided over the investigation himself. To begin with, fifty lashes on the soles of the feet were awarded the accused. Abner might whine or shriek, protest his innocence or promise to tell every thing just as it had happened, recite passages from the Scripture or from the Talmud; he might cry: "The displeasure of the king is like the roar of a young lion, but his mercy is like dew on the grass," or "Let not thy hand strike when thy eyes and ears are closed." Muley Ismael made a sign to his slaves, and swore by the beard of the Prophet, and his own, that the Philistine should pay with his head for the pains of the Prince Abdallah and the convulsions of the empress, if the runaways were not restored. The palace of the emperor was still resounding with the shrieks of the Jew, as the news was brought that both dog and horse had been found. Aline was surprised in the company of some pug dogs, quite respectable curs, but not fit associates for a court lady; while Emir, after tiring himself out with running, had found the fragrant grass on the green meadows by the Tara brook suited his taste better than the imperial oats--like the wearied royal huntsman who, having lost his way on the chase, forgot all the delicacies of his own table as he ate the black bread and butter in a peasant's hut. Muley Ismael now requested of Abner an explanation of his behavior, and the Jew saw that the time had come, although somewhat late, when he could answer; which, after prostrating himself three times before his highness's throne, he proceeded to do in the following words: "Most high and mighty Emperor, King of Kings, Sovereign of the West, Star of Justice, Mirror of Truth, Abyss of Wisdom, you who gleam like gold, sparkle like a diamond, and are as inflexible as iron! Hear me, as it is permitted your slave to lift his voice in your august presence. I swear by the God of my fathers, by Moses and the Prophets, that I never saw your sacred horse, and the amiable dog of my gracious empress, with the eyes of my body. But listen to my explanation. "I walked out to refresh myself after the fatigues of the day, and in the small wood where I had the honor to meet his excellency, the master of the horse, and his vigilancy, the black overseer of your blessed harem, I perceived the trail of an animal in the fine sand between the palms. As I am well acquainted with the tracks of various animals, I at once recognized these as the footprints of a small dog; other traces near the prints of the fore-paws where the sand seemed to be lightly brushed away, assured me that the animal must have had beautiful pendant ears; and as I noticed how, at long intervals, the sand was brushed up, I thought: the little creature has a fine bushy tail that must look something like a tuft of feathers, and it has pleased her now and then to whip up the sand with it. Nor did it escape my observation that one paw had not made as deep an imprint on the sand as the others; unfortunately, therefore, it could not be concealed from me that the dog of my most gracious empress--if it is permitted me to say it aloud--limped a little. "Concerning your highness's horse, I would say that on turning into a path in the wood I came upon the tracks of a horse. I had no sooner caught sight of the small noble hoof-print of the fine yet strong frog of the foot, than I said in my heart; a horse of the Tschenner stock, of which this must have been one of the noblest specimens, has passed by here. It is not quite four months since my most gracious emperor sold a pair of this breed to a prince in the land of the Franks, and my brother Ruder was there when they agreed on the price, and my most gracious emperor made so and so much by the transaction. When I saw how far apart these hoof-prints were, and how regular were the distances between them, I thought: that horse galloped beautifully and gently and could only be owned by my emperor; and I thought of the war horse described by Job--'He paweth in the valley, and rejoiceth in his strength; he goeth on to meet the armed men. He mocketh at fear, and is not affrighted: neither turneth he back from the sword. The quiver rattleth against him, the glittering spear and the shield.' And as I saw something glistening on the ground, I stooped down, as I always do in such cases, and lo, it was a marble stone in which the hoof of the running horse had cut a groove, from which I perceived that the shoe must have been of fourteen carat silver, as I have learned the mark each metal makes, be it pure or alloyed. The path in which I walked was seven feet wide, and here and there I noticed that the dust had been brushed from the palms; the horse switched it off with his tail, thought I, which must therefore be three and a half feet long. Under trees that began to branch about five feet from the ground, I saw freshly-fallen leaves, that must have been knocked off by the horse in his swift flight; hence he was fully fifteen hands high; and behold, under the same trees were small tufts of hair of a golden lustre, hence his hide would have been a yellow-dun! Just as I emerged from the copse, my eye was caught by a deep scratch on a wall of rock. I ought to know what caused this, thought I, and what do you think it was? I put a touch-stone, dusted over, on the scratch, and got an impression of some fine hairlines such as for fineness and precision could not be excelled in the seven provinces of Holland. The scratch must have been caused by the stem of the horse's bit grazing the rock, as he ran close by it. Your love of splendor is well-known. King of Kings; and one should know that the most common of your horses would be ashamed to champ any thing less fine than a golden bit. Such was the result of my observations, and if----" "Well, by the cities of the Prophet!" cried Muley Ismael, "I call that a pair of eyes! Such eyes would not harm you, master of the huntsmen; they would save you the expense of a pack of hounds; you, minister of the police, could see further than all your bailiffs and spies. Well, Philistine, in view of your uncommon acuteness, that has pleased us so well, we will show you clemency; the fifty lashes that you justly received are worth fifty zecchini, as they will save you fifty more; so draw your purse and count out fifty in cash, and refrain in the future from joking over our imperial property; as for the rest, you have our royal pardon." The whole court were astonished at Abner's sagacity, and his majesty, too, had declared him to be a clever fellow; but all this did not recompense him for the anguish he suffered, nor console him for the loss of his dear ducats. While groaning and sighing, he took one coin after another from his purse, and before parting with it weighed it on the tip of his finger. Schnuri, the king's jester, asked him jeeringly whether all his zecchini were tested on the stone by which the bit of Prince Abdallah's dun horse was proved. "Your wisdom to-day has brought you fame," said the jester; "but I would bet you another fifty ducats that you wish you had kept silent. But what says the Prophet? 'A word once spoken can not be overtaken by a wagon, though four fleet horses were harnessed to it.' Neither will a greyhound overtake it, Mr. Abner, even if it did not _limp_." Not long after this (to Abner) painful event, he took another walk in one of the green valleys between the foot-hills of the Atlas range of mountains. And on this occasion, just as before, he was overtaken by a company of armed men, the leader of whom called out: "Hi! my good friend! have you not seen Goro, the emperor's black body-guard, run by? He has run away, and must have taken this course into the mountains." "I can not inform you, General," answered Abner. "Oh! Are you not that cunning Jew who had seen neither the dog nor the horse? Don't stand on ceremony; the slave must have passed this way; can you not scent him in the air? or can you not discover the print of his flying feet in the long grass? Speak! the slave must have passed here; he is unequalled in killing sparrows with a pea-shooter, and this is his majesty's greatest diversion. Speak up! or I will put you in chains!" "I can not say I have seen what I have yet not seen." "Jew, for the last time I ask, where is the slave? Think on the soles of your feet; think on your zecchini!" "Oh, woe is me! Well, if you will have it that I have seen the sparrow-shooter, then run that way; if he is not there, then he is somewhere else." "You saw him, then?" roared the general. "Well, yes, Mr. Officer, if you will have it so." The soldiers hastened off in the direction he had indicated; while Abner went home chuckling over his cunning. Before he was twenty-four hours older, however, a company of the palace guards defiled his house by entering it on the Sabbath, and dragged him into the presence of the Emperor of Morocco. "Dog of a Jew!" shouted the emperor. "You dare to send the imperial servants, who were pursuing a fugitive, on a false scent into the mountains, while the slave was fleeing towards the coast, and very nearly escaped on a Spanish ship. Seize him, soldiers! A hundred on his soles, and a hundred zecchini from his purse! The more his feet swell under the lash, the more his purse will collapse." You know, O Sire, that in the kingdom of Fez and Morocco the people love swift justice; and so the poor Abner was whipped and taxed without consulting his own inclinations beforehand. He cursed his fate, that condemned his feet and his purse to suffer every time it pleased his majesty to lose any thing. As he limped out of the room, bellowing and groaning, amidst the laughter of the rough court people, Schnuri, the jester, said to him: "You ought to be contented, Abner, ungrateful Abner; is it not honor enough for you that every loss that our gracious emperor--whom God preserve--suffers, likewise arouses in your bosom the profoundest grief? But if you will promise me a good fee, I will come to your shop in Jews Alley an hour before the Sovereign of the West is to lose any thing, and say: 'Don't go out of your house, Abner; you know why; shut yourself up in your bedroom under lock and key until sunset.'" This, O Sire, is the story of _Abner, the Jew, Who had seen Nothing_. When the slave had finished, and every thing was quiet in the _salon_, the young writer reminded the old man that the thread of their discourse had been broken, and requested him to declare wherein lay the captivating power of tales. "I will reply to your question," returned the old man. "The human spirit is lighter and more easily moved than water, although that is tossed into all kinds of shapes, and by degrees, too, bores through the thickest objects. It is light and free as the air, and, like that element, the higher it is lifted from earth, the lighter and purer it is. Therefore is there an inclination in humanity to lift itself above the common events of life, in order to give itself the freer play accorded in more lofty domains, even if it be only in dreams. You yourself, my young friend, said to me: 'We lived in those stories, we thought and felt with those beings,' and hence the charm they had for you. While you listened to the stories of yonder slaves, that were only fictions invented by another, did you also use your imagination? You did not remain in spirit with the objects around you, nor were you engrossed by your every-day thoughts: no, you experienced in your own person all that was told; it was you yourself to whom this and that adventure occurred, so strongly were you interested in the hero of the tale. Thus your spirit raised itself, on the thread of such a story, over and away from the present, which does not appear so fair or have such charms for you. Thus this spirit moved about, free and unconfined in a strange and higher atmosphere; fiction became reality to you--or, if you prefer, reality became fiction--because your imagination and being were absorbed into fiction." "I do not quite comprehend you," returned the young merchant; "but you are right in saying that we live in fiction, or fiction lives in us. I remember clearly that beautiful time when we had nothing to do. Waking, we dreamed; we pretended that we were wrecked on desert islands, and took counsel with one another as to what we should do to prolong our lives; and often we built ourselves huts in a willow copse, made scanty meals of miserable fruits, although we could have procured the very best at the house not a hundred paces distant; yes, there were even times when we waited for the appearance of a kind fairy, or a wonderful dwarf, who should step up to us and say: 'The earth is about to open--will it please you to descend with me down to my palace of rock-crystal, and take your choice of what my servants, the baboons, can serve up?'" The young men laughed, but confessed to their friend that he had spoken truth. "To this day," continued another, "this enchantment creeps over me now and then. I became, for instance, somewhat vexed at the stupid fable with which my brother would come rushing up to the door: 'Have you heard of the misfortune of our neighbor, the stout baker? He had dealings with a magician, who, out of revenge, transformed him into a bear, and now he lies within his chamber growling fearfully.' I would get angry, and call him a liar. But what a different aspect the case took on when I was told that the stout neighbor had made a journey into a far-distant and unknown land, and there fell into the hands of a magician who transformed him into a bear! I would after a while find myself absorbed in the story; would take the trip with my stout neighbor; experience wonderful adventures, and it would not have astonished me very much if he had actually been stuck into a bear-skin and forced to go on all fours." "And yet," said the old man, "there is a very delightful form of narrative, in which neither fairies nor magicians figure, no palace of crystal and no genii who bring the most delicious food, no magic horse, but a kind that differs materially from those usually designated as tales." "Another kind?" exclaimed the young men. "Please explain to us more clearly what you mean." "I am of the opinion that a certain distinction should be made between fairy tales and narratives which are commonly called stories. When I tell you that I will relate a fairy tale, you would at the outset count upon its treating of events outside of the usual course of life and of its being located in a kingdom entirely different from any thing on earth. Or, to make my meaning plain, in a fairy tale you would look for other people as well as mortals to appear; strange powers, such as fairies and magicians, genii and ruling spirits, are concerned in the fate of the person of whom the tale treats; the whole fabric of the story takes on an extraordinary and wonderful shape, and has somewhat the appearance of the texture of our carpets, or many pictures of our best masters which the Franks call arabesques. It is forbidden the true Mussulman to represent human beings, the creatures of Allah, in colors and paintings, as a sin; therefore one sees in this texture wonderful tortuous trees, and twigs with human heads; human beings drawn out into a bush or fish; in short, forms that remind one of the life around him, and are yet unlike that life. Do you follow me?" "I believe I perceive your meaning," said the young writer; "but continue." "After this fashion then is a fairy tale; fabulous, unusual, astonishing; and because it is untrue to the usual course of life, it is often located in foreign lands or referred to a period long since passed away. Every land, every tribe, has such tales; the Turks as well as the Persians, the Chinese as well as the Mongolians; and even in the country of the Franks there are many, at least so I was told by a learned Giaour; still they are not as fine as ours, for instead of beautiful fairies who live in splendid palaces, they have decrepit old women, whom they name witches--an ugly, artful folk, who dwell in miserable huts, and instead of riding in a shell wagon, drawn by griffins, through the blue skies, they ride through the mist astride of a broomstick. They also have gnomes and spirits of the earth, who are small, undersized people, and cause all kinds of apparitions. Such are the fairy tales; but of far different composition are the narratives commonly called stories. These are located in an orderly way on the earth, treat of the usual affairs of life, the wonderful part mostly made up of the links of fate drawn about a human being, who is made rich or poor, happy or unhappy, not by magic or the displeasure of fairies, as in the tale, but by his own action, or by a singular combination of circumstances." "Most true!" responded one of the young men; "and such stories are also to be found in the glorious tales of Scheherazade called 'The Thousand and One Nights.' Most of the events that befel King Haroun-al-Raschid and his vizier were of that nature. They go out disguised and see this and that very singular incident, which is afterwards solved in a natural manner." "And yet you must admit," continued the old man "that those stories did not constitute the least interesting part of 'The Thousand and One Nights.' And still, how they differ in their motive, in their development and in their whole nature from the tales of a Prince Biribinker, or the three dervishes with one eye, or the fisher who drew from the sea the chest fastened with the seal of Salomo! But after all there is an original cause for the distinctive charms possessed by both styles--namely, that we live to experience many things striking and unusual. In the fairy tales, this element of the unusual is supplied by the introduction of a fabulous magic into the ordinary life of mortals; while in the stories something happens that, although in keeping with the natural laws, is totally unexpected and out of the usual course of events." "Strange!" cried the writer, "strange, that this natural course of events proves quite as attractive to us as the supernatural in the tales. What is the explanation of that?" "That lies in the delineation of the individual mortal," replied the old man. "In the tales, the miraculous forms the chief feature, while the mortal is deprived of the power of shaping his course; so that the individual figures and their character can only be drawn hastily. It is otherwise with the simple narrative, where the manner in which each one speaks and acts his character, in due proportion, is the main point and the most attractive one." "Really, you are right!" exclaimed the young merchant. "I never took time to give the matter much thought. I looked at every thing, and then let it pass by me. I was amused with one, found another wearisome, without knowing exactly why; but you have given us the key that unlocks the secret, a touch-stone with which we can make the test and decide properly." "Make a practice of doing that," answered the old man, "and your enjoyment will constantly increase, as you learn to think over what you have heard. But see, another slave has risen to tell his story." THE YOUNG ENGLISHMAN. Sire, I am a German by birth, and have been in your country too short a time to be able to entertain you with a Persian tale or an amusing story of sultans and viziers. You must, therefore, permit me to tell you a story of my native land. Sad to say, our stories are not always as elevated as yours--that is, they do not deal with sultans or kings, nor with viziers and pashas, that are called ministers of justice or finance, privy-counsellors, and the like, but they treat very modestly (soldiers sometimes excepted) of persons outside of official life. In the southern part of Germany lies the town of Gruenwiesel, where I was born and bred. It is a town identical with its neighbors; in its centre a small marketplace with a town-pump, on one corner a small old town-hall, while built around the square were the houses of the justice of the peace and the well-to-do merchants, and, in a few narrow streets that opened out of the square, lived the rest of the citizens. Everybody knew everybody else; every one knew all that was going on; and if the minister, or the mayor, or the doctor had an extra dish on the table, the whole town would know of it before dinner was over. On afternoons, the wives went out to coffee parties, as we call them, where, over strong coffee and sweet cakes, they gossiped of the great events of the day, coming to the conclusion that the minister must have invested in a lottery ticket and won an unchristian amount of money, that the mayor was open to a bribe, and that the apothecary paid the doctor well to write costly prescriptions. You may therefore imagine, Sire, how unpleasant it was for an orderly town like Gruenwiesel, when a man came there of whom nothing was known--not even where he came from, what he wanted there, or on what he lived. The mayor, to be sure, had seen his passport, a paper that every one is compelled to have in our country---- "Is it, then, so unsafe on the street," interrupted the sheik, "that you must have a firman from your sultan in order lo protect yourselves from robbers?" No, Sire, (replied the slave); these passports do not protect us from thieves, but are only a regulation by which the identity of the holder is every-where established. Well, the mayor had investigated this strange man's passport and at a gathering at the doctor's house had said that it had been found all right from Berlin to Gruenwiesel, but there must be some cheat in it, as the man was a suspicious-looking character. The mayor's opinion being entitled to great weight in Gruenwiesel, it is no wonder that from that time forth the stranger was looked upon with suspicion. And his course of life was not adapted to change this opinion of my countrymen. The stranger rented an entire house that had formerly been unoccupied, had a whole wagon full of singular furniture--such as stoves, ranges, frying-pans, and the like--put in there, and lived there alone by himself. Yes, he even cooked for himself; and not a single soul entered his house, with the exception of an old man living in Gruenwiesel, who made purchases for him of bread, meat, and vegetables. Still, even this old man was only allowed to step inside the door, where he was always met by the stranger, who relieved him of his bundles. I was ten years of age when this man came to our town, and I can to-day recall the uneasiness which his presence caused, as clearly as though it had all happened yesterday. He did not come in the afternoon, like the other men, to the bowling alley; nor did he visit the inn in the evening, to discuss the news over a pipe of tobacco. It was in vain that, one after another, the mayor, the 'squire, the doctor, and the minister invited him to dinner or to lunch; he always excused himself. Thus it was that some believed him crazy; others took him to be a Jew; while a third party firmly insisted that he was a magician or sorcerer. I grew to be eighteen, twenty years old, and still this man passed under the name of "the strange gentleman." There came a day, however, on which some fellows came to our town leading a number of strange animals. They were a rough lot of vagrants, who had a camel that would kneel, a bear that danced, some dogs and monkeys looking very comical in clothes and playing all sorts of tricks. These vagrants generally go through the town, stopping at all the cross streets and squares, making a horrible tumult with a small drum and fife, compelling their animals to dance and perform tricks, and then collect money in the houses. But the band, which was now exhibiting in Gruenwiesel, was distinguished above others of its class by the presence of a monster orang-outang, nearly as large as a human being, which walked on two legs, and could perform all manner of clever tricks. This dog-and-ape-troupe stopped before the house of the strange gentleman. At the sound of the fife and drum, the latter appeared at the dust-dimmed window, looking rather displeased; but after a time his face lighted up, and, to everybody's surprise, he opened the window, looked out, and laughed heartily at the tricks of the orang-outang, and even gave such a large silver coin to the show that the whole town spoke of it. On the following day these vagrants left the place. The camel carried a large number of baskets in which the dogs and monkies sat demurely, while the men and the big ape walked behind the camel. They had hardly been gone an hour, however, when the strange gentleman sent to the post, and ordered, to the astonishment of the postmaster, a carriage with post-horses, and shortly drove through the same gate, out on the same road that had been taken by the band of men and monkeys. The whole town was vexed because it could not be learned where he was bound. Night had set in before the strange gentleman returned to the gate. But another person sat in the wagon with him, who pressed his hat down over his face, and had bound up his mouth and ears in a silk handkerchief. The gate-keeper held it to be his duty to question the other stranger, and to ask him for his passport; he answered, however, very roughly, muttering away in a quite unintelligible language. "It is my nephew," said the strange gentleman, pleasantly, to the gate-keeper, as he pressed some silver coin into his hand; "it is my nephew, who does not at present understand very much German. He was just now cursing in his own dialect at our being stopped here." "Well, if he is your nephew," replied the gate-keeper, "of course a pass is not necessary. He will probably lodge with you?" "Certainly," said the strange gentleman, "and will most likely remain here some time." The gate-keeper had no further objections to make, so the strange gentleman and his nephew drove into the town. The mayor and citizens, however, were not very well pleased with the action of the gate-keeper. He might at least have taken notice of a few words of the nephew's dialect, so that thereby it might have been easily ascertained from what country he and his uncle originally came. On this the gate-keeper asserted that his dialect was neither French nor Italian, but it sounded broad enough to be English. Thus did the gate-keeper help himself out of disgrace, and at the same time supply the young man with a name. For every body now was talking about the young Englishman. But, like his uncle, the young Englishman did not show himself either at the bowling alley or the beer table; but yet he gave the people much to busy themselves about in another way. For instance, it often happened that, in the formerly quiet house of the strange gentleman, such fearful cries and noises were heard, that the people would crowd together before the house and look up at the windows. They would then see the young Englishman, clad in a red coat and green knee-breeches, with bristly hair, and a frightened expression, run by the windows, and through all the rooms, with inconceivable rapidity, chased by his uncle, wearing a red dressing-gown, with a hunting whip in his hand; he often missed hitting him, but after a time the crowd felt sure that the young man had been caught, as the most pitiable cries and whip-lashings were heard. The ladies of the town now felt such a lively sympathy for the young man who was treated so cruelly that they finally prevailed on the mayor to take some steps in the matter. He wrote the strange gentleman a note, in which he expressed his opinion very emphatically about the way the young Englishman had been treated, and threatened that if any more such scenes occurred he would take the young man under his own protection. But who could have been more astonished than was the mayor, when, for the first time in ten years, he saw the strange gentleman enter his house! The old gentleman excused his conduct, on the ground that it was in accordance with the expressed charge of the young man's parents, who had sent their son to him to be educated. This youth was in other respects wise and forward for his years, but he did not learn languages easily; and he was very anxious to teach his nephew to speak German fluently, that he might take the liberty of introducing him to the society of Gruenwiesel. And yet this language seemed so hard for him to acquire, that often there was nothing left to do but to whip it into him. The mayor expressed himself well satisfied with these explanations, only advising moderation on the old man's part; and he said that evening, over his beer, that he had seldom seen so intelligent and clever a man as the strange gentleman. "It is a pity," added he, in conclusion, "that he comes so little into society; still, I think that when the nephew is a little further advanced in German, he will visit my circle oftener." [Illustration] Through this single circumstance, the public opinion of the town was completely changed. The stranger was looked upon as a clever man, wishes for his better acquaintance were freely expressed, and when, now and then, a terrible shriek was heard to come from the house, the Gruenwiesel people simply said: "He is giving his nephew lessons in the German language," and ceased to block up the street before his house, as they had been wont to do on hearing those cries. In the course of three months the German exercises seemed to be finished, as the old gentleman took another step in the education of his nephew. There lived a feeble old Frenchman in the town, who gave the young people lessons in dancing. The old gentleman sent for him one day, and told him that he wished his nephew to be instructed in dancing. He gave him to understand that while the young man was quite docile, yet where dancing was concerned he was rather peculiar; he had, for instance, once learned how to dance from another master, but so singular were the figures taught him, that he could not be taken out into society. But then his nephew believed himself to be a great dancer, notwithstanding the fact that his dancing did not bear the slightest resemblance to a waltz or a gallopade. As for the rest, he promised the dancing-master a thaler a lesson; and the Frenchman announced himself as ready to begin the instruction of this peculiar pupil. Never in the world, as the Frenchman privately asserted, was there anything so extraordinary as these dancing-lessons. The nephew, quite a tall, slim young man, whose legs were still much too short, would make his appearance, finely dressed in a red coat, loose green trousers, and kid gloves. He spoke but little, and with a foreign accent, was at the beginning fairly clever and well-behaved, but would suddenly break into the wildest leaps, danced the boldest figures that took away the master's sight and speech; and if he attempted to set him right again, the young man would draw off his dancing-shoes, and throw them at the master's head, and then get down on the floor and run about on all fours. Summoned by the noise, the old gentleman would then rush out of his room, attired in a loose red dressing-gown, with a gold-paper capon his head, and lay the hunting whip on the back of the young man without mercy. The nephew would thereupon scream frightfully, spring upon tables and bureaus, and cry out in an odd foreign tongue. The old man in the red dressing-gown would at length catch him by the leg, drag him down from a table, beat him black and blue, and choked him by twisting his cravat, whereupon he would become clever and decent again, and the dancing-exercise would continue without further interruption. But when the Frenchman had advanced his pupil so far that music could be used during the lesson, there was a magical change in the nephew's behavior. A town musician was called in, and given a seat on the table in the _salon_ of the desolate house. The dancing-master would then represent a lady, the old gentleman furnishing him with a silk dress and an Indian shawl; and the nephew would request the lady to dance with him. The young Englishman was a tireless dancer, and would not let the Frenchman escape out of his long arms, but forced him to dance, in spite of his groans and cries, till he fell down from fatigue, or until the fiddler's arm became too lame to keep up the music. The dancing-master was nearly brought to his grave by these lessons, but the thaler that he received regularly every day, and the good wine that the old man set out for him, caused him to keep on, even though he firmly resolved each day not to enter the desolate house again. But the inhabitants of Gruenwiesel took an altogether different view of the matter. They found that the young man must have sociable qualities; while the young ladies rejoiced that, in the great scarcity of young men, they should have so nimble a dancer for the forthcoming winter. One morning the maids, on returning from market, reported to their mistresses a wonderful occurrence. Before the desolate house, a splendid coach, with beautiful horses, was drawn up, with a footman in rich livery holding open the door. Thereupon the door of the desolate house was opened, and two richly dressed gentlemen stepped out, one of whom was the old gentleman and the other probably the young Englishman, who had had such a hard time in learning German, and who danced so actively. Both men took seats in the coach, the footman sprang up on the rack at the back, and the coach--just think of it!--had been driven up to the mayor's door. As soon as the ladies had heard these stories from their servants, they tore off their kitchen aprons and caps, and dressed themselves in state. "Nothing is more certain," they exclaimed to their families, while all were running about to set the parlor in order, "nothing is more certain than that the stranger is about to bring his nephew out. The old fool has not had the decency to set his foot in our house for ten years; but we will pardon him on account of the nephew, who must be a charming fellow." Thus said the ladies, and admonished their sons and daughters to appear polite if the strangers came--to stand up straight, and also to take more pains than usual in their speech. And the wise women of the town were not wrong in their calculations, as the old gentleman went the rounds with his nephew, to recommend himself and the young Englishman to the favor of the Gruenwiesel families. Every-where the people were quite charmed with the appearance of the two strangers, and felt sorry that they had not made the acquaintance of these agreeable gentlemen earlier. The old gentleman showed himself to be a worthy, sensible man, who, to be sure, smiled a little over all he said, so that one was not quite sure whether he was in earnest or not; but he spoke of the weather, of the suburbs, and of the Summer pleasures in the cave on the mountain side, so wisely and elaborately that every one was charmed with him. But the nephew! He bewitched everybody; he took all hearts by storm. Certainly, so far as his exterior was concerned, his face could not be called handsome; the under part, the chin especially, protruded too far, and his complexion was exceedingly dark; then, too, he frequently made all sorts of singular grimaces, closing his eyes and gnashing his teeth; but in spite of all this, the contour of his face was found to be unusually interesting. Nothing could be more athletic than his figure. His clothes, it is true, hung somewhat loosely and unevenly on his body; but he was pleased with every thing; he flew about the room with uncommon activity, threw himself here on a sofa and then in an arm-chair, and stretched out his legs before him. But what in another young man would have been considered vulgar and unseemly, passed in the case of the nephew for agreeableness. "He is an Englishman," they would say, "they are all like that; an Englishman can lie down on a sofa and go to sleep while ten ladies stand up for lack of a seat; we shouldn't take it amiss in an Englishman." He was very watchful, however, of the old gentleman, his uncle; and when he began to spring about the room, or, as he seemed constantly inclined to do, put his feet up in a chair, a serious look served to make him behave himself a little better. And then, how could any one take any thing amiss, when the uncle on entering would say to the lady of the house: "My nephew is still somewhat coarse and uncultured, but I am sanguine that a little society will do much to polish his manners, and I therefore recommend him to you with my whole heart." [Illustration] Thus was the nephew brought into society, and all Gruenwiesel spoke of nothing else for two whole days. The old gentleman did not stop with this, however, but set about changing his entire course of life. In the afternoon, in company with his nephew, he would go out to the cave on the mountain, where the most respectable gentlemen of Gruenwiesel drank beer and played at bowls. The nephew there showed himself to be an accomplished master of the sport, as he never bowled down less than five or six pins. Now and then, it is true, a singular spirit seemed to control him. He would, for instance, often chase a ball with the speed of an arrow, right down among the pins, and there set up all kinds of strange noises; or when he had knocked down the king, or made a strike, he would stand on his beautifully curled head, and throw his feet into the air; or when a wagon rattled by, he would be found, before he was fairly missed from the room, on the driver's seat, would ride a short distance, and then come back. On these occasions, the old gentleman was accustomed to beg pardon of the mayor and the other gentlemen, for the antics of his nephew; but they laughed, charged it all to the account of his youth, asserted that at his age they were also as nimble, and loved the harum-scarum chap, as they called him, uncommonly well. But there were also times when they were not a little vexed with him, and yet they did not venture to make any complaints, because the young Englishman passed every-where as a model of culture and intelligence. The old gentleman was accustomed to take his nephew with him every evening to the "Golden Hirsch," an inn of the town. Although the nephew was quite a young man, he did all that his elders did, placed his glass before him, put on an enormous pair of spectacles, produced a mighty pipe, lighted it, and blew his smoke among them mischievously. If the papers, or war, or peace, were spoken of, and the doctor and the mayor fell into a discussion on these subjects, surprising all the other gentlemen by their deep political knowledge, the nephew was quite liable to interpose very forcible objections; he would strike the table with his hand, from which he never drew the glove, and gave the doctor and the mayor very plainly to understand that they had not any correct information on these subjects; that he had heard all about them himself, and possessed a deeper insight into them. He then gave expression to his own views, in singular broken German, which received, much to the disgust of the mayor, the approval of all the other gentlemen; for he must, naturally, as an Englishman, understand all this much better than they. Then, when the mayor and doctor, to conceal the anger they did not dare express, sat down to a game of chess, the nephew would come up, look over the mayor's shoulders with his great goggles, and find fault with this and that move, and tell the doctor he must move thus and so, until both men were secretly burning with anger. If then the mayor challenged him to play a game, with the design of mating him speedily--as he held himself to be a second Philidor--the old gentleman would grasp his nephew by the cravat, whereupon the young man at once became quiet and polite, and gave mate to the mayor. They had been accustomed to play cards of an evening at Gruenwiesel, at half a kreuzer a game for each player; this the nephew thought was a miserable stake, and laid down crown-thalers and ducats himself, asserting that not one of them could play as well as he, but generally consoled the insulted gentlemen by losing large sums of money to them. They suffered no twinges of conscience in this taking of his money. "He is an Englishman, and inherits his wealth," said they, as they shoved the ducats into their pockets. Thus did the nephew of the strange gentleman establish his respectability in the town in a very short time. The oldest inhabitants could not remember having ever seen a young man of this style in Gruenwiesel, and he created the greatest sensation that had ever been known there. It could not be said that the nephew had learned any thing more than the art of dancing; Latin and Greek were to him, as we were wont to express it, "Bohemian villages." In a game at the mayor's house he was called upon to write something, and it was discovered that he could not even write his own name. In geography, he made the most egregious blunders--as he would place a German city in France, or a Danish town in Poland; he had not read any thing, had not studied any thing, and the minister often shook his head seriously over the utter ignorance of the young man. Yet, in spite of all these defects, every thing he said or did was considered excellent; for he was so impudent as to claim that he was always right, and the close of every one of his speeches was, "I know better than you!" Winter came, and now the young Englishman appeared in still greater glory. Every party was voted wearisome where he was not a guest. People yawned when a wise man began to speak; but when the young Englishman uttered the veriest nonsense in broken German, all was attention. It was now discovered that the young man was also a poet, for rarely did an evening go by that he did not pull out a piece of paper from his pocket and read some sonnets to the company. There were, to be sure, some people who maintained that some of these poems were poor and without sense, and that others they had read somewhere in print; but the nephew did not permit himself to be put down in any such manner. He read, and read, directed the attention of his hearers to the beauties of his verses, and was applauded to the echo. His great triumph, however, was at the Gruenwiesel ball. No one could dance more gracefully and rapidly than he. None could execute such uncommonly difficult steps. His uncle dressed him in the greatest splendor, after the latest fashion; and although the clothes did not fit his body very well, yet every one thought him charmingly dressed. The men, to be sure, thought themselves somewhat insulted by the new fashion which he introduced. The mayor had always been accustomed to open the ball in his own person, while the leading young people had the right to arrange the other dances; but since the appearance of the young Englishman, all this was changed. Without much ceremony, he took the next best lady by the hand and led her out on the floor, arranged every thing to suit himself, and was lord and master and king of the ball. But because these innovations were acceptable to the ladies, the men did not venture to make any objections, and the nephew held firmly to his self-appointed office. This ball seemed to furnish great entertainment for the old gentleman; he never once took his eyes off his nephew, wore a smiling face, and when all the world of Gruenwiesel moved up to him to sound the praises of the noble well-bred youth, he could no longer contain himself from very joy, but broke out into a hearty laugh, and conducted himself almost foolishly. The Gruenwiesel people attributed these singular manifestations of pleasure to his great love for his nephew, and did not think them unnatural. Still, every now and then he had to turn his fatherly attention to his nephew, for, in the middle of an elegant dance, the young man would leap up to the platform where the town musicians sat, take away the bass-viol from its owner, and scrape out a horrible medley; or for a change he would throw his heels up into the air and dance about on his hands. At such times, the old gentleman would take him aside, would talk to him very seriously, and tighten his neck-tie, until he once more was tractable. Thus did the nephew conduct himself in society. It is usually the case with social customs, that the objectionable ones spread much more rapidly than the good ones; and a new and striking fashion, even though ludicrous in itself, may have something attractive in it for young people who have not thought very deeply about themselves and the world. Thus it was in Gruenwiesel, over the young Englishman and his singular manners. When the young people saw how he, with his perverse disposition, with his coarse laughs and jests, with his rude answers to elderly people, was more praised than blamed, that all this was considered spirited, they said to themselves, "It would be very easy for me to become such a spirited fellow." They had formerly been industrious and clever young people; now they thought, "Of what use is study, when ignorance is more highly rewarded?" They let books alone, and spent their time on the square and in the streets. Formerly they were well-behaved and polite towards every one--had waited until they were spoken to, and then replied modestly; but now they placed themselves in the company of their elders, gossiped with them, gave expression to their opinions, and even laughed in the mayor's face when he spoke, and affirmed that they knew better than he. Formerly the young men of Gruenwiesel had had a horror of a coarse and vulgar life; but now they sang all kinds of low songs, smoked tobacco in enormous pipes, and frequented the worst saloons. They also bought large goggles, although their sight was not impaired, set them on their nose, and thought that they were now made, as they looked just like the celebrated young Englishman. At home, or when they were visiting, they would lie down on the lounge with their boots and spurs on; they tilted back their chairs in company, or put their elbows on the table and rested their cheeks on their fists--a posture that was in the highest degree charming to look at. All in vain did their mothers and friends tell them how foolish and disgraceful these actions were; they quoted the shining example of the nephew in defence of their behavior. All in vain was it represented to them that one should overlook in the nephew, as a young Englishman, a certain national rudeness;--the young men of Gruenwiesel would assert that they had just as good a right as the best Englishman living, to be rude in a spirited way; in short, it was a pity to see how the evil example of the nephew had completely destroyed the customs and good manners of Gruenwiesel. But the joy of the young men, in their rude unrestrained life did not last long, as the following event wrought a complete change in the scene. The Winter amusements were to close with a concert, that was to be given, partly by the town musicians, and partly by the lovers of music in Gruenwiesel. The mayor played the violoncello, the doctor the bassoon, extremely well; the apothecary, although he had a very poor talent for it, blew the flute; the young ladies of Gruenwiesel had learned some songs, and every thing was all nicely arranged. But the strange gentleman gave out that while the concert would undoubtedly be a success, yet it was a mistake not to introduce a duet, as a duet was a recognized feature of every concert. The old gentleman's declaration proved quite an embarrassment to the managers. It was true that the mayor's daughter sang like a nightingale; but where should they find a gentleman who could sing a duet with her? In their perplexity, they at last hit upon the old organist who had once possessed an excellent bass voice; but the strange gentleman asserted that they need have no uneasiness on that score, as his nephew was an exceptionally fine singer. They were not a little surprised over this new accomplishment of the young man, and requested him to sing something, that they might judge of his acquirements. He sang for them, and, barring a few outlandish affectations which were supposed to be the English style, he sang like an angel. The duet was therefore decided on and hurriedly practiced, and the evening finally came on which the ears of the Gruenwiesel people were to be refreshed with a concert. The old gentleman, sad to say, was sick and could not attend the concert; but he gave the mayor, who called on him just before the hour of opening the concert, some directions regarding his nephew. "He is a good soul, my nephew," said he, "but now and then he is overtaken by all sorts of singular fancies, and does many stupid things; it is, therefore, a great misfortune that I can not be present at your concert, as in my presence he always behaves himself--he well knows why! I must say, in his favor, that he does not commit these actions in a spirit of wantonness, but they are a fault of his constitution, deeply implanted in his nature. If then, Mr. Mayor, he should sit down on the music-desk, or attempt to play the bass-viol, just loosen his neck-tie a little; or, if that does not help matters, pull it off entirely, and you will see how quiet and well-behaved he will become." The mayor thanked the sick man for his confidence, and promised that if it should be necessary he would carry out his instructions. The concert-hall was crowded; all Gruenwiesel and the surrounding country were there. All the royal gamekeepers, the ministers, officials, landlords, and others, within a circumference of ten miles, came with their numerous families to share the rare enjoyment of the concert with the Gruenwiesel people. The town musicians did themselves honor. After them, the mayor appeared with his violoncello, accompanied by the apothecary with his flute; after these, the organist sang, amid universal applause; and the doctor, too, was cheered not a little when he appeared with his bassoon. The first part of the concert was over, and every one was impatiently awaiting the second part, in which the young stranger was to sing a duet with the mayor's daughter. The nephew was present, in a brilliant costume, and had already attracted the attention of all present. He had, with the greatest composure, laid himself back in an easy chair, which had been reserved for a countess of the neighborhood, stretched his legs out before him, and stared at everybody through a large spyglass, stopping occasionally to play with a large mastiff which he, in spite of the rule excluding dogs, had brought with him into this goodly company. The countess for whom the chair had been reserved, put in an appearance; but he showed no disposition to vacate the seat,--on the contrary, he settled himself down in it more comfortably, and as no one dared say any thing to the young man about it, the noble lady was forced to take a common straw-bottomed chair in the midst of the other ladies; a proceeding that vexed her not a little. During the excellent playing of the mayor, during the fine singing of the organist, yes, even while the doctor was performing some fantasias on the bassoon, and all were breathlessly listening, the young Englishman amused himself by having the dog fetch his handkerchief, or chatted aloud with his neighbors, so that every one who was not acquainted with him wondered at the extraordinary conduct of the young man. It was no wonder, therefore, that there was great curiosity to hear him in the duet. The second part began; the town musicians had opened with a short piece of music, and now the mayor, with his daughter, stepped up to the young man, handed him a sheet of music, and said: "Mosjoh! Will it please you to sing the duet now?" The young man laughed, gnashed his teeth, sprang up, and the others followed him to the music-stand, while the entire company were in full expectation. The organist began the accompaniment and beckoned the nephew to begin. The young Englishman looked through his goggles at the music, and broke out into the most discordant tones. The organist called out to him, "Two tones deeper, your honor! You must sing in C, C!" Instead of singing in C, however, the nephew took off his shoe, and struck the organist such a blow on the head that the powder flew in all directions. As the mayor saw this, he thought: "Ha! he has another attack!" and sprang forward, seized him by the throat, and loosened his neck-tie; but this only increased the young man's violence; he no longer spoke German, but a strange language instead, that no one understood, and began to leap about in an extraordinary manner. The mayor was very much annoyed by this unpleasant disturbance; he therefore resolved, inasmuch as the young man must have been attacked by some very unusual symptoms, to remove the cravat entirely. But he had no sooner done this, than he stood motionless with horror, for instead of a human skin and complexion, the neck of the young man was covered with a dark-brown fur. The young man took some higher leaps, grasped his hair with his gloved hands, pulled it, and, oh, wonder! this beautiful hair was simply a wig, which he flung into the mayor's face; and his head now appeared, covered with the same brown fur. He jumped over tables and benches, threw down the music-stands, stamped on the fiddles and clarionet, and appeared to have gone mad. "Catch him! catch him!" shouted the mayor, quite beside himself. "He is out of his senses, catch him!" That was, however, a difficult thing to do, as the Englishman had pulled off his gloves, disclosing nails on his fingers, with which he scratched the faces of those who attempted to hold him. Finally an experienced hunter succeeded in holding him. He bound his long arms down by his side so that he could only move his feet. The people gathered round and stared at the singular young gentleman, who no longer resembled a human being. Just then a scientific gentleman of the neighborhood who had a large cabinet full of specimens of natural history, and possessed all kinds of stuffed animals, approached nearer, examined him closely, and then exclaimed, in tones of surprise: "Good gracious! ladies and gentlemen, how is it you bring this animal into genteel company? That is an ape, of the _Homo Troglodytes_ species. I will give six thalers for him on the spot, if you will let me have him, for my cabinet." Who could describe the astonishment of the Gruenwiesel people as they heard this! "What! an ape, an orang-outang in our society? The young stranger a common ape?" cried they, and looked at one another in a stupefied way. They could not believe it; they could not trust their ears. The men examined the animal more closely, but it was beyond all doubt a quite natural ape. "But how is this possible," cried the mayor's wife. "Has he not often read his poems to me? Has he not eaten at my table, just like any other man?" "What?" exclaimed the doctor's wife. "Has he not often drank coffee with me, and a great deal of it? And has he not talked learnedly with my husband, and smoked with him?" "What! is it possible!" cried the men; "has he not bowled nine-pins with us at the cave? and discussed politics like one of us?" "And how can it be?" lamented they all; "has he not danced at our balls? An ape! an ape? It is a miracle! It is witchcraft!" "Yes, it is witchcraft, and a satanic spook!" echoed the mayor, exhibiting the cravat of the nephew, or ape. "See, this cloth contains the magic that made him so acceptable to our eyes. There is a broad strip of elastic parchment covered with all manner of singular characters. I think it must be Latin. Can any one read it?" The minister, a scholarly gentleman who had lost many a game of chess to the young Englishman, walked up, examined the parchment, and said: "By no means! They are only Latin letters," and read: "THE APE CAN DO MOST COMIC FEATS, WHEN OF THE APPLE FRUIT HE EATS." "Yes, it is a wicked fraud, a kind of sorcery; and the perpetrator of it should be made an example of." The mayor was of the same opinion, and started to go to the house of the stranger, who must be a sorcerer; while six militia-men took the ape along, as the stranger would be immediately put on trial. They arrived at the desolate house, accompanied by a large crowd of people, as every one was anxious to see the outcome of the affair. They knocked on the door and pulled the bell, but no one responded. The mayor, in his wrath, had the door beaten in, and went up to the room of the stranger. But nothing was to be seen there save various kinds of old furniture. The strange gentleman was not to be found; but on his work-table lay a large sealed letter, directed to the mayor, who immediately opened it. He read: "MY DEAR GRUENWIESEL FRIENDS:--When you read this I shall be far away from your town, and you will have discovered of what rank and country my dear nephew is. Take this joke, which I have allowed myself to indulge in at your expense, as a lesson not to seek the society of a stranger who prefers to live quietly by himself. I felt above sharing in your eternal clack, in your miserable customs, and your ridiculous manners. Therefore, I educated a young orang-outang, which, as my deputy, won such a warm place in your affections. Farewell; make the best use of this lesson." The people of Gruenwiesel were not a little ashamed at the position they were in before the whole country. They had hoped that all this could be shown to have some connection with supernatural things. But the young people experienced the deepest sense of shame, because they had copied the bad customs and manners of an ape. They ceased to prop their elbows on the table; they no longer tilted back their chairs; they were silent until spoken to; they laid aside their spectacles, and were good and obedient; and if any one of them chanced to slip back into the old ways, the Gruenwiesel people would say, "It is an ape!" But the ape, that had so long played the _rôle_ of a young gentleman, was surrendered to the learned man who possessed a cabinet of natural curiosities. He allowed the ape to have the run of his yard, fed it well, and showed it as a curiosity to strangers, where it can be seen to this day. There was loud laughter in the _salon_, when the slave had concluded, in which the young men joined. "There must be singular people among these Franks; and, of a truth, I would rather be here with the sheik and mufti in Alessandria, than in the company of the minister, the mayor, and their silly wives in Gruenwiesel!" "You speak the truth there," replied the young merchant, "I should not care to die in the Frank's country. They are a coarse, wild, barbaric people, and it must be terrible for a cultivated Turk or Persian to live there." "You will hear all about that presently," promised the old man. "From what the steward told me, the fine-looking young man yonder will have something to say about the Franks, as he was among them for a long time, and is by birth a Mussulman." "What, the last one in the row? Really, it is a sin for the sheik to free him! He is the handsomest slave in the whole country. Only look at his courageous face, his sharp eye, his noble form! He might give him some light duties, such as fan or pipe-bearing. It would be an easy matter to provide such an office for him, and truly such a slave as he would be an ornament to the palace. And the sheik has only had him three days, and now gives him away? It is folly! It is a sin!" "Do not blame him--he, who is wiser than all Egypt;" said the old man, impressively. "I have already told you that he gives this slave his freedom, believing that he will thereby deserve the blessing of Allah. You say the slave is handsome and well-formed; and you say the truth. But the son of the sheik--whom may the Prophet restore to his father's house--was also a beautiful boy, and must be now tall and well-formed. Shall the sheik then save his money, and set a less expensive slave free, in the hope to receive his son therefor? He who wishes to do anything in the world had far better not do it at all, than not do it well." "And see how the sheik's eyes are fastened on this slave! I have noticed it the whole evening. During the recital of the stories, his look was fixed on the young slave's face. It evidently pains him to part with him." "Do not think that of the sheik. Do you think the loss of a thousand tomans would pain him who every day receives three times that sum?" asked the old man. "But when his glance falls sorrowfully on the young slave, he is doubtless thinking of his son, who languishes in a strange land, and whether a merciful man lives there who will buy his freedom and send him back to his father." "You may be right," responded the young merchant, "and I am ashamed that I have been looking at only the darker and ignobler traits of people, while you prefer to see a nobler meaning underlying their actions. And yet, taken as a whole, mankind are bad; have you not found it so, old man?" "It is precisely because I have not found it so, that I love to think well of people. I used to feel as you do. I lived so thoughtlessly, heard much that was bad about people, experienced much that was wicked in myself, and so readily began to look upon humanity as made up of a poor lot of creatures. Still, I chanced to think that Allah, who is as just as wise, would not suffer so abandoned a race to people this fair earth. I thought over again what I had seen and what I had experienced in my own person, and behold! I had taken account only of the evil and had forgotten the good. I had paid no attention when one had performed a deed of charity; it seemed quite natural when whole families lived virtuous and orderly lives; but whenever I heard of something wicked or criminal, I stored it away in my memory. Thus did I begin to look about me with clearer eyes. I rejoiced when I found that the good was not so rare a quality as I had at first thought it. I noticed the evil less, or it made less impression on my mind; and so I learned to love humanity, learned to think well of people. And in my long life, I have made fewer mistakes in speaking and thinking well of people, than I should have made if I had looked upon them as avaricious or ignoble or ungodly." The old man was interrupted here by the steward, who said: "Sir, the Sheik of Alessandria, Ali Banu, has remarked your presence here with pleasure, and invites you to step forward and take a seat near him." The young men were not a little astonished at the honor shown the old man whom they had taken for a beggar; and when he had left them to sit with the sheik, they held the steward back and the young writer asked him: "By the beard of the Prophet! I implore you to tell us who this old man is with whom we have been conversing, and whom the sheik so honors?" "What!" cried the steward clasping his hands in surprise, "do you not know this man?" "No." "But I have seen you speaking with him several times on the street, and my master has also noticed this and only recently said, 'They must be valiant young people with whom this man grants a conversation.'" "But tell us who he is!" cried the young merchant impatiently. "Go away; you are trying to make a fool of me," answered the steward. "No one enters this _salon_ without special permission, and to-day the old gentleman sent word to the sheik that he would bring some young men with him into the _salon_, if it were not disagreeable to the sheik, and the sheik sent back the reply that his house was at his service." "Do not leave us longer in ignorance. As true as I live, I do not know who the man is. We got acquainted with him by chance, and fell to talking with him." "Well, you may consider yourselves fortunate, for you have conversed with a famous and learned man, and all present honor you and wonder at you accordingly. He is none other than Mustapha, the learned dervish." "Mustapha! the wise Mustapha, who educated the sheik's son, who has written many learned books, and travelled to all parts of the world? Have we spoken with Mustapha? And spoken, too, as though he were one of us, without the least respect!" While the young men were talking about the dervish, Mustapha, and the honor they felt had been done them by his condescension, the steward came to them again, and invited them to follow him, as the sheik wished to speak with them. The hearts of the young men beat excitedly. Never yet had they spoken with a man of such high rank. But they collected their wits, so as not to appear like fools, and followed the steward to the sheik. Ali Banu sat upon a rich cushion, and refreshed himself with sherbet. At his right sat the old man, his shabby clothes resting on splendid cushions, while his well-worn sandals were placed on a rich rug; but his well-shaped head, and his eye, expressive of dignity and wisdom, indicated that he was a man worthy to be seated near the sheik. The sheik was very grave, and the old man appeared to be speaking words of consolation and of hope to him. The young men also feared that their summons to the sheik had been caused by a stratagem on the part of the old man, who very likely would now ruin them by a word to the sorrowing father. "Welcome, young men," said the sheik. "Welcome to the house of Ali Banu! My old friend here deserves my thanks for bringing you with him; still I am a little inclined to quarrel with him that he did not make me acquainted with you before this. Which of you is the young writer?" "I, O Sire! and at your service!" replied the writer, crossing his arms on his breast and making a low obeisance. "You are pleased with stories, and also love to read books with beautiful verses and wise sayings?" The young man blushed, and answered: "O Sire! for my part, I know of no pleasanter way of passing the day. It cultivates the mind and whiles away the time. But every one to his taste; I do not quarrel with any one who does not----" "Very well, very well," interrupted the sheik, with a laugh, as he beckoned the second young man forward. "And now who may you be?" "Sire, my duties are those of an assistant to a physician, and I have cured some patients myself." "Just so," replied the sheik. "And you are one who loves high-living. You would like to sit down to a good table with your friends. Isn't that so? Have I not guessed right?" The young man was much abashed; he felt that the old man had betrayed him also; but he plucked up courage to say: "Oh yes, Sire, I reckon it as one of the great enjoyments of life to be able to make merry now and then with one's friends. My purse does not permit me to entertain my friends with much besides watermelons, and other cheap things; but still we contrive to be merry even with these--so that it stands to reason that if my purse was longer our enjoyment would be proportionately increased." This spirited answer pleased the sheik so well that he could not refrain from laughing. "Which of you is the young merchant?" was his next inquiry. The young merchant made his obeisance to the sheik with an easy grace, for he was a man of good breeding; and the sheik said to him: "And you? Do you not take pleasure in music and dancing? Are you not charmed to hear good artists sing and play, and to see dancers perform ingenious dances?" The young merchant replied: "I see clearly, O Sire, that this old gentleman, in order to amuse you, has told you of all our follies. If he thereby succeeded in cheering you up, I shall not regret having been made the object of your sport. As concerns music and dancing, however, I will confess that it would be difficult to find any thing that so cheers my heart. But yet, do not suppose that I blame you, O Sire, that you do not likewise----" "Enough! not another word!" cried the sheik, smiling, and waving his hand. "Every one to his taste, you were about to say. But there stands another: that must be the young man who is so fond of travelling. Who, then, are you, young gentleman?" "I am a painter, O Sire," answered the young man. "I paint landscapes, sometimes on the walls of _salons_, and sometimes on canvas. To see foreign lands is, above all things, my wish, for one sees there a great variety of beautiful regions that can be reproduced, and what one sees and sketches is as a rule much finer than that which is evolved from one's fancy." The sheik surveyed the group of handsome young men with an earnest look. "I once had a dear son," said he, "and he must by this time be grown up like you. You should be his companions, and every one of your wishes should be satisfied. With that one he would read, hear music with this, with the other he would invite good friends and make merry, and I would send him with the painter to beautiful regions and would then feel sure of his safe return. But Allah has ordained otherwise, and I bow uncomplainingly to his will. Still, it is within my power to fulfill your wishes, and you shall leave Ali Banu with happy hearts. You, my learned friend," continued he, turning to the young writer, "will take up your residence in my house, and take charge of my books. You will be at liberty to do as you think best, and your only duty will be, when you have read some very fine story, to come and relate it to me. You, who love to sit at a good table with your friends, shall have the oversight of my entertainments. I myself live alone and take no pleasures; but it is a duty that attaches to my office to now and then invite guests. Now you shall prepare every thing in my place, and can also invite your friends whenever you please to sit down with you--and, let it be understood, to something better than watermelons. I certainly can not take the young merchant away from his business, which brings him in money and honor; but every evening, my young friend, dancers, singers, and musicians will be at your service, and will play and dance for you to your heart's content. And you," turning to the painter, "shall see foreign lands, and educate your tastes by travel. My treasurer will give you for your first journey, that you can start on to-morrow, a thousand gold pieces, together with two horses and a slave. Travel wherever you desire; and when you see anything beautiful, paint it for me." The young men were beside themselves with astonishment, speechless with joy and gratitude. They would have kissed the ground at the feet of the kind man, but he prevented them. "If you are indebted to any one, it is to this wise old gentleman who told me about you. He has also given me pleasure in this matter by making me acquainted with four such worthy young gentlemen." The dervish, Mustapha, however, checked the thanks of the young men. "See," said he, "how one should never judge too hastily. Did I exaggerate the goodness of this noble man?" "Let us hear from another of the slaves, who is to be liberated to-day," interrupted Ali Banu; and the young gentlemen took their seats. The young slave who had attracted general attention by reason of his beautiful form and features and his bright look, now arose, and in a melodious voice began his story. THE STORY OF ALMANSOR. Sire, the men who have preceded me have told wonderful stories which they had heard in strange lands; whilst I must confess with shame that I do not know a single tale that is worthy of your attention. Nevertheless if it will not weary you, I will relate the strange history of one of my friends. On the Algerian privateer, from which your generous hand set me free, was a young man of my own age who did not seem to have been born to the slave-costume that he wore. The other unfortunates on the ship were either rough, coarse people, with whom I did not care to associate or people whose language I did not understand; therefore, every moment that I had to myself was spent in the company of this young man. He called himself Almansor, and, judging from his speech, was an Egyptian. We were well pleased to be in each other's society, and one day we chanced to tell our stories to one another; and I discovered that my friend's story was far more remarkable than my own. Almansor's father was a prominent man in an Egyptian city, whose name he failed to give me. The days of his childhood passed pleasantly, surrounded by all the splendor and comfort earth could give. At the same time, he was not too tenderly nurtured, and his mind was early cultivated: for his father was a wise man who taught him the value of virtue, and provided him with a teacher who was a famous scholar, and who instructed him in all that a young man should know. Almansor was about ten years old when the Franks came over the sea to invade his country and wage war upon his people. The father of this boy could not have been very favorably regarded by the Franks, for one day, as he was about to go to morning prayers, they came and demanded first his wife as a pledge of his faithful adherence to the Franks, and when he would not give her up, they seized his son and carried him off to their camp. When the young slave had got this far in his story, the sheik hid his face in his hands, and there arose a murmur of indignation in the _salon_. "How can the young man there be so indiscreet?" cried the friends of the sheik, "and tear open the wounds of Ali Banu by such stories, instead of trying to heal them? How can he recall his anguish, instead of trying to dissipate it?" The steward, too, was very angry with the shameless youth, and commanded him to be silent. But the young slave was very much astonished at all this, and asked the sheik whether there was any thing in what he had related that had aroused his displeasure. At this inquiry, the sheik lifted his head, and said: "Peace, my friends; how can this young man know any thing about my sad misfortune, when he has not been under this roof three days! might there not be a case similar to mine in all the cruelties the Franks committed? May not perhaps this Almansor himself----but proceed, my young friend!" The young slave bowed, and continued: The young Almansor was taken to the enemy's camp. On the whole, he was well treated there, as one of the generals took him into his tent, and being pleased with the answers of the boy that were interpreted to him, took care to see that he wanted for nothing in the way of food and clothes. But the homesickness of the boy made him very unhappy. He wept for many days; but his tears did not move the hearts of these men to pity. The camp was broken, and Almansor believed that he was now about to be returned to his home; but it was not so. The army moved here and there, waged war with the Mamelukes, and took the young Almansor with them wherever they went. When he begged the generals to let him return home, they would refuse, and tell him that he would have to remain with them as a hostage for his father's neutrality. Thus was he for many days on the march. One day, however, there was a great stir in camp, and it did not escape the attention of the boy. There was talk about breaking camp, or withdrawing the troops, of embarking on ships; and Almansor was beside himself with joy. "For now," he reasoned, "when the Franks are about to return to their own country, they will surely set me at liberty." They all marched back towards the coast, and at last reached a point from which they could see their ships riding at anchor. The soldiers began to embark, but it was night before many of them were on the vessels. Anxious as Almansor was to keep awake--for he believed he would soon be set at liberty--he finally sank into a deep sleep. When he awoke, he found himself in a very small room, not the one in which he had gone to sleep in. He sprang from his couch; but when he struck the floor, he fell over, as the floor reeled back and forth, and every thing seemed to be moving and dancing around him. He at last got up, steadied himself against the walls, and attempted to make his way out of the room. A strange roaring and rushing was to be heard all about him. He knew not whether he waked or dreamed; for he had never heard anything at all like it. Finally he reached a small stair-case, which he climbed with much difficulty, and what a sensation of terror crept over him! For all around nothing was to be seen but sea and sky; he was on board a ship! He began to weep bitterly. He wanted to be taken back, and would have thrown himself into the sea with the purpose of swimming to land if the Franks had not held him fast. One of the officers called him up, and promised that he should soon be sent home if he would be obedient, and represented to him that it would not have been possible to send him home across the country, and that if they had left him behind he would have perished miserably. But the Franks did not keep faith with him; for the ship sailed on for many days, and when it finally reached land, it was not the Egyptian, but the Frankish coast. During the long voyage, and in their camp too, Almansor had learned to understand and to speak the language of the Franks; and this was of great service to him now, in a country where nobody knew his own language. He was taken a long journey through the country, and everywhere the people turned out in crowds to see him; for his conductors announced that he was the son of the King of Egypt, who was sending him to their country to be educated. The soldiers told this story to make the people believe that they had conquered Egypt, and had concluded a peace with that country. After his journey had continued several days, they came to a large city, the end of their journey. There he was handed over to a physician, who took him into his home and instructed him in all the customs and manners of the Franks. First of all, he was required to put on Frankish clothes, which he found very tight, and not nearly as beautiful as his Egyptian costume. Then he had to abstain from making an obeisance with crossed arms, but when he wished to greet any one politely, he must, with one hand, lift from his head the monstrous black felt hat that had been given him to wear, let the other hand hang at his side, and give a scrape with his right foot. He could no longer sit down on his crossed legs, as is the proper custom in the Levant, but he had to seat himself on a high-legged chair, and let his feet hang down to the floor. Eating also caused him not a little difficulty; for every thing that he wished to put in his mouth he had to first stick on a metal fork. The doctor was a very harsh, wicked man, given to teasing the boy; for when the lad would forget himself and say to an acquaintance, "_Salem aleicum!_" the doctor would beat him with his cane telling him he should have said, "_Votre serviteur!_" Nor was he allowed to think, or speak, or write in his native tongue; at the very most, he could only dream in it; and he would doubtless have entirely forgotten his own language, had it not been for a man living in that city, who was of the greatest service to him. This was an old but very learned man, who knew a little of every Oriental language--Arabic, Persian, Coptic, and even Chinese. He was held in that country to be a miracle of learning, and he received large sums of money for giving lessons in these languages. This man sent for Almansor several times a week, treated him to rare fruits and the like; and on these occasions the boy felt as if he were at home once more in his own country. The old gentleman was a very singular man. He had some clothes made for Almansor, such as Egyptian people of rank wore. These clothes he kept in a particular room in his house, and whenever Almansor came, he sent him with a servant to this room and had the boy dressed after the fashion of his own country. From there the boy was taken to a _salon_ called "Little Arabia." This _salon_ was adorned with all kinds of artificially-grown trees--such as palms, bamboos, young cedars, and the like; and also with flowers that grew only in the Levant. Persian carpets lay on the floor, and along the walls were cushions, but nowhere Frankish tables or chairs. Upon one of these cushions the old professor would be found seated, but presenting quite a different appearance from common. He had wound a fine Turkish shawl about his head for a turban, and had fastened on a gray beard, that reached to his sash, and looked for all the world, like the genuine beard of an important man. With these he wore a robe that he had had made from a brocaded dressing-gown, baggy Turkish trowsers, yellow slippers, and, peaceful as he generally was, on these days he had buckled on a Turkish sword, while in his sash stuck a dagger set with false stones. He smoked from a pipe two yards long, and was waited on by his servants, who were likewise in Persian costumes, and one half of whom had been required to color their hands and face black. [Illustration] At first all this seemed very strange to the youthful Almansor; but he soon found that these hours could be made very useful to him, were he to join in the mood of the old man. While at the doctor's he was not allowed to speak an Egyptian word, here the Frankish language was forbidden. On entering, Almansor was required to give the peace-greeting, to which the old Persian responded spiritedly, and then he would beckon the boy to sit down near him, and began to speak Persian, Arabic, Coptic, and all languages, one after another, and considered this a learned Oriental entertainment. Near him stood a servant--or, as he was supposed to be on these days, a slave--who held a large book. This book was a dictionary; and when the old man stumbled in his words, he beckoned to the slave, looked up what he wanted to say, and then continued his speech. The slaves brought in sherbet in Turkish vessels and to put the old man in the best of humors, Almansor had only to say that every thing here was just as it was in the Levant. Almansor read Persian beautifully, and it was the chief delight of the old man to hear him. He had many Persian manuscripts, from which the boy read to him, then the old man would read attentively after him, and in this way acquired the right pronunciation. These were holidays for little Almansor, as the professor never let him go away unrewarded, and he often carried back with him costly gifts of money or linen, or other useful things which the doctor would not give him. So lived Almansor for some years in the capital of the Franks; but never did his longing for home diminish. When he was about fifteen years old, an incident occurred that had great influence on his destiny. The Franks chose their leading general--the same with whom Almansor had often spoken in Egypt--to be their king. Almansor could see by the unusual appearance of the streets and the great festivities that were taking place, that something of the kind had happened; but he never once dreamed that this king was the same man whom he had seen in Egypt, for that general was quite a young man. But one day Almansor went to one of the bridges that led over the wide river which flowed through the city, and there he perceived a man dressed in the simple uniform of a soldier, leaning over the parapet and looking down into the water. The features of the man impressed him as being familiar, and he felt sure of having seen him before. He tried to recall him to memory; and presently it flashed upon him that this man was the general of the Franks with whom he had often spoken in camp, and who had always cared kindly for him. He did not know his right name, but he mustered up his courage, stepped up to him, and, crossing his arms on his breast and making an obeisance, addressed him as he had heard the soldiers speak of him among themselves: "_Salem aleicum_, Little Corporal!" The man looked up in surprise, cast a sharp look at the boy before him, recalled him after a moment's pause, and exclaimed: "Is it possible! you here, Almansor? How is your father? How are things in Egypt? What brings you here to us?" Almansor could not contain himself longer; he began to weep, and said to the man: "Then you do not know what your countrymen--the dogs--have done to me, Little Corporal? You do not know that in all this time I have not seen the land of my ancestors?" "I cannot think," said the man, with darkening brow, "I cannot think that they would have kidnapped you." "Alas," answered Almansor, "it is too true. On the day that your soldiers embarked, I saw my fatherland for the last time. They took me away with them, and one general, who pitied my misery, paid for my living with a hateful doctor, who beats and half starves me. But listen, Little Corporal," continued he confidentially, "it is well that I met you here; you must help me." The man whom he thus addressed, smiled, and asked in what way he should help him. [Illustration] "See," said Almansor, "it would be unfair for me to ask much from you; you were very kind to me, but still I know that you are a poor man, and when you were general you were not as well-dressed as the others, and now, judging from your coat and hat, you cannot be in very good circumstances. But the Franks have recently chosen a sultan, and beyond doubt you know people who can approach him--the minister of war, maybe, or of foreign affairs, or his admiral; do you?" "Well, yes," answered the man; "but what more?" "You might speak a good word for me to these people, Little Corporal, so that they would beg the sultan to let me go. Then I should need some money for the journey over the sea; but, above all, you must promise me not to say a word about this to either the doctor or the Arabic professor!" "Who is the Arabic professor?" "Oh, he is a very strange man; but I will tell you about him some other time. If these two men should hear of this, I should not be able to get away. But will you speak to the minister about me? Tell me honestly!" "Come with me," said the man; "perhaps I can be of some use to you now." "Now?" cried the boy, in a fright. "Not for any consideration now; the doctor would whip me for being gone so long. I must hurry back!" "What have you in your basket?" asked the soldier, as he detained him. Almansor blushed, and at first was not inclined to show the contents of his basket; but finally he said: "See, Little Corporal, I must do such services as would be given to my father's meanest slave. The doctor is a miserly man, and sends me every day an hour's distance from our house to the vegetable and fish-market. There I must make my purchases among the dirty market-women, because things may be had of them for a few coppers less than in our quarter of the city. Look! on account of this miserable herring, and this handful of lettuce, and this piece of butter, I am forced to take a two hours' walk every day. Oh, if my father only knew of it!" The man whom Almansor addressed was much moved by the boy's distress, and answered: "Only come with me, and don't be afraid. The doctor shall not harm you, even if he has to go without his herring and salad to-day. Cheer up, and come along." So saying, he took Almansor by the hand and led him away with him; and although the boy's heart beat fast when he thought of the doctor, yet there was so much assurance in the man's words and manner, that he resolved to go with him. He therefore walked along by the side of the man, with his basket on his arm, through many streets; and it struck him as very wonderful that all the people took off their hats as they passed along and paused to look after them. He expressed his surprise at this to his companion, but he only laughed and made no reply. Finally they came to a magnificent palace. "Do you live here. Little Corporal?" asked Almansor. "This is my house, and I will take you in to see my wife," replied the soldier. "Hey! how finely you live! The sultan must have given you the right to live here free." "You are right; I have this house from the emperor," answered his companion, and led him into the palace. They ascended a broad stair-case, and on coming into a splendid _salon_, the man told the boy to set down his basket, and he then led him into an elegant room where a lady was sitting on a divan. The man talked with her in a strange language, whereupon they both began to laugh, and the lady then questioned the boy in the Frankish language about Egypt. Finally the Little Corporal said to the boy: "Do you know what would be the best thing to do? I will lead you myself to the emperor, and speak to him for you!" Almansor shrank back at this proposal, but he thought of his misery and his home. "To the unfortunate," said he, addressing them both, "to the unfortunate, Allah gives fresh courage in the hour of need. He will not desert a poor boy like me. I will do it; I will go to the emperor. But tell me. Little Corporal, must I prostrate myself before him? must I touch the ground with my forehead? What shall I do?" They both laughed again at this, and assured him that all this was unnecessary. "Does he look terrible and majestic?" inquired he further. "Tell me, how does he look?" His companion laughed once more, and said: "I would rather not describe him to you, Almansor. You shall see for yourself what manner of man he is. But I will tell you how you may know him. All who are in the _salon_ will, when the emperor is there, respectfully remove their hats. He who retains his hat on his head is the emperor." So saying, he took the boy by the hand and went with him towards the _salon_. The nearer they came, the faster beat the boy's heart, and his knees began to tremble. A servant flung open the door, and revealed some thirty men standing in a half-circle, all splendidly dressed and covered with gold and stars (as is the custom in the land of the Franks for the chief ministers of the king). And Almansor thought that his plainly-dressed companion must be the least among these. They had all uncovered their heads, and Almansor now looked around to see who retained his hat; for that one would be the king. But his search was in vain; all held their hats in their hands, and the emperor could not be among them. Then, quite by chance, his eye fell upon his companion, and behold----he still had his hat on his head! The boy was utterly confounded. He looked for a long time at his companion, and then said, as he took off his own hat: "_Salem aleicum_, Little Corporal! This much I know, that I am not the Sultan of the Franks, nor is it my place to keep my head covered. But you are the one who wears a hat; Little Corporal, are you the emperor?" "You have guessed right," was the answer; "and, more than that, I am your friend. Do not blame me for your misfortune, but ascribe it to an unfortunate complication of circumstances, and be assured that you shall return to your fatherland in the first ship that sails. Go back now to my wife, and tell her about the Arabic professor and your other adventures. I will send the herrings and lettuce to the doctor, and you will, during your stay here, remain in my palace." Thus spake the emperor. Almansor dropped on his knees before him, kissed his hand, and begged his forgiveness, as he had not known him to be the emperor. "You are right," answered the emperor, laughing. "When one has been an emperor for only a few days, he cannot be expected to have the seal of royalty stamped on his forehead." Thus spake the emperor, and motioned the boy to leave the _salon_. After this Almansor lived happily. He was permitted to visit the Arabic professor occasionally, but never saw the doctor again. In the course of some weeks, the emperor sent for him, and informed him that a ship was lying at anchor in which he would send him back to Egypt. Almansor was beside himself with joy. But a few days were required in which to make his preparations; and with a heart full of thanks, and loaded down with costly presents, he left the emperor's palace, and travelled to the seashore, where he embarked. But Allah chose to try him still more, chose to temper his spirit by still further misfortune, and would not yet let him see the coast of his fatherland. Another race of Franks, the English, were carrying on a naval warfare with the emperor. They took away all of his ships that they could capture; and so it happened that on the sixth day of Almansor's voyage, his ship was surrounded by English vessels, and fired into. The ship was forced to surrender, and all her people were placed in a smaller ship that sailed away in company with the others. Still it is fully as unsafe on the sea as in the desert, where the robbers unexpectedly fall on caravans, and plunder and kill. A Tunisian privateer attacked the small ship, that had been separated from the larger ships by a storm, and captured it, and all the people on board were taken to Algiers and sold. Almansor was treated much better in slavery than were the Christians who were captured with him, for he was a Mussulman; but still he had lost all hopes of ever seeing his father again. He lived as the slave of a rich man for five years, and did the work of a gardener. At the end of that time, his rich master died without leaving any near heirs; his possessions were broken up, his slaves were divided, and Almansor fell into the hands of a slave-dealer, who had just fitted up a ship to carry his slaves to another market, where he might sell them to advantage. By chance I was also a slave of this dealer, and was put on this ship together with Almansor. There we got acquainted with each other, and there it was that he related to me his strange adventures. But as we landed I was a witness of a most wonderful dispensation of Allah. We had landed on the coast of Almansor's fatherland; it was the market-place of his native city where we were put up for sale; and O, Sire! to crown all this, it was his own, his dear father who bought him! The sheik, All Banu, was lost in deep thought over this story, which had carried him along on the current of its events. His breast swelled, his eye sparkled, and he was often on the point of interrupting his young slave; but the end of the story disappointed him. "He would be about twenty-one years old, you said?" began the sheik. "Sire, he is of my age, from twenty-one to twenty-two years old." "And what did he call the name of his native city? You did not tell us that." "If I am not mistaken, it was Alessandria!" "Alessandria!" cried the sheik. "It was my son! Where is he living? Did you not say that he was called Kairam? Has he dark eyes and brown hair?" "He has, and in confidential moods he called himself Kairam, and not Almansor." "But, Allah! Allah! Yet, tell me: his father bought him before your eyes, you said. Did he say it was his father? Is he not my son!" The slave answered: "He said to me: 'Allah be praised; after so long a period of misfortune, there is the market-place of my native city.' After a while, a distinguished-looking man came around the corner, at whose appearance Almansor cried: 'Oh, what a blessed gift of heaven are one's eyes! I see once more my revered father!' The man walked up to us, examined this and that one, and finally bought him to whom all this had happened; whereupon he praised Allah, and whispered to me. 'Now I shall return to the halls of fortune; it is my own father that has bought me.'" "Then it was not my son, my Kairam!" exclaimed the sheik in a tone of anguish. The young slave could no longer restrain himself. Tears of joy sprang into his eyes; he prostrated himself before the sheik, and said: "And yet it is your son, Kairam Almansor; for you are the one who bought him!" "Allah! Allah! A wonder, a miracle!" cried those present, as they crowded closer. But the sheik stood speechless, staring at the young man, who turned his handsome face up to him. "My friend Mustapha!" said the sheik at last to the old man, "before my eyes hangs a veil of tears so that I cannot see whether the features of his mother, which my Kairam bare, are graven on the face of this young man. Come closer and look at him!" The old dervish stepped up, examined the features of the young man carefully, and laying his hand on the forehead of the youth, said: "Kairam, what was the proverb I taught you on that sad day in the camp of the Franks?" "My dear master!" answered the young man, as he drew the hand of the dervish to his lips, "it ran thus: _So that one loves Allah, and has a clear conscience, he will not be alone in the wilderness of woe, but will have two companions to comfort him constantly at his side._" The old man raised his eyes gratefully to heaven, drew the young man to his breast, and then gave him to the sheik, saying: "Take him to your bosom; as surely as you have sorrowed for him these ten years, so surely is he your son!" The sheik was beside himself with joy; he scanned the features of his newly-found son again and again, until he found there the unmistakable picture of his boy as he was before he had lost him. And all present shared in his joy, for they loved the sheik, and to each one of them it was as if a son had that day been sent to him. Now once more did music and song fill these halls, as in the days of fortune and of joy. Once more must the young man tell his story, and all were loud in their praises of the Arabic professor, and the emperor, and all who had been kind to Kairam. They sat together until far into the night; and when the assembly broke up, the sheik presented each one with valuable gifts that they might never forget this day of joy. But the four young men, he introduced to his son, and invited them to be his constant companions; and it was arranged that the son should read with the young writer, make short journeys with the painter, that the merchant should share in his songs and dances, and the other young man should arrange all the entertainments. They too received presents, and left the house of the sheik with light hearts. "Whom have we to thank for all this?" said they to one another; "whom but the old man? Who could have foreseen all this, when we stood before this house and declaimed against the sheik?" "And how easily we might have been led into turning a deaf ear to the discourses of the old man, or even into making sport of him? For he looked so ragged and poor, who would have suspected that he was the wise Mustapha?" "And--wonderful coincidence--was it not here that we gave expression to our wishes?" said the writer. "One would travel, another see singing and dancing, the third have good company, and I----read and hear stories; and are not all our wishes fulfilled? May I not read all the sheik's books, and buy as many more as I choose?" "And may not I arrange the banquets and superintend all his entertainments, and be present at them myself?" said the other. "And I, whenever my heart is desirous of hearing songs and stringed instruments, may I not go and ask for his slaves?" "And I," cried the painter; "until to-day I was poor, and could not set foot outside the town; and now I can travel where I choose." "Yes," repeated they all, "it was fortunate that we accompanied the old man, else who knows what would have become of us?" So they spoke and went cheerful and happy to their homes.