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The Children of the World

by Paul Heyse · English · Gutenberg #33697 · 1,366,304 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Children of the World

Author: Paul Heyse


        
Release date: September 10, 2010 [eBook #33697]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33697

Credits: Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHILDREN OF THE WORLD ***




Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive





gutcheck/gutspell/jeebes/ and spell check run



Transcriber's Note:
   1. Page scan source:
      http://www.archive.org/details/childrenworld00heysgoog

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





[Illustration: Portrait of Paul Heyse.]






                            THE CHILDREN OF

                               THE WORLD



                                   BY

                               PAUL HEYSE



   "The children of this world are in their generation wiser than the
                          children of light."



                                NEW YORK
                     WORTHINGTON CO., 747 BROADWAY
                                  1890





                          Copyright, 1889, By
                            WORTHINGTON CO.





                             Barr-Dinwiddie
                     Printing and Book-Binding Co.,
                           Jersey City, N. J.





                       THE CHILDREN OF THE WORLD.





                                 BOOK I.




                               CHAPTER I.


A few years ago, in the Dorotheen-strasse, in the midst of the Latin
Quarter of Berlin, whose quiet, student-like appearance threatens to
become effaced by the growing elegance of the capital, a small, narrow,
unpretending two-story house, stood humbly, as if intimidated, between
its broad-shouldered neighbors, though every year it received a washing
of a delicate pink hue, and recently had even had a new lightning-rod
affixed to its ancient gable roof. The owner, an honest master
shoemaker, had in the course of time accumulated money enough to have
comfortably established himself in a new and far more elegant dwelling,
but he had experienced beneath this sharply sloping roof, all the
blessings of his life and though a man by no means given to sentimental
weaknesses, he would have thought it base ingratitude to turn his back,
without good reason, upon the old witnesses and protectors of his
happiness. He had, at one time or another, laid his head in almost
every corner, from the little attic chamber, where, as a poor dunce of
an apprentice, he had, many a night, been unable to close his eyes on
account of the pattering raindrops, to the best room on the first
story, where stood his nuptial couch, when, after a long and faithful
apprenticeship, he brought home, as head journeyman, the daughter of
his dead master. But he was far too economical to permit himself to
occupy these aristocratic quarters longer than six months, preferring
to live in the second story, unassuming as it was--the little house
having a front of but three windows--and there, two children had grown
up about him. These first-floor apartments were rented to a childless
old couple, to whom the owner would not have given notice to quit on
any account; for in the white-haired old man he honored a once famous
tenor, whom in his youth, he had heard and admired; while the little
withered old woman, his wife, had, in her time, been a no less
celebrated actress. They had already been pensioned twelve years, and,
without song or noise of any kind, spent their quiet days in their tiny
rooms, adorned with faded laurel-wreaths and pictures of their famous
colleagues. These celebrities, according to the ideas of the
proprietor, gave to his little house a certain artistic reputation, and
if there were customers in the shop at noon when the old couple
returned from their walk, he never failed to direct attention to them
and with boastful assurance to revive the fame of the two forgotten and
very shrivelled great personages.

On the ground floor was the shop, over which a black sign bore the
inscription in gilt letters: "Boot & Shoe Making Done by Gottfried
Feyertag." The shoemaker had ordered the large brown boot and red
slipper, which had originally been painted on the right and left side,
to be effaced, because it annoyed him to see them, when they no longer
represented the fashion. He kept up with the times in his trade, and
could not possibly alter his sign at every change of style. The shop,
he generally left to the management of his wife he himself spending
most of the day in the workroom, where he kept a sharp eye on his four
or five journeymen. A narrow entry led past the shop into a small,
well-kept courtyard, in whose centre stood a tall acacia-tree, three
quarters of which had died for want of air and sunlight, so that only
its topmost branches were still adorned with a few pale green,
consumptive-looking leaves, which every autumn turned yellow some weeks
before any other foliage. Here, in one corner, beside the pump, an
arbor had been erected by the head journeyman, for the daughter of the
house, when a school-girl; it consisted of a few small poles roughly
nailed together, and now overgrown with bean-vines, which bloomed most
dutifully every summer, but in the best years never produced more than
a handful of stunted pods. A little bed along the so-called sunny side
of the house contained all sorts of plants that seek the shade, and
thrive luxuriantly around cisterns and cellars; and in midsummer, when
the sun actually sent a few rays into the courtyard at noonday, the
little spot really looked quite gay, especially if the fair-haired
Reginchen, now a young girl of seventeen, were seated there reading--if
it chanced to be a Sunday--some tale of robbers from a book obtained at
a circulating library.

A grey, neglected back building, only united to the front house by the
bare adjoining walls, had also two stories, with three windows looking
out upon this courtyard; and a steep, ruinous staircase, which creaked
and groaned at every step, led past the ground floor, where the
workshop and journeymen's sleeping-rooms were situated, to the rooms
above. On the night when our story begins, this place was suffocatingly
hot. It was one of those evenings late in summer, when not a breath of
air was stirring no dew was falling, and when only the dust, which had
risen during the day, floated down in light invisible clouds,
oppressing with mountainous weight every breathing creature. A slender
young man, in a straw hat and grey summer clothes, softly opened the
door of the house, walked along the narrow entry on tip-toe, and then
crossed the stones with which the courtyard was paved. He could not
help seizing the pump-handle and cooling his burning face and hands
with the water, which to be sure was none of the freshest. But the
noise did not disturb any one; at least nothing stirred below or above.
He stood still a few moments and allowed the air to dry the moisture,
gazing meantime at the windows of the upper story, which reflected the
bright moonlight. Only one was open, and a large white cat lay on the
sill, apparently asleep. The windows in the first story were all open,
and a faint light stole out and illumined part of the trunk of the
acacia with a pale red glow.

There was nothing remarkable in all this. Moreover, the thoughts of the
lonely watcher beside the pump seemed to be far away from the narrow,
oppressive courtyard, in some fairy garden, for, with a happy smile he
sat down on a little stool in the bean arbor, and pulled to pieces a
withered leaf, upon which he had first pressed his lips. From the open
windows of the workshop in front of him he heard the loud snoring of
one of the journeymen, who had found the room in the rear too close,
and another seemed to be talking in his sleep. A smell of fresh
leather, cobbler's thread, and varnish, penetrated to his retreat, and
these odors, in connection with those coarse natural sounds, would have
disgusted any one else with this Midsummer Night's Dream. But the youth
in the straw hat could not seem to make up his mind to exchange the
hard seat under the scanty foliage for his usual bed. He had removed
his hat and leaned back against the wall, whose damp surface was
pleasant to his burning head. He gazed through the roof of poles at the
small patch of sky visible between the walls, and began to count the
stars. The topmost branches of the acacia gleamed in the moonlight, as
if coated with silver, and the opposite wall, as far as it was touched
by the pale light, glittered as if covered with thin ice or hoarfrost.
"Ah!" said the lonely man in the arbor, "life is still worth the
trouble! True, its brightest gift, fair as yonder stars, is as
unattainable as they--but what does that matter? Does not what we are
permitted to admire, what we can not forget, belong to us as much,
nay more, than if we had it in a chest and had lost the key?"  The
striking of a clock in a neighboring steeple roused him from this
half-conscious, dreamy soliloquy. "One!" he said to himself. "It is
time to think of going to sleep. If Balder should have kept awake to
watch for me, though I expressly forbade it--"

He rose hastily and entered the house. When he had groped his way
cautiously up the rickety stairs and reached the landing on the first
story, he perceived to his astonishment that the door which led into
the rooms stood half open. A small dark ante-chamber led into a larger
apartment, lighted by a sleepy little lamp. On the sofa behind the
table lay a female figure, still completely dressed, absorbed in a
book. The light fell upon a sharply cut, sullen face, past its first
youth, with very dark hair and heavy brows, to which an expression of
power and defiance lent a certain charm. The reader's thick locks had
become unbound, and she wore a plain summer dress of calico, which left
her shoulders and arms bare. Not the slightest change of countenance
betrayed that she had heard the sound of the loiterer's footsteps, and
when he paused a moment in the entry and looked through the door, she
did not even raise her eyes from her book, or push back the hair which
had fallen over her forehead.

"Are you still up, Fraeulein Christiane?" he said at last, advancing to
the threshold of the ante-room.

"As you see, Herr Doctor," she replied in a deep voice, without being
in the least disturbed. "The heat--and perhaps also this book--will not
permit me to sleep. I was so absorbed that I did not even hear you come
in. Besides, it is quite time to go to sleep. Good night."

"May I be permitted to ask, Fraeulein, what book it is that will not let
you sleep?"  he said, still in the dark entry.

"Why not?" was the reply, after some little hesitation. "Besides, you
have a special right to do so, for it is your book. The proprietor of
the house, Meister Feyertag, borrowed it of you several weeks ago, and
yesterday told me so much about it, that I begged it of him for a day.
Now I can not leave it."

He laughed, and stepped within the room. "So the wicked rat-catcher, to
whose pipe all the men and women now dance, even though they often
declare his tunes horrible, has seized upon you also. You have
certainly just read the chapter on women, whose most striking portions
our worthy host daily quotes to his wife; and though it makes you
angry, you can not drive it out of your mind. The old sinner knows how
to begin: he hasn't read Goethe for nothing.

          "'Doch wem gar nichts dran gelegen
            Scheinet ob er reizt und ruehrt,
            Der beleidigt, der verfuehrt!"

"You are mistaken," she replied, now sitting erect, so that her face
was shaded by the green screen on the lamp. "True, I have read the
chapter, but it made no _special_ impression upon me, either favorable
or otherwise It is a caricature, very like, and yet utterly false. He
seems to have known only the portion of our sex called 'females': 'tell
me with whom you associate,' etc. Well, we are used to that. But where
I have become inspired with a great respect for him, is from the
chapter entitled 'The Sorrows of the World.' I could, at almost every
sentence, make a note or quote an example from what I have myself
experienced or witnessed in others. And I also know why,
notwithstanding this, we like to read it; because he relates it without
a murmur, so calmly and in such a matter-of-course manner, that we see
it would be foolish to complain of it, or to hope for anything better
for our poor miserable selves, than is bestowed upon a whole world. You
must lend me his other books."

"My dear Fraeulein," he replied, "we will discuss the question further
some other time. You must not suppose that I am one of the professors
of philosophy who wish to silence this singular man. It is a pity that
he is not still alive to be asked the various and numerous questions,
from which he carefully retired to his sybarite seclusion in the Swan,
at Frankfort-on-the-Main. But be that as it may, it is too warm
to-night to philosophize. Throw Schopenhauer aside, Fraeulein, and play
something for me,--the Moonlight Sonata, or any sweet, pensive harmony.
I should like to cleanse my ears from the ballet-music to which I have
been compelled to listen."

"You! listen to ballet-music?"

"Yes; it sounds ridiculous, but nevertheless it is true. How did it
come about? You know, at least by sight, our tyrant, the so-called
medical counsellor, my university friend and physician in ordinary. He
comes up to our hen-roost every day. Well, I have overworked myself a
little this summer, finishing a prize essay,--a haste that was most
unnecessary, since with my heresies I am safe from academical honors.
However, I gained the _second_ premium,--a heavy head, with such
rebellious nerves that my state almost borders on a disordered brain,
or one of the mild forms of lunacy. A journey, or a few weeks on the
Rhigi, would be the best cure. But our physician in ordinary, for
excellent reasons, prescribed no such luxurious remedy. It would be
much cheaper, he thought, to let the manufactory of thought rest for a
while. He proposed to me to play cards, make a collection of beetles,
train a poodle, or fall in love. Unfortunately I had neither
inclination nor talent for any of these very simple and undoubtedly
efficacious remedies. So, early this morning, he brought me a ticket to
the opera-house: he always has acquaintances before and behind the
scenes. A new ballet was to be performed, to hear and see which would
repay even an old habitue, let alone a whimsical fellow like myself,
who had not entered a theatre for ten years. Well, I could not escape
the experiment. He who has a doctor for a friend must occasionally
submit to try new remedies, and a ballet is better than a silver tube
in one's stomach."

He smiled,--a half-satisfied, half-mysterious smile.

"Play me the Moonlight Sonata," he asked again. "Life is beautiful,
Fraeulein Christiane, in spite of all the sorrows of the world. What
lovely roses you have in that vase! Permit me--"

He took a small bouquet, which was standing on the table, and pressed
it against his face. The full-blown flowers suddenly fell apart, and
the leaves covered the book.

"Oh! dear," said he, coloring with embarrassment, "I have done a fine
thing now. Will you forgive me, dear Fraeulein?"

"Certainly, Herr Doctor, if you will be reasonable now, and go up
stairs to sleep off your intoxication. For you are in a condition--You
must know how it happened."

"I? I did not know--"

"Any better than to ask me to play for you at half-past two o'clock in
the morning! We shall wake the people in the house, and others can see
us,--me from the opposite windows. And besides--"

She had risen, and now repressed the rest of the words that were on her
lips. After pacing several times up and down the heated room, which
contained little furniture except her bed, her piano, and a bookcase,
she pushed back her hair from her brow and shoulders, and folding her
bare arms across her chest, stood quietly at the window. A sigh heaved
the breast which had learned to keep a strict guard over its thoughts
and feelings. In this attitude she waited, with apparent calmness, for
him to take his leave.

"I must really seem a very singular person," he said, in a frank,
honest tone. "We have lived in the same house for months, and the only
use I have made of this vicinity, was by my first and only visit, when
I begged you not to play during certain hours, which I had selected for
study. Now I enter your room in the middle of the night, and take the
liberties of an old acquaintance. Forgive me, on account of my
disordered brain, dear Fraeulein, and--may you have a good night's
rest."

He bent his head slightly, and left the room.

As soon as she heard him go up stairs, she hurried into the little
ante-chamber, closed the outer door, bolted it, and then stood still a
short time, listening, with her trembling body pressed close against
the door, and her hands clenched on the latch. He walked slowly up a
few steps, and then paused again, as if he had suddenly become absorbed
in some dreamy thought. She shuddered, sighed heavily, and tottered
back into the sitting-room. Her dress seemed too tight for her, for she
slipped out of it like a butterfly from its chrysalis, and then in the
airiest night costume, sat down at the open piano. It was an old,
much-worn instrument, of very poor tone, and as she ran her slender
fingers lightly over the keys, it sounded in the entry outside like the
distant music of a harp.

The young man had just reached the topmost stair when he heard it.

"There! she is playing the sonata, after all," he said to himself. "A
strange, obstinate person. What can she have suffered from fate?
To-morrow I will take more notice of her. It's a pity she is so ugly,
and yet--what does it matter? There is a charm in her finger-tips. What
wonderful music!"

He stood still a moment listening to the familiar tones, which seemed
to express all the familiar thoughts that had been wandering in a
confused chaos through his mind. Suddenly he heard a voice from within.

"Is that you, Edwin?"

"Of course it is I," he replied.

The next instant he had opened the door and entered the room which was
brightly lighted by the moonbeams.




                              CHAPTER II.


This room, termed by its occupants' friends "the tun," was a large
three-windowed apartment, with walls painted light grey, a floor
scoured snow white, and over the windows instead of curtains, three
narrow green calico lambrequins of the simplest pattern. A desk stood
at the right-hand window, a small turning-lathe at the left, and in the
spaces between the casements two tall bookcases; there were two beds
placed against the wall, several cane chairs and small chests made of
white wood, and finally, a low, smoky ceiling, which here and there
showed large cracks, and threatened to fall. But the room, spite of
its simplicity, had an aristocratic air from the presence of two
copperplate engravings of Raphael's paintings, framed in plain
brown wood, that hung over the beds, and two antique busts on the
bookcases,--one a head of Aristotle, the other the gloomy-eyed,
stern-browed Demosthenes. Even the low stove was adorned with a piece
of sculpture at which no one is ever weary of gazing--the mask of
Michael Angelo's young prisoner, who, with closed lids, lets his
beautiful head sink on his shoulder as if weary of torture and longing
for sleep. Here, however, the moonlight did not reach: it merely fell
obliquely across the bed placed against the wall.

On this bed, with his eyes fixed upon the door, lay a young man, whose
pale features, almost feminine in their delicacy, were framed in a
wreath of thick, fair locks. It was difficult to guess his age from his
countenance, since the boyish expression of mirth that dwelt about his
mouth contrasted strangely with the mature beauties of the finely cut
features. He was wrapped in a light quilt, and a book lay open on the
chair beside him. When Edwin entered, he slowly rose and held out a
white delicately formed hand.

"Well," said he, "was it very fine? Has it done you good?"

"Good evening, Balder," replied Edwin, "or rather, good morning! You
see I do everything thoroughly, even rioting at night. But I see I must
not leave you alone again, child. I really believe you have been
reading by moonlight."

A deep flush crimsoned the face of the recumbent youth. "Don't be
angry," said he in a clear, musical voice. "I could not sleep; and, as
the lamp had burned out and the room was so bright,--but now tell me
About it. Has the remedy already produced an effect?"

"To-morrow you shall hear as much as you wish, but not a syllable now,
to punish you for your carelessness in spoiling your eyes and heating
your head. Do you know that your forehead is burning again?" And he
passed his hand tenderly over the soft hair. "I will complain of you to
the physician in ordinary. And you don't seem to have touched your
supper; there is the plate with your bread and butter."

"I wasn't hungry," replied the youth, letting his head fall gently back
on the pillow. "Besides, I thought if you came home late, and, after
the unusual excitement, might perhaps feel inclined to eat something."

Edwin brought the plate to the bed. "If you don't want me to be
seriously angry, you artful fellow," said he, "you will have the
goodness to repair the omission at once. But to make it easier for you,
I'll take half myself. Heavens! what is to be done with such a
disobedient child? So divide fairly, or I'll complain of you to-morrow
to Jungfrau Reginchen, who will soon bring you to reason."

Again a vivid blush crimsoned the young man's face, but Edwin pretended
not to notice it. He had sat down on the bed, and was beginning to eat,
from time to time pushing a piece into his brother's mouth, who
submitted with a half smile. "The bread is good," said Edwin; "the
butter might be better. But that is Reginchen's weak point. Now a drink
as fresh as our cellar affords."

He poured out a class of water, and swallowed it at a single gulp.
"Balder," said he, "I am returning to truth and nature, after having
incurred the danger of being enervated by luxury. Just think, I had
some ice-cream at the theatre. It could not be helped; others eat it,
and a philosopher must become familiar with everything. Besides, it
wasn't worth the five groschen, for I learned nothing new, and only
regretted that _you_ could not have it. Once, and no more, good night."

While undressing, he said to himself, "This shameless moon! As soon as
we have any extra money, we must get curtains, so that we can be able
to close our eyes on such nights. However, the illumination is very
moderate, compared to that of an opera-house. It took me so by surprise
as I entered the box, that I would gladly have retreated and seen the
whole spectacle from the corridor outside. Believe me, child, the
doorkeepers have the real and best enjoyment. To walk up and down in
the cooler passages over soft carpets, with the faint buzzing and
sighing of the orchestra in one's ears, interrupted at times by a
louder passage with the drums and trumpets, which, smothered by the
walls, sounds like a melodious thunder-storm, and often, when some
belated great lady rustles in, to obtain a glimpse through the door of
the Paradise of painted houris in tights, and the wonderful sunrises
and sunsets,--it is really an enviable situation, compared with that of
the poor mortals in the purgatory within, who, in return for their
money, are cooped up in plush, and must atone for the sins of the
Messrs. Taglioni, while feeling as if all their fine senses were being
hammered upon at once. A time will come when people will read of these
barbarities with a shudder, and envy us because we have nerves to
endure them."

"And yet you remained to the end."

"I? Why yes; in the first place I had a very comfortable seat; the box
to which my ticket admitted me is like a little parlor, and happened to
be almost empty. And then--but I will close the window. The air is
beginning to grow cool,--don't you feel it? Besides, your friend
Friezica has crept away."

Balder made no reply; but though his eyes were apparently closed,
steadily watched Edwin, who, in a fit of absence of mind had thrown
himself upon the bed only half undressed, and turned his face toward
the wall. A half hour elapsed without any movement from either.
Suddenly Edwin turned, and his eyes met his brother's quiet, anxious
gaze.

"I see it won't do, child," said he. "For the first time in our lives,
we are playing a farce with each other; at least I am, in trying to
keep something from you. It is very foolish. What is the use of a man
having a brother, especially one to whom he might be called married,
except to share everything with him, not only the bread and butter, and
whatever else he eats, but also what is gnawing at _him_. I will
confess what has happened, though it is really nothing remarkable; a
great many people have already experienced it; but when we feel it for
the first time in our own persons, all our 'philosophy, Horatio,' will
not permit us to dream what a singularly delightful, uncomfortable,
troublesome, melancholy,--in a word, insane condition it is."

He had sprung from his bed and was now crouching on the foot of
Balder's, half sitting, half leaning back, so that he was in shadow,
and looked past his brother at the opposite wall.

"Prepare yourself to hear something very unexpected," he said, still in
a tone which showed that he was making an effort to speak at all. "Or
do you already know all I wish to tell you, young clairvoyant? So much
the better. Then my confession will weary you, and at least one of us
will be able to sleep. In short, my dear fellow, it is very ridiculous
to say, but I believe it is only too true: I am in the condition which
our physician in ordinary desired, in order to cast out the devil by
Beelzebub; that is, I am in love, and as hopelessly, absurdly, and
senselessly, as any young moth that ever flew into a candle. Pray,
child," he continued, starting to his feet again and beginning to pace
up and down the room, "first hear how it came about, that you may
realize the full extent of my madness. You know that I am twenty-nine
years old, and hitherto have been spared this childish disease. It is
not necessary for everybody to catch the scarlet fever. As for the
natural and healthy attractions of the 'fair sex,' I was old enough
when our dear mother died, to feel that a woman like her would hardly
appear on earth a second time. For the daily necessities of living and
loving--which every human heart needs to retain its requisite warmth--I
was abundantly supplied in our brotherly affection, to say nothing of
the miserable, unamiable, and yet love-needing human race. And then,
ought a man to have for his profession the science of pure reason, and,
like any other thoughtless mortal, make a fool of himself over the
first woman's face he sees, without any cause except that the lightning
has struck him. Heaven knows why? It seems incredible, but I fear I
have accomplished the impossible."

He sat down on the bed again, but this time so that his face was turned
toward Balder. "I will allow you to study me thoroughly, without any
mercy," he said, smiling. "This is the way a man looks, who suddenly
becomes the sport of the elements,--whose reflection, wisdom, pride,
and whatever else the trash may be called, are of no avail. I always
shuddered when I read the story of the magnetic mountain. When I was a
boy, I thought, defiantly, if I had only been on the ship, I would have
set so many sails, sent so many men to work the oars, and steered in
such a way, that the spell would not have reached me. And so I thought
this evening, daring the whole of the first hour. But--

                'Tales of magic e'er so strange,
                 Woman's wiles to truth can change.'

The helm is broken, the oars refuse their service, and the very portion
of my nature that was steel and iron, most resistlessly obeys the
attraction of the magnet, and really assists in making keel and deck
spring asunder."

He leaned back again, and passed his hand over his brow. The hand
trembled, and a cold perspiration stood on his forehead.

"There is only one thing I don't understand," said Balder, moving aside
to make room for his brother; "why must all this be hopeless?"

"Just listen, my boy, and you will understand all, even the
incomprehensible part, over which I am still puzzling my brains. For I
am no artist, and can only give you a poor, shadowy outline of a
certain face. I entered the box, which was perfectly empty, and I hoped
it would remain so. Clad in my fourteen-thaler summer-suit and without
gloves, I did not seem to myself exactly fit for society, and the
person who opened the box looked at me as if he wanted to say, 'You
ought to be up in the gallery, my friend, instead of in this holy of
holies, to which I usually admit only people belonging to the great or
_demi monde_.' I also did not like to sit down, simple as the matter
might seem to be, on a chair that was better dressed than I. However,
the mischief was done; I determined to assume a very elegant
deportment, such as I had noticed at private colleges in young
diplomatists, and hitherto had always considered mere buffoonery. So I
leaned back in my chair like an Englishman, and glanced now at the
stage, now at the parquet. As I have already said, there was such a
buzzing and fluttering down below, the poor creatures in white gauze
glittering with gold and huge wreaths of flowers tossed their arms and
legs about so wildly, and the violins quavered so madly, that I already
began to think: 'if this goes on long, _you_ will go too.' Suddenly the
door of the box was thrown wide open; while I had squeezed through a
narrow chink, a young lady rustled in, a diminutive servant in livery
and high shirt-collar, which almost sawed off the youngster's huge red
ears, removed a blue silk cloak, the doorkeeper casting a contemptuous
glance at me, rushed forward, drew up a chair, and officiously put a
play-bill on the balustrade. The lady said a few words to the boy in an
undertone, then chose the corner seat nearest the stage, raised a tiny
opera-glass, and, without taking the slightest notice of me, instantly
became absorbed in her enjoyment of art.

"I ought now to describe her to you; but description has its
difficulties. Do you remember the pastille picture from the Dresden
gallery, painted by a Frenchman,--I have forgotten his name,--stay, I
think it was Liotard; we saw a photograph of it in the medical
counsellor's book of beauty?--_la belle Chocoladiere_ was written
underneath. Well, the profile before me was something like that, and
yet very very different, far more delicate, pure, and childlike,
without any of the pretentious, cold-hearted expression of the
shop-girl, whose numerous admirers and constant practice in breaking
hearts had gradually transformed her face into a mere alabaster
mask. But the shape of the nose, the long lashes, the proud little
mouth,--enough, your imagination will supply the rest.

"Well, the first quarter of an hour passed very tolerably. From the
first moment I saw no one except my neighbor, who showed me only a
quarter of her face, charming as the tiny sickle of the moon; but to
make amends for that, I studied her dark brown hair, which without any
special ornament, was drawn in smooth bands over her white forehead,
and simply fastened at the back with two coral pins of Italian form. A
few short curls fell on the white neck, and seemed to me to have a very
enviable position, though they remained in the shade. As to her dress,
I am unable to say whether it was in the latest fashion, and according
to French taste, for I have not the necessary technical knowledge; but
a certain instinct told me that nothing could be more elegant, more
aristocratic in its simplicity; there was not the smallest article of
jewelry about her person, she did not even wear ear-rings; her
high-necked dress was fastened at the throat with a little velvet bow,
without a brooch. The hands which held the opera-glass--tiny little
hands--were cased in light grey gloves, so I could not see whether she
wore rings.

"I had noticed that there was a universal movement when she entered the
box. Hundreds of lorgnettes were instantly directed toward her, and
even the _premiere danseuse_, who was just making her highest leap,
momentarily lost her exclusive dominion over her admirers. But my
beauty seemed to be very indifferent to this homage. She did not turn
her eyes from the stage, at which she gazed with an earnestness, a
devotion, that was both touching and ludicrous. When the first act was
over, and a storm of applause burst forth, it was charming to see how
she hastily laid aside the opera-glass to clap her hands too, more like
a child when it wants another biscuit and says 'please, please,' than
an aristocratic patroness of the fine arts, who occasionally
condescends to join in the applause of the populace.

"She had dropped her handkerchief, a snowy, lace-trimmed bit of cobweb,
which could easily have been put away in a nutshell. I hastily raised
and handed it to her, muttering a few not particularly brilliant words.
She looked at me without the slightest change of expression, and
graciously bowed her thanks like a princess. Not a word was vouchsafed
me. Then she again raised her lorgnette, and, during the entire
intermission, apparently devoted herself to an eager study of the
various toilettes; at least her glass remained a long time turned
toward the opposite box, which was full of ladies.

"I would have given much to have heard her voice, in order to discover
whether she was a foreigner; but no matter how I racked my brain, I
could think of nothing to say. Besides, she looked as if at the first
liberty I might take, she would rise with an annihilating glance, and
leave me alone.

"I was just working hard to concoct some polite remark about ballets in
general and this one in particular, when the intermission ended and she
was again entirely absorbed in the spectacle below.

"A thought flashed through my mind, which, as you will acknowledge, did
me great credit, but unfortunately met with no success. I left the box,
ate the ice-cream already mentioned, and while wiping my beard,
strolled up and down the corridor several times as if weary of the
performance, and carelessly asked the doorkeeper if he knew the lady
who was sitting in the stranger's box. But he replied that this was the
first time he had ever seen her; the opera-house had been reopened
to-night with the new ballet. So, with my purpose unaccomplished, I
retired, and went back to my post.

[Illustration: "As she glided past me, I felt an electric shock to the
very tips of my toes."]

"Meantime my seat had been occupied; a very much over-dressed foreign
couple, American or English nabobs blazing with jewels, had planted
themselves in the best seats beside the beauty. At first I was inclined
to assert my rights, but I really liked to stand in the dark corner and
seeing and hearing nothing of the elegant tastelessness around, gaze
only at the charming shape of the head, the fair neck with its floating
curls, slender shoulders, and a small portion of the sweet face. I
heard the gentleman address her in broken French. She replied without
embarrassment, in the best Parisian accent. Now I knew what I wanted to
learn. She was a natural enemy, in every sense of the word!

"If I tell you, brother, that during the next two hours I stood like a
statue, thinking of nothing except how one can live to be twenty-nine
years old, before understanding the meaning of the old legend of the
serpent in Paradise,--you will fancy me half mad. You wrong me, my dear
fellow, I was _wholly_ mad--a frightful example of the perishableness
of all manly virtues. I beg Father Wieland's pardon a hundred times,
for having reviled him as a pitiful coxcomb, because he allows his
Greek sages, with all their strength of mind and stoical dignity, to
come to disgrace for the smile of a Lais or Musarion. Here there was
not even a smile, no seductive arts were used, and yet a poor private
tutor of philosophy lays down his arms and surrenders at discretion,
because a saucy little nose, some black eyelashes, and ditto curls, did
not take the slightest notice of him.

"But you ought to go to sleep, child; I'll cut my story short. Besides,
it must be tiresome enough to a third person. Five minutes before the
curtain fell for the last time she rose; some one had knocked softly at
the door of the box. As she glided past me, I felt an electric shock to
the very tips of my toes. This was a great piece of good luck, or I
should hardly have been able to shake off my stupor quickly enough to
follow her. Outside stood the gnome with the high shirt-collar and
tow-colored head, gazing at her respectfully with wide open eyes. The
little blue cloak was on his arm. She hastily threw on the light wrap,
almost without his assistance, though he stood on tip-toe, drew the
hood over her head, and hurried toward the stairs, the lad and my
insignificant self following her. Every one she passed started and
looked after her in astonishment.

"At the entrance below stood an elegant carriage. The dwarf opened the
door, made an unsuccessful attempt to lift his mistress in, then swung
himself up behind, and away dashed the equipage before I had sense
enough to jump into a droschky and follow it.

"'Perhaps it is better so,' I thought, when I was once more left alone.
Of what use would it be to follow her? And now I endeavored to become a
philosopher again in the most audacious sense of the word, namely, a
private tutor of logic and metaphysics, an individual most graciously
endowed by the government with permission to starve, _sub specie
acterni_,--from whom if he becomes infatuated with princesses, the
_veina legendi_ ought to be withdrawn, since it is a proof that he has
not understood even the first elements of worldly wisdom.

"There! you have now the whole story. I hoped to have been able to
spare you the recital, trusting that the vision would vanish at
last, if I could cool my excited blood by rambling about a few
hours in the night air. But unfortunately I did not succeed. The
Lindens were swarming with lovers, the music still sounded in my ears,
shooting stars darted across the sky, and, above all, the sentimental
witching light of the moon, altering the aspect of everything which it
touched,--yes, my last hope is sleep, which has often heretofore cooled
the fever of my nerves. Look, the moon is just sinking behind yonder
roof; our night-lamp has gone out; let us try whether we can at last
obtain some rest."

He rose slowly from his brother's bed, like a person who finds it
difficult to move his limbs, passed his hand caressingly over the cheek
of the silent youth, and said: "I can't help it, child; I really ought
to have kept it to myself, for I know you always take my troubles to
heart far more than I do. It is this confounded habit of sharing
everything with you! Well, it is no great misfortune after all. We
shall be perfectly sensible--entirely cured of our folly--to-morrow,
and if anything should still be out of order, for what purpose has
Father Kant written the admirable treatise on 'the power the mind
possesses to rule the sickly emotions of the heart by the mere exercise
of will'?"

He stooped, pressed his lips lightly upon the pale forehead of the
youth, and then threw himself upon his bed. A few notes of the piano
still echoed on the air, but these too now died away, and in fifteen
minutes Balder perceived by Edwin's calm, regular breathing, that he
had really fallen asleep. He himself still lay with his eyes wide open,
gazing quietly at the mask of the prisoner on the stove, absorbed in
thoughts, which, for the present, may remain his secret.




                              CHAPTER III.


We have now to relate the little that is to be told of the two
brothers' former life.

About thirty years before, their father, during a holiday excursion,
had made their mother's acquaintance; he was then a young law-student
from Silesia, and she the beautiful daughter of the owner of a small
estate in Holstein, who had other views for his favorite child than to
give her to the first embryo Prussian lawyer, who had enjoyed a few
days' hospitality at his house. And yet no objections were made. All,
who knew the young girl, declared that it had always been impossible to
oppose her quietly expressed wishes; she had possessed so much power
over all minds, both by her great beauty and the gentle nobleness of
her nature, which in everything she did and said always seemed to hit
the right mark, with that almost prophetic insight into the confused
affairs of the world, which is said to have been peculiar to German
seeresses. What particular attractions she found in the unassuming
stranger, that she wanted him and no one else for her husband, was not
easy to discover. Yet to her last hour she had no occasion to repent,
that, with firm resolution, beneath which perhaps passionate emotions
were concealed, she had aided in removing all the obstacles that stood
in the way of a speedy marriage. As she herself brought little dowry,
except her wealth of golden hair, which when unbound must have reached
nearly to her knees, and as the young lawyer had still a long time of
probation before him ere he could establish a home of his own, they
would have had little happiness if both or either had considered
themselves too good for a subordinate position. The post of bookkeeper
in one of the largest institutions in Berlin had just become vacant.
When the young jurist applied for it, he was forced to hear from all
quarters that he was doing far from wisely in resigning his profession
and giving up all chance of rising to higher offices and dignities,
merely for the sake of an early and certain maintenance. He declared
that he knew what he was doing, and, as he had the best testimonials,
drove his competitors from the field, and, after a betrothal of a few
months, installed his beautiful young wife in the comfortable lodgings
assigned to the accountant.

Ambition is only one phase of the universal human longing for
happiness. He who has his life's happiness embodied in a beloved form
at his side, can easily forget the formless dreams of his aspiring
youth, especially if, as was the case here, the joy which appears so
trifling to the eyes of the proud world nevertheless excites the envy
of those close at hand, and the narrow limits of the household horizon
do not bind down the soul. This, however, was chiefly owing to the
fair-haired wife. She had what is called a tinge of romance, a
dissatisfaction with the dry, bare reality of things around her, a
longing to gild the grey light of every-day existence with the
treasures of her own heart and a lively imagination, and amid the
oppressive uniformity of her household cares, retained a play of fancy,
that with all her toil and weariness kept her young and gay. She
herself said people ought to follow the example of the birds, who,
while building their nests, did not sweat as if working for daily
wages, but as they flew to and fro sang, eat a berry, or perhaps soared
so high into the air, that one might suppose they would never return to
their lowly bush. As this arose from a necessity of her nature, and she
never boasted of it, though she never denied it, her poetic taste built
a brighter world above this dreary, prosaic one, and was a source of
constant rejuvenation to her more practical husband. He never emerged
from the state of transfiguration that surrounds the honeymoon, and
even after he had been married many years, felt when sitting in his
office over his account-books, as much impatience to rejoin his beloved
wife, as he had ever experienced as an enthusiastic young lawyer, in
the earliest days of his love.

In his circumstances there was no outward improvement; his sons grew
up, and no promotion or increase of salary could be thought of. But
nevertheless their happiness increased, and their stock of youth, love,
and romance seemed to grow greater as the children grew. The mother,
who bore the beautiful name of Nanna, would not hear of calling her
first-born Fritz or Carl, but gave him the name of Edwin. But the boy
himself made no preparations to accommodate himself to the lyrically
adorned idyl of his parents. His outward appearance was insignificant
and remained so; a tall lad with awkward limbs, which were all the more
unmanageable because their master in the upper story was thinking of
very different matters than how he ought to move his arms and legs;
besides, the boy's mind was fixed upon other things than the fairy
tales his mother told him, or any of the elegancies with which she
surrounded her child. A thoughtful, analytic mind developed in him at
an early age; his mother, for the first time in her life was seriously
angry with her dear husband, declaring that the father's horrible
calculating of figures had gone to the child's head and entered his
blood. She tormented herself a long time in trying to efface this
instinctive taste, but was at last forced to relinquish her efforts
when the boy went to school and brought home the most brilliant
testimonials of his progress; yet a secret vexation still gnawed at her
heart, all the more unbanishable as for nine years he remained the only
child. At last she gave birth to a second, a boy, who promised to make
ample amends for the disappointment caused by the apparently sober,
prosaic nature of her oldest son. This child was in every respect the
exact image of his mother; beautiful as the day, with rich golden
curls; he liked nothing better than to be lulled to sleep with fairy
tales, cultivate flowers, and learn little stories by heart. The mother
seemed to grow young again in her radiant delight in the possession of
this innocent creature, to whom the name of Balder, the God of Spring,
appeared to her exactly suited. Any one who had seen her at that time,
would scarcely have believed her to be the mother of her older son,
the long-legged schoolboy with the grave, prematurely old face; so
young and smiling, so untried by life, did she look, that her fair
head seemed bathed in perpetual sunlight. But it was only a short
spring-time of joy. Balder had not yet commenced to distinguish between
poetry and reality, when his mother was suddenly attacked by a violent
nervous fever, and after a few days' illness, during which she
recognized neither husband nor children, she left them forever.

It was a blow which brought her husband to a state of despair which
bordered upon madness. But upon the older boy the event had a strange
effect. There was, at first, an outburst of wild, passionate grief,
such as, from his steady, quiet temperament, no one would have
expected. Now it was evident how passionately he had loved his mother,
with a fervor for which he had never found words. Up to the time of the
funeral it was impossible to induce him to eat; he pushed away his
favorite dishes with loathing, and only a little milk crossed his lips
just before he went to bed. When he returned with his father from the
churchyard, and, himself like a corpse, saw in his father's face every
sign of breaking down under the misery of a happiness so cruelly
destroyed, while little Balder gazed in perplexity at him with his dead
mother's eyes, a great transformation seemed to take place in the older
brother's soul. His convulsed face grew suddenly calm, he pushed from
his forehead his thin straight hair, and, going up to his father, said:
"We must now see how we can get along without mother. You shall never
be dissatisfied with me again." Then he sat down on the floor beside
the child, and began to play with him as his mother used to do; a thing
to which, hitherto, with all his love for the little one, he had never
condescended. Balder stretched out his hands to him, and laughingly
prattled on in his merry way. The father seemed to take no notice of
anything that was passing around him. Weeks and months elapsed before
he even outwardly returned to his old habits.

But even then there was not much gained. The portion of him which had
been a calculating-machine faultlessly continued its work, but the
human affections were totally destroyed. Had not Edwin, with a prudence
wonderful in one so young, managed the affairs of the little household
when the old maid servant could not get along alone, everything would
have been in confusion. When, during the year after his mother's death,
the child had a fall which injured his knee so severely that he
remained delicate ever after, the last hope which Edwin had of seeing
the father take a firm hold of life vanished. He now showed that he had
only existed in the reflected lustre left behind by his beautiful wife
in the bright-eyed boy. When those eyes grew dim, he could no longer
bear the light of day. Without any special illness, he took to his bed
and never rose from it again.

The orphaned children were received by one of their father's relatives,
a well-to-do official in Breslau, who had a number of children of his
own, and could therefore only give his foster sons a moderate share of
care and support. They were sent to board in a teacher's family, and
fared no worse than hundreds of other parentless boys. Balder felt the
disaster least. He had a charm that everywhere won hearts, and his
delicate helplessness did the rest. People did not find it so easy to
get along with Edwin. A taciturnity and cool reserve, together with the
early superiority of his judgment, made him uncomfortable, and, as it
always gave him the appearance of not desiring love, people did not see
why they should force it upon him. Besides, among all to whom he owed
gratitude, there was not a single person to whom he desired to be bound
by any closer ties. Thus his little brother remained the sole object of
his affectionate anxiety, and it was touching to see how closely,
during his play hours, he kept him by his side, spending his scanty
stock of pocket-money solely for his pleasure, and shortening his hours
of sleep that he might devote his entire afternoon to the sickly child.

Years elapsed. When Edwin went to the university, for despite his
poverty and the burning desire for independence, he could not make up
his mind to begin any practical business, Balder was about eight years
old. He had been unable to go to school on account of his feeble
health, as his knee required constant care, and he could not have borne
to sit on the school-room benches. But notwithstanding this, he was far
in advance of most boys of his age, for he had had Edwin for a teacher,
who, by a far more rapid method than that of the schools, had always
pointed out the essential part of every lesson, and encouraged him
above all to develope his own powers. He succeeded in doing so most
wonderfully, without brushing from the boy's soul the bloom of the
enthusiasm inherited from their mother. His nature was utterly unlike
his brother's; instead of the keen dialectics with which Edwin broke a
path into the world of ideas, as a colonist uproots the primeval forest
with his axe, Balder's spirit rose aloft as if on wings, and soaring
above all intervening tree-tops, he found himself unwearied on the very
spot his brother had pointed out in the distance. It was the same in
everything connected with school wisdom, as in the mysteries life gave
him to solve in regard to men and circumstances. The sure,
instantaneous perception, the prophetic power we have described in his
mother, seemed born anew in him, and gave the beautiful face, framed in
his thick fair hair, and showing few traces of pain, a peculiar and
irresistibly winning expression. Besides, he was so kind-hearted, so
self-sacrificing, traits doubly rare in chronic invalids, in whom
anxiety about themselves becomes at last the sole interest, and almost
a sort of sacred duty. He was never heard to complain, and it really
did not seem to be a victory of resignation or heroism which he
obtained over himself, but rather a natural faculty of his soul to look
upon his sufferings and deprivations as a possession from which the
greatest gain must be derived, the only innocent speculation, and one
for which he had cultivated a masterly aptitude.

At the time we have made the brothers' acquaintance, they had lived
together in the shoemaker's back building, the so-called "tun," about
five years. Edwin had first gone to Berlin alone, in order to devote
himself exclusively to the study of philosophy and physical science,
for which he had little opportunity in Breslau. He had been unable to
resolve to enter into any money-making business, and his study of law
was a mere pretence. So when he found himself acting in direct
opposition to his benefactor's wishes, he thought it dishonorable to
continue to eat the bread of one with whose opinions he could not
coincide. Balder meantime remained in his old home, but as soon as
Edwin could support both, was to follow him to Berlin.

This was not accomplished as speedily as the latter had at first hoped.
Months elapsed before he could fit himself for a tutor, as the private
lessons he had undertaken robbed him of both time and patience. Then
followed anxieties about his first lectures, which, with great
difficulty, he obtained an opportunity to deliver, and which brought in
nothing. During all this time, his only intercourse with his brother
was by means of frequent letters, until at last he could bear the
separation no longer, and one Whitsuntide went to Breslau, to ask the
beloved youth if he felt strong enough to share his poverty. Balder
flushed to the roots of his hair with joyful agitation at this
question, which fulfilled the most secret wish of his heart. He had
only been withheld from making the proposal long before, by the fear of
becoming a burden to his brother. Now he confessed that he had quietly
made arrangements not to be entirely dependent on Edwin, though he
would have submitted to be supported by him more willingly than by any
one else. He had found an opportunity to learn turning, from a
neighbor, and in the space of a year the young apprentice had made so
much progress, that any master workman would gladly have engaged him
for a journeyman. With shamefaced consciousness, he showed Edwin
a number of pretty household utensils which he had made for his
foster-mother and the family of the teacher with whom he boarded. "I
see," said Edwin, smiling, "that I probably pursue the least lucrative
of all professions, and shall be doing a very good thing in forming a
partnership with my skillful brother. But wait, my lad, I won't fail to
add my contribution to the capital with which we begin. The next fee I
receive--I am coaching the weak-minded son of a count for his
examination--we will devote to the purchase of the best turning-lathe
that is to be found in all Berlin."




                              CHAPTER IV.


Day had long since dawned over the great city, and the little house in
the Dorotheen-strasse prided itself upon remaining no whit behind its
more aristocratic neighbors in this respect. The occupants of the "tun"
were usually no late sleepers, and Balder in particular never failed to
hear the general alarm-clock of the house, the old pump-handle, which
sang a well-meant but monotonous morning song, when at six o'clock in
summer and seven in winter, Reginchen set it in motion to get her
father his glass of water for breakfast. At the same time the windows
in the workshop were opened, and the grumbling of the head journeyman,
who took advantage of the half hour before the master appeared, to make
the apprentices feel his importance, became audible. But as soon as the
master of the house, in his loose jacket and slippers, crossed the
courtyard, everything below was perfectly still. Indeed, though the
brothers had been unable to procure a watch, they had no occasion to be
at a loss to know the time, even during the day. Exactly one hour after
the first music of the pump, Reginchen appeared in the "tun" with the
well-beaten clothes and the breakfast. Punctually at nine o'clock a
window was opened in the second story, a yellow old face in a
night-cap, the once famous actress, stretched out a wrinkled little
nose to find out which way the wind was blowing, as her husband, the
tenor, though he no longer had occasion to spare his high C, could not
give up the habit of staying in the house when there was an East wind.
Precisely one hour after, the little man himself appeared at another
window which opened upon the courtyard, not lighted by the sun, to
shave with great deliberation and apply before the little mirror the
necessary cosmetics, which an old celebrity of the stage considers an
indispensable, nay, an incontestable proof of the dignity of his
calling. When eleven o'clock struck, the piano in the room below,
occupied by Fraeulein Christiane, with whom we formed a passing
acquaintance in the first chapter, was opened, and a practised hand
struck a few notes by way of prelude to a singing-lesson, which, from
consideration for Edwin had been deferred to this time, when he usually
went to his lecture. Various pupils came to take lessons; of late,
twice a week a merry soubrette, belonging to one of the theatres in the
suburbs, appeared, who desired to practise her little parts in new
operettas, and drove her grave teacher to despair by a number of
blunders, musical and otherwise. As a loud conversation could be
heard through the open windows, almost word for word, Balder often
became an ear-witness to the most singular scenes, which afforded him a
glimpse of an utterly unknown world. Punctually at twelve o'clock the
dinner-bell rang, and was usually hailed by the pupil with a merrily
whistled street song, as the grateful feeling of release could be
expressed in no better way.

The household clock performed its duty to-day as well as ever, but the
occupants of the upper story in the back building seemed deaf to its
sounds. The pump's morning song died away unheard. No "come in"
answered the low knock an hour later, and, after a short delay and a
shake, of the head, the slender household sprite, hanging the clothes
on the banister of the stairs, glided down again with the breakfast.
Miezica, the white cat, which at the same time appeared at the window
to be fed by Balder, remained on the broad sill that ran from gutter to
gutter, staring into the room, where no living creature was yet
stirring. Not until the yellow top of the acacia-tree was gilded by the
rising sun--it must have been ten minutes past ten for the old tenor
was just beginning to powder himself--did Balder open his eyes,
astonished at the bright light that filled the room. He looked toward
Edwin; the latter gave no sign that the sunlight was too dazzling for
him to continue his dreams.

Softly the youth rose and limped to the turning-lathe in the corner,
where he noiselessly arranged a variety of tools, bits of wood, and
little bottles. He did not, however, begin to work, but taking a book,
became for a time absorbed in its contents. Suddenly the thoughts which
had kept him awake so long during the night, seemed to return. He laid
the book aside, opened a window, and leaned out into the already heated
air.

Ere long a low knock at the door roused him from his reverie. He glided
on tip-toe past the sleeper, and slipped through the half-opened door
into the dusky entry.

Reginchen stood without; her round face, whose eyes and mouth were ever
ready to bubble over with mirth, was turned toward him with a sort of
curious anxiety.

"Good morning, Reginchen," he whispered. "I can't let you in, he is
still asleep. He did not go to rest until long after midnight; I am
glad the sun does not wake him. You have already been to the door
once--I overslept myself too, contrary to my custom--we talked so long
last night. I am sorry we have made you so much trouble, Reginchen.
Give me the waiter, I will carry the breakfast in."

"It is no trouble," replied the young girl, who when talking to the
brothers always tried to correct her Berlin dialect as much as
possible, but without precisely solving the mystery of the dative and
accusative. "But you will be completely starved. Sha'n't I get you some
coffee? Cold milk on an empty stomach--"

"Thank you, Reginchen. I am used to it. You are always so kind. Why
have you dressed so early to-day, Reginchen?"

The young girl blushed as she smoothed her little black silk apron and
the folds of a light muslin that had been freshly washed and ironed.

"This is my birthday, Herr Walter," (she could not accustom herself to
the name of "Balder.") "My mother gave me the apron, and the old
gentleman on the second floor, the garnet breastpin. I am going to
visit my aunt at Schoeneberg after dinner, and so I wanted to ask if I
might bring your dinner up very early to-day. My brother will come for
me punctually at one o'clock."

"Your birthday, Reginchen! And I have forgotten it! Are you angry with
me? My brother's sickness has given me so much to think of lately. You
know, Reginchen, I wish you all possible good fortune and happiness,
though my congratulations are late; but you are used to seeing me
limp."

"How can you talk so. Herr Walter?"  she replied, quietly allowing the
firm little hand he had so cordially grasped to rest in his. "It makes
no difference whether a stupid thing like me, without education or
culture, is seventeen or eighteen. Father says women remain great
children all their lives; so whether they become older or not can be of
little consequence."

"He is only joking, Reginchen. What would your father do without you,
to say nothing of the rest of us in the house? So you are really
eighteen years old to-day? I wish I knew of something that would give
you pleasure; I should like to make you a birthday present."

"I don't want any present," she replied, hastily turning away and
putting her foot on the upper stair. "I have already had so many gifts
from you at Christmas and such times, and my mother always scolds and
says I am too large to receive presents from strange gentlemen. Hark!
she is calling me; I must go, Herr Walter."

She darted down the steep staircase, like an arrow, and Balder, who
remained at the top, heard her singing a song in a clear, childish
voice, as she skipped across the pavement of the courtyard in her
little slippers. As he took the waiter from the low attic stairs where
she had placed it, and limped softly back into the room, he
involuntarily sighed.

Going up to his sleeping brother he gazed at him with affectionate
anxiety. Edwin seemed to be slumbering quietly. His high, beautifully
arched brow was unwrinkled, a smile played around his lips, and his
delicate nostrils quivered slightly, as they always did when he made a
witty speech. His shirt was open at the throat, and a small gold locket
attached to a silk cord and containing a tress of his mother's golden
hair, was plainly visible. Balder wore one like it.

He was about to retire to the window corner again, when a hasty step
was heard on the stairs, and ere Balder could reach the door to stop
the new comer, an eager knock announced a visitor who knew himself to
be welcome at any hour.

"Come in!" said Edwin, as he slowly rose from his pillow, still half
asleep. "That must be Marquard. Good heavens, it is broad daylight!"

"To be sure!" laughed the new arrival. "It requires the presence of a
despicable empiric like myself, to make the Herr Philosopher aware that
the sun is several hours high in the heavens. Well, how are you,
patient? Has the prescription wrought its work? I am almost inclined to
believe that the dose was too strong."

Nodding kindly to Balder, he hastily approached the bed and touched
Edwin's brow and temples before feeling his pulse. The keen, light gray
eyes gazed through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles at a heavy gold
watch, and the youthfully round and regular, though somewhat pale face,
which on entering the door had worn an expression of the gayest
unconcern, now assumed a quiet, watchful air, while the elegant figure,
which was of about the medium height, leaned lightly on a chair beside
the bed.

"My dear Herr Medicinalrath," said Edwin, "your master work has been
performed on me. Mother Nature, who may well fear you since you
irreverently pry into her most sacred secrets and scan all her little
weaknesses as through a microscope, seems, at your command, to have
once more taken pity upon me, and granted me sleep. All else will
follow as a matter of course; at least I already feel a truly wolfish
appetite. If you'll allow me. Doctor, I'll only put on the most
necessary articles of clothing, and go to breakfast at once, to relieve
Balder, who I see has again waited for me."

"_Probatum est_," laughed the doctor, pocketing his watch. "I was
perfectly well aware, that for brains like yours, there is no better
narcotic than the mixture of folly, noise, and tights, we men of the
world swallow to excite us. I find your symptoms to-day far more
encouraging than yesterday, and, within a few days, I think I shall
repeat the dose. Hunger is a good symptom. But I don't see the
breakfast."

"It is standing on the table yonder," said Balder, quietly.

The doctor stepped to the little table, which, covered with a green
cloth, stood in the middle of the room, and gazed, with an
indescribable look of pity and horror, at the white pitcher, which
stood between two stoneware cups, while a tin plate beside it contained
two small rolls.

"Pardon me," said he, "my science does not extend so far as to enable
me to determine, by its mere appearance, the name of the strong broth
which awaits you here as your first meal."

"It is pure, unadulterated milk, in which we dip the flower of wheat,"
said Edwin, who, having in the meantime hastily clothed himself, now
approached the table and filled both cups. "You are doubtless aware,
my dear fellow, that milk contains all the elements of nourishment
which--"

"Which a child in swaddling clothes needs till it cuts its teeth!
Sacred Reason, what is the world coming to, when your ablest votaries,
the philosophers, confess themselves addicted to the most preposterous
habits and customs. Are you not startled, my lad, by the frightful
contradiction involved by your endeavor, amidst our exhaustive,
enervating civilization, which constitutes such a drain upon the blood
and marrow, to sustain yourself on the nourishment of stupid pastoral
tribes? In Berlin, too, where as you know, all the cows are infected
with the pallor of the Hegel philosophy, and where the watery fluid
they give is still further diluted at every pump. No, my dear fellow,
either I give you up as incurable, or you must decide at once upon a
radical change of habit, wash your face with this innocent fluid--an
admirable preventive of premature wrinkles--and moisten your inner man
at this time with a glass of port wine, to be followed by the
consumption of half a pound of roast meat. I'll wager that in a short
time there will be a change in your organism which will make itself
perceptibly felt if you visit the Berlin ballet too frequently. What
are you laughing at? I am perfectly serious."

"That is just why I laughed," said Edwin, as, standing by the table, he
quietly broke his roll into the thin blue milk. "You forget, my dear
fellow, that I can only make use of prescriptions which are put up at
the pharmacy 'for lucky beggars.' Or do you happen to have it in your
pocket?"

"What?"

"My professorship, or Balder's diploma as turner to the court. With
your practice in such circles, you can not fail, if you are in earnest,
to help us to a brilliant career. But until then I deeply regret that I
can give you no prospect of a change of diet."

Marquard looked around the room, and shook his head angrily, as he
said: "But it is suicidal folly, absurd nonsense, to live as you do!
Balder, too, will never fare any better, so long as you squat here like
two old women, and fast till you are livid for lack of blood.
Professorship? Nonsense! With your views, you'll never get one to the
end of your days in our Christian German government. If you had only
learned some commonplace thing, so that you might be made useful
somewhere. However, you know something of arithmetic, don't you?"

"The first four formulae, and the rule of three."

"No joking. You are a thorough mathematician. I will get you a position
in a life insurance company, where they need some one for their
estimates of probabilities. Five hundred thalers at first. You need say
but one word."

"Rather _three_, my faithful Eckhart: Thank you, kindly. I can not
endure the atmosphere of an office. But seriously, my dear preserver of
mankind, don't give yourself any trouble about me. I am incorrigible.
Every German must have a whim. Mine is to belong exclusively to myself,
shake as many nuts from the tree of life as I like, and waste as much
time as I can spare in cracking them and getting at the kernels. To
make a career is an occupation that robs one of a great deal of time,
and it is the same with the effort to become a millionaire in a
respectable way. Both, therefore, I must renounce, and since I have for
either as little talent as inclination, and can get along for a time in
this way, why should I fly into a passion because the Berlin cows have
deteriorated as much in the fabrication of milk as Prussian political
philosophy has deteriorated since the days of Father Kant? Except on
occasions when, by an Epicurean like yourself, unnatural desires are
created in us, we want for nothing in our 'tun,' and, moreover, have
something put aside for a rainy day; have we not, Balder?"

The doctor was about to make some reply, but controlled himself, and
seized his hat. "Adieu!" he growled, and went toward the door, but
paused on the threshold.

"You will allow me," he said harshly, "as I still have charge of you,
to send you some medicine from my own pharmacy. I received a gift of
some excellent Bordeaux from a wine-dealer, on whom I performed a very
surprising cure, I will send you some on trial, and if you don't drink
half a bottle every noon--Balder may content himself with a glass--I--"

"Will show me no farther friendship? Better not say that. It would be a
pity: for your sake, because without our society you would sink
completely into empiricism and gluttony; and for ours, because we
should be compelled to deny ourselves the luxury of consulting a
physician. No, old fellow, I thank you very kindly for your
philanthropic design, but it is wiser for us to continue to cut our
coats according to our cloth."

"And these people wish to be elevated above ordinary prejudices!"
exclaimed the doctor fiercely, putting on his hat. "If you really were
so elevated, you would not be too proud to accept a few pitiful drops
of wine from an old college friend! Go, you are perfect fools with your
idealism!"

"And you are on the way to become as famous a doctor as old Heim. At
least you already have the needful roughness!" laughed Edwin.

The doctor heard him no longer; he had slammed the door and was noisily
descending the stairs. Balder looked at his brother.

"You ought not to have refused," said he. "He means kindly, and he is
undoubtedly right: our diet is not fit for you."

"So you, too, are beginning to scold," said Edwin, drinking the
remainder of his milk as if it were the most exquisite nectar. "But the
trump of doom would not disturb the serenity of my soul to-day. I am in
exactly the phlegmatic, abstract frame of mind, to which the most
difficult problems seem like child's play. It is a pity I have nothing
harder to elucidate than how it comes to pass that a crazy man can say
such clever things in his dreams, and yet on awaking be just as mad as
before."

"What do you mean?"

"I have been most dutifully dreaming of the acquaintance I made
yesterday; you remember, child, _la belle Chocoladiere_. I discovered,
God knows how, that she was the daughter of a Polish countess and a
French _valet de chambre_; a thoroughly ignorant, vain, and not
over-virtuous creature. As she made merry over my defective French, I
quietly began to explain how grateful she ought to be that a sensible
man conversed with her at all. Then I talked long and very impressively
about the dignity of man in general and philosophers in particular;
something after the style of Wieland's sages, and she, after at first
looking as if she were grieving over her weaknesses and sins, suddenly
began to laugh loudly, danced around the room--in the style of the
rope-dancers we saw yesterday--hummed French songs of by no means the
most decorous nature, and altogether conducted herself in such a manner
that I grew more and more angry, and at last told her to her face that
I should consider myself the most contemptible fool and weakling on
earth, if I allowed her little nose and black eyelashes to turn my head
an instant longer. She now became very haughty, I still colder and more
bitter, she more bacchanalian, and I was just in the act of jumping out
of a low window into a beautiful and spacious garden, when she
coaxingly passed her hands over my face, and tried to smooth the angry
frown from my brow; then I awoke, and quickly perceived that
notwithstanding all the wisdom I had possessed in my dream, I had not
become one whit the wiser than I was when I went to bed.

"But don't take the matter so much to heart, child," he continued, as
Balder remained silent. "I can assure you that a hopeless passion
is no such terrible misfortune. I am perfectly positive that I shall
never see her again, but how long it will be before I think of
something else, I can't say. Yet it is one of the most delightful
experiences--this gentle consuming fire, this sacred defencelessness,
this introspection, joined to the consciousness of external
impressions; it is the true, immanent, and transcendent contradiction,
which is the veritable secret of all life, and of which man, with his
accustomed eminently respectable but imperfect knowledge of our being,
is seldom so keenly conscious. Some day, child, you too will experience
it, and then for the first time you will fully understand what I mean.
The head does not appear to work at all; the mill of ideas is stopped;
it has no more grist to grind. Very different nerve-centres appear to
have assumed control, and when I have overcome the first sense of
strangeness, it will be a very interesting psychological task--"

Here the door was thrown open, and a new visitor interrupted our
philosopher's attempt to make a virtue of necessity, and at least to
render useful to the cause of science, the sorrows of his heart.




                               CHAPTER V.


The new comer was a tall and very broad-shouldered young man, who
carried a travelling-satchel and a shawl thrown over his shoulder;
unceremoniously tossing a faded brown felt hat on Balder's bed, he
nodded, and smiling called out a "good morning" to the brothers. The
first impression made by the ash-colored face, furrowed by several
scars, and the somewhat crooked mouth, was not particularly favorable.
An expression of bitterness or malice dwelt about the strongly cut
lips, and the teeth, which, in speaking, were fully revealed, increased
the fierce, unamiable look. But when the countenance was in repose, the
melancholy expression of the eyes predominated over the more ignoble
features, and the brow beneath the short bristling hair seemed to have
been developed by grave mental labor. His movements were restless and
impetuous, and his whole attire was that of a man who thought little of
his personal appearance, though his stately figure was well worthy to
command attention, had but a little care been bestowed upon it.

"Why, Mohr! Heinrich Mohr! What wind has blown you to us again?"  cried
Edwin, advancing to meet him and cordially shaking hands.

"The same thoughtless whirlwind, I suppose, that tosses all the
sweepings of humanity into confusion," replied the other. "It is only
those individuals, who possess a certain specific weight, that do not
change their places without special cause. You, for instance, I find in
the same old house where I left you three years ago. And, if I must be
honest, the only sensible reason I can give for venturing out of my
dull little birthplace back to this huge, clever, mad Berlin, was the
desire to see you again. After all, you have the most friendly faces,
and that you really seem to feel a sort of pleasure in being troubled
with me again, proves that you are still the same as of old."

"And you, too, seem to have altered little; less, perhaps, than would
have been advisable," said Edwin, laughing.

Mohr's only answer was a shrug of the shoulders. He threw down his
satchel and went to the turning-lathe, beside which Balder was leaning.

"Still as conscientious as ever; trying to kill himself," he muttered,
taking up some of the little articles which were waiting for the last
touches. "But I can't blame you, Balder. You at least accomplish
something every day, and only hurt your chest by bending and stooping.
Other people would be fairly beside themselves with impatience, if they
had to sit doubled up all day long turning their stock in trade.
Besides, it seems to me you have made considerable progress. You are an
enviable fellow, Balder."

The youth looked at him with a smile.

"Would that you could only convince Edwin of it!" he said; "he is
always trying to persuade me to give up my trade. He won't believe that
to sit perfectly idle, and see everybody else work would kill me much
sooner."

"Idle! As if you ever could be idle!" cried Edwin indignantly. "As if
it were not the most insane obstinacy to refuse to accept from his own
and only brother, that which even he has means sufficient to procure--a
pitiful mouthful of bread! But we will let it pass, though it is the
only real annoyance of my life, and this hard heart might so easily
spare it me,--Basta! I will _not_ be vexed to-day. So begin your
confession, my friend! To-day, at least, you are secure from any
moralizing on my part."

Mohr having seated himself in a chair beside the open window, had begun
to twist a cigarette, the materials for which he took from a tin box.

"There is absolutely nothing new to tell," he replied with great
apparent indifference. "The old apothegm that no one can add one inch
to his stature, has been once more ratified, that's all. I left Berlin,
as you will remember, because I thought that the noise and bustle alone
prevented me from becoming a great man. 'Talent developes in a quiet
life.' Well, I've lived quietly enough with my old mother, but nothing
has developed. So, thinks I to myself, as no talent developes let us
try character--'character is formed in the current of the world'--and
so back I have come again, and have already selected a character to
which I intend to adapt myself. A match, Edwin!"

He puffed huge clouds of very strong Turkish tobacco out of the window.

"So nothing came of the editing of the newspaper, from which you
expected so much?"

"It was a miserable sheet, children, a commonplace, provincial,
gossiping little paper, in which appeared, twice a week, bad novels,
stolen from various quarters, or 'original contributions' by the
buergermeister's daughter or chief customhouse officer's son, and lastly
charades and rebuses. However, all the citizens swore by it, and not a
syllable was lost. The right kind of fellow might have made something
of it, or at least in time have smuggled in something better, and, in
so doing, might himself have found room to grow. But there is the
point. After first turning up my nose at this narrowmindedness, I at
last discovered that I really could not do much better myself. You know
I always believed that if I could once form a correct appreciation of
my own powers, a thing not to be accomplished in the intellectual
ant-hill of Berlin, the world would be astonished. Well, I have really
arrived at this just appreciation, and for a long time have been unable
to endure myself! God be thanked, that my good taste yet remains to
save me from that."

"Still the same old Mohr, whose favorite pastime it is to blacken his
character instead of washing himself white."

"Let me go on, and don't suppose that I am making myself out bad in
order that you may praise me the more. Besides, I don't _wish_ to make
myself out 'bad'; I am really quite a passable fellow, neither stupid
nor tedious, with fair acquirements, and powers of judgment by no means
ordinary, _nota bene_, for what _others_ do. If I were a rascal, I
might by means of them, accomplish something, open a booth for
criticism, for instance, and sell myself as dearly as possible. But the
misfortune is that I have, or at least had, the ambition to accomplish
something myself, and what is worse, desired to possess all sorts of
talents. I have a most decided capacity for becoming a mediocre poet or
musician, and in political articles, which appear to mean something and
really say nothing, I have yet to find my superior. You will say there
are many such wights. Certainly. But not many who have in addition such
an honest, devout envy of the real men who can accomplish something
genuine, such a loathing of all botching, such disgust when they have
caught themselves at it. It was this that drove me away from you. I
could not endure to see you all, each in his own field of labor, busy
tilling and planting and at last reaping,--real grain, whether much or
little--and stand by with my cockle-weed. I felt like spitting in my
own face from chagrin at my mediocrity in everything that is worthy to
be called work, achievement, getting on in the world, while in talking
I was a very hero. Now, however, I have discovered _that that is my
destiny_. A sorry creature, created by Nature through some malicious
whim, and condemned always to stick halfway at everything. But I will
spoil her jest; I will at least do something completely and well, and
in one point, at all events, I will reach virtuosoship."

"I don't understand why this idea did not occur to you long ago,"
replied Edwin. "You were born for a critic, and as such can have as
much influence on the world and society, as if you were a poet."

"I should be a fool!" exclaimed the other, tossing his cigarette into
the courtyard, as he started up and clasped his hands behind his head.
"Attempt to improve the world, tell it plain truths in black and white,
which of course every one will apply to his worthy neighbor, try to
educate artists who fancy that thinking paralyses the imagination, or
tell truths to authors, who upon perusing them fail more signally to
comprehend themselves than when they penned their thoughts,--no, my
dear fellow, _vestigia terrent_. A certain Lessing tried all that a
hundred years ago, and broke his teeth on the hard wood. All these
philanthropic sacrifices make the world no happier, and only render the
individual wretched. The only pure and noble calling left for such a
superfluous mortal as myself to choose, is _pure envy_. In that I have
hitherto made considerable progress, and, as I said before, I expect to
attain in it a tolerable degree of eminence."

"Upon my word," laughed Edwin, "this is a novel way of attaining
happiness."

"Don't laugh, wiseacre," sighed Mohr, impressively. "You see, my child,
everybody in this miserable world, which all about us is so unfinished
and incomplete, is endeavoring to the best of his ability, at least to
perfect his own perishable self. The really gifted individuals have a
surplus, from which they impart a portion to others, and thereby help
them to patch up their poverty, and perhaps even scantily to complete
themselves. I, for my part, can only obtain repose when I fervently
envy every thing that is great, entire, exuberant. Through this envy I
shall become, in a certain sense, allied to it; for if I appreciated,
tasted, felt, and deserved to possess no portion, how could I envy it?
Only those things that are somewhat homogenous attract each other. And
when I have sat during an entire morning, thoroughly permeated with the
sense of my own insignificance, sincerely envying a Shakespeare, a
Goethe, or a Mozart, have I not fulfilled the purpose of my life better
than if I had spent the same time in composing a poor tragedy, some
wretched love-songs, or a mediocre sonata?"

He went to the window and gazed at the top of the acacia-tree.

"You are right," said Balder's clear voice. "Only you ought not to give
the name of envy to what is really love, reverence, and the most
beautiful and unselfish enthusiasm."

"Balder has hit the nail on the head, as usual," said Edwin.

Mohr turned. The brothers noticed that he was winking rapidly, as if
desiring to make way with a suspicious moisture.

"It would be beautiful, if it were true," said he. "But this is only
the bright side of my virtuosoship; it has its shadows too, and they
grow broader than I like. I can see nothing that is complete and in
harmony with itself, without envy; no self-satisfied stupidity, no
broad-mouthed falsehood, no snobbish faces. And as if these worthies
had really no right to be happy, the demon of envy induces me to say
something cutting, merely to show them their own pitifulness. Thus in a
short time I had all my worthy fellow-citizens about my ears, and
wherever I went was decried, avoided, and warned off like a mad dog. It
makes all the blood in my body boil, when I see how everywhere the
scamps get on in the world, and how the honest fellows, who don't use
their elbows, remain behind. You, for instance, if I had my way, should
be driving in a handsome coach with servants at your command, as
beseems the aristocracy of the human race. Instead of that, that
insignificant fellow, Marquard, whom I met below, has his equipage, and
graciously nods as he drives by, after reconnoitering me from top to
toe through his gold spectacles. Death and perdition, who can see such
things and not go wild--"

"Don't abuse our medical counsellor," said Edwin. "In spite of all you
have said he is a good fellow, and his carriage would suit my trade and
Balder's as little as my slow-stepping scientific methods would suit
his empirical gallop. Besides--"

At this moment they heard from the windows below, the first bars of the
overture to Glueck's "Orpheus."

Mohr approached the window again, and listened attentively.

"Who is playing?" he asked after a time, in an undertone.

"One of the inmates of the house, a young lady of whom we know little
more than that she gives music-lessons. Last night--I have not yet told
you of it, Balder--I found her absorbed in Schopenhauer's Parerga. She
spoke enthusiastically about the chapter on 'the sorrows of the world.'

"Her music bears witness that in those sorrows she had had experience,"
said Mohr. "Women only play as she does when their hearts have been
once broken and then pieced together again. It is with them as it is
with old violins, which must be shattered several times before they
have the right resonance. But hush, it is growing still more
beautiful."

He sat down on the window-sill, and, gazing without, became completely
absorbed in listening. Balder worked noiselessly at his little boxes,
while Edwin had taken a book though his gaze became fixed upon one
page. It was so quiet in the room, that during the pauses in the music,
they could hear the stealthy footsteps of the cat, which had just
previously leaped into the chamber, and eaten the remnants of the
breakfast.




                              CHAPTER VI.


About the same time that these things were occurring in the back
building, the master of the house was in the shop talking with a
customer, who had just brought to be mended a pair of embroidered
slippers, carefully wrapped in an old newspaper.

It was somewhat unusual for the shoemaker to be absent from the
workroom at this time of day. But it was also, as the reader will
remember, an unusual occasion, Reginchin's birthday, and her mother,
who generally attended to the management of everything in the shop, was
obliged to give up the charge to her husband, in order to go into the
kitchen and mix the dough herself, for the usual birthday cake. She
would not relinquish this task, though there was a confectioner's shop
at the very next corner. For ever since Reginchin was four years old,
she had been very fond of a certain kind of home-made plumb-cake, and,
though she could rarely do anything exactly to her mother's mind, and
was continually subject to her criticism, the young girl was, as she
very well knew, the apple of her mother's eye, and, for her the good
woman would have gone through fire. So, hot as the day was, Madame
Feyertag stood without a murmur beside the servant at the fire,
allowing herself to be troubled but little by the principal anxiety
which usually rendered her unwilling to have her husband in the shop:
the jealous fear that some female customers might come in, and that the
shoemaker might find other feet, whose measure he would be obliged to
take, prettier than those adorned with the legitimate slippers of his
wife.

To be sure the worthy man, though he might have been a sly fellow in
his bachelor days, had given very little cause for such a suspicion
during twenty-three years of extremely peaceful married life. But
within a few months a change had taken place which attracted the
attention of his clever wife; a change not much apparent in his actions
and conduct, since he quietly continued his regular mode of life and
did not even oppose the before-mentioned slippers, but noticeable in
his language. She was already accustomed to hear him talk much of
progress, and inveigh against all tyranny, especially domestic slavery,
giving utterance to very forcible expressions, and this harmless
amusement she willingly countenanced, since all affairs of state and
family pursued, as before, their even course. But during the last three
months his revolutionary table-talk had changed its tone, and had been
steadily pointed against "women," of whom he repeated the most
malicious things, usually in strange, outlandish words. Perhaps he
had merely picked up these contemptuous epithets at the liberal
trades-union, to which he owed all his progressive ideas; and if so, it
was something to be thankful for. But except on certain festive
occasions, women were excluded from these meetings, and at the
entertainments a very decorous tone always prevailed, to say nothing of
the obligatory toast to the fair sex. So, when all at once in speaking
of "women," he used the word "females," and talked of the "sex" with a
shade of contempt, for which Madame Feyertag's person and conduct did
not give the slightest cause, nothing was more probable than that the
shoemaker had obtained his new knowledge of feminine nature in other
circles, and, perhaps led astray by some acquaintances formed in the
shop, had approached nearer to the light-minded portion of the sex than
could be at all desirable for the peace of the household. Since that
time, Madame Feyertag had kept a sharp eye on the secret sinner, no
longer permitting his presence in the shop, and had emphatically
forbidden the utterance of his offensive remarks, at least in
Reginchen's presence. For this restraint the worthy man indemnified
himself by talking all the more freely to others, and on this very
morning, when, contrary to his usual custom, we find him in the shop,
he was in the act of giving vent to the pent-up emotions of his heart.
Compelled to keep silence, his companion with some little surprise,
patiently submitted to the torrent of his eloquence. He was a little
old-fashioned gentleman, with a timid but lively manner, whose delicate
regular features bore an expression of such winning kindness that the
most casual observer could not fail to notice it; his was one of those
faces, which, in consequence of the delicacy of the skin, become
prematurely withered, and yet never grow old. A small grey moustache
endeavored in vain to give a martial air to the innocent childish face,
and the forehead, which, through baldness, seemed to reach to the crown
of his head, failed just as signally to cast upon its owner the air of
a deep thinker. Yet when any important subject was under discussion,
the mild eyes could sparkle with a strange fire, and the whole face
become transfigured with interest and excitement.

This little man wore a neatly brushed but rather threadbare coat, cut
in a fashion that had prevailed ten years before, and a large white
cravat, fastened with a pin containing a woman's picture. He had placed
upon the counter an old-fashioned grey hat, with a piece of crape
twisted around it, and, with both hands resting on his cane, he sat
opposite the shoemaker, who had just examined the slippers, and said
that they could be mended so as to look very well, only that a part of
the embroidery would be lost.

"Spare as much of it as you can," pleaded the little gentleman. "They
were my dead wife's last birthday gift; she worked them herself. I have
worn them constantly for five years; but I step so lightly that I don't
wear out many shoes. I suppose I am your worst customer," he added,
with an apologetic smile.

"That is of no consequence, Herr Koenig," replied the shoemaker; "it is
always an honor as well as a pleasure to work for you and your family,
not only on account of the high instep which you all have, but because
you are an artist and have an eye for shape. As for the durableness of
the shoes, that is not your fault, but the fault of the leather. But
wait till your daughter goes to balls. Good work is of no avail then,
Herr Koenig; dancing shoes which are not as delicate and as easily
broken as poppy-leaves, do the shoemaker no credit."

The little gentleman shook his head thoughtfully.

"My daughter, I fear, will give you little opportunity to earn money in
that article," said he, "She has no desire for any of the seemly
amusements which I would willingly grant her; her mind is filled with
her work and her father; she can't be induced to attend to anything
else."

"Well, well," said the shoemaker, drawing from his jacket a little
silver snuff-box, which he offered the artist, "those things will come
as a matter of course. Young ladies always have some peculiarities, you
know; they do not forget the mother; but women are women, Herr Koenig,
and there is no virtue in youth. True, you yourself still wear crape
around your hat; in your case constancy may be in the blood. But wait a
while. The will, Herr Koenig, is master; the perception weak; of how
weak it is, we have sometimes little idea."

"You are mistaken," replied the other, fixing his eyes which wore a
quiet, thoughtful expression upon the floor. "She has become perfectly
cheerful again, and I also, though every day I still miss my dead wife.
God does not like to see discontented faces, He has made the world too
beautiful for that. The crape--yes, I have kept it on my hat. Why
should I take it off, and when? It would seem very strange to me, to
say to myself on a certain day: From this time things shall no longer
be as they were yesterday; I will now remove this token of remembrance.
Should I thereby blot out the memory too? But even if her mother were
still alive, I do not think the child would be any different. She has a
very peculiar character."

"Be kind enough to permit me to differ from you," said the shoemaker
with great positiveness, despite the courteous language he studiously
adopted. "Women--true women--have generally no character of their own,
but one that belongs in common to all the sex. For the sole object for
which they are in the world, is, to use Salvenia's words, only to
continue the species, or, as we term it, for propagation. A woman who
desires anything else, has something wrong about her; I say this
without intending to cast any reflections upon your daughter."

The artist opened his little eyes to their widest extent. "My dear
Feyertag, why do you say such strange things?" he said, naively. "Is
not a woman as much a creature of the dear God as we ourselves? formed
in his image, and endowed with soul and mind?"

The shoemaker laughed, as if fully conscious of his own superiority.

"Don't take it amiss, Herr Koenig," he said, "but that is an exploded
opinion. Have you never heard of the great philosopher, Schopenhauer?
He will make you understand it thoroughly; he will prove as plainly as
that twice two make four, of what account is the so-called emancipation
of women."

"I don't have much time to read," replied the little artist. "But the
little you have told me does not render me anxious to become familiar
with an author who has thought so slightingly of the noblest and most
lovable portion of humanity. I prefer to say with my beloved Schiller,
'Honor to women'!"

"'They spin and weave,'" replied, the shoemaker. "Yes, and they
can do it very skillfully, and it is an extremely useful occupation.
But in other things, in the employments of men--this low-statured,
narrow-shouldered, broad-hipped, and short-legged sex, as Herr
Schopenhauer expresses it,--no, Herr Koenig, men must not allow them to
become too strong. Propagation, nothing more. But _propaganda_, you
see, for the liberal and progressive, is our affair. For instance,
there is my wife; the best woman in the world! But if I did not now and
then show her that I am master, where should I be? I admit that during
the last few years, out of pure indolence, I have allowed her to do and
say more than was well. But Schopenhauer has brought me to myself. Now,
when she mistakes her social position, and wants to emancipate herself
too much, I say: 'Hush, Guste. You, too, were once an explosive effect
of Nature; but now the noise has died away, and the effect remains.'
Then she scolds about my worthless way of talking, as she calls it, but
no longer ventures to say anything, because she has not the least
suspicion what I really mean by it, and that it is in Schopenhauer. Ha!
ha! ha!"

He chuckled with delight, and rubbed his broad hands.

"How did you chance upon this mischievous book?"  asked the artist.

"Very naturally. In my back building lives a very learned gentleman, a
philosopher by profession, and soon to become professor of philosophy.
One day, when he was not at home, the bookbinder's boy came and left in
my shop a whole package of freshly bound books, which I was to keep for
the Herr Doctor. It was after dinner, when I usually take a little nap.
So, half asleep, I aimlessly took the uppermost book in my hand, and
began to read at the place where it opened. Zounds, how my eyes flew
open! 'Upon females' was the heading of the chapter. I could not stop
till I had read the last lines. I tell you, Herr Koenig, old King
Solomon, much as he knew about women, and propagation, and the
conception of species, might have gone to school to him."

"Is Schopenhauer the author's name? And do you call him a philosopher,
because he revives the old commonplaces about the other sex?"

The little artist's eyes flashed as he uttered these words, and he
seized his hat as if he were in a hurry to leave the shop.

"He is a philosopher, for the Herr Doctor himself says so; but not
merely because of what he has written about women; the Herr Doctor
showed me another thick book. He said it treated of will and
perception; however, it was too heavy for me. If you would like to read
it, he will cheerfully lend it to you."

"Thank you, I have not the slightest desire to make the acquaintance of
a gentleman who holds and desires to spread such opinions."

"The Herr Doctor? There you are very much mistaken, Herr Koenig. He
won't listen to a word about the essay on women, and says there is just
as much falsehood as truth in it. He is a bachelor, Herr Koenig, and
what does a bachelor know about the conception of species? Besides, he
never associates with women, but devotes himself entirely to his
invalid brother. They might as well be in a monastery, Herr Koenig; my
wife often says that if we were to advertise in the newspapers and
offer a reward of a hundred thalers, we could not find such another
couple of well-behaved young men in all Berlin."

"Indeed? And learned too, you say?"

"Only the older one, the Herr Doctor. He has not much money, because he
is at the university, and you are probably aware the minister of public
worship and instruction wants to starve out the whole university, and
then fill all the vacant places with pastors; there is but one opinion
about it in the trades union. But our Herr Doctor gives private
lessons, and his brother sells some of the little articles he turns;
they live on the proceeds always paying punctually the rent, and the
household bills for cooking and washing. Two young men, Herr Koenig, to
whom immorality is something utterly unknown."

The artist had laid down his hat again, and seemed to be struggling
with some resolution.

"My dear Herr Feyertag," he said at last, "Do you know, I think I
should like after all to make the acquaintance of your Herr Doctor. If
what you say is true, he is the very man for whom I have been looking a
long time. My daughter complains that she cannot continue her studies
alone. What she knows she learned from her mother. But since the latter
died, I have found her services indispensable at home, and I thought
her so clever that she could get on by herself if I only bought her
books. But it seems that she cannot dispense with regular instruction,
and now she is too old and too sensible to content herself with the
first instructor that offers, and recently, when she met a certain
young lady, a teacher who has given lessons in very aristocratic
families, she conversed with her so cleverly that the young woman
declared she could teach her nothing. So if your Herr Doctor is really
such a phoenix, and a true man besides--"

"If by 'phoenix' you mean insurance against fire, one can never be
certain of that in young people, but I'll stake my life on his
goodness; everything else you must find out for yourself in case you
are really serious about giving your daughter--but that is none of my
business. My Regine can read and write, and that is enough to enable
her to get along with everything that does not concern propagation.
However, everybody has a right to his own opinion. If that is yours,
Herr Koenig, you will probably find the Herr Doctor at home now. It is
vacation, and most of his private pupils are traveling."

"I suppose," said the artist timidly, as he put on his hat and followed
the shoemaker into the entry, "the price for the lessons will not be
exorbitant."

"You need have no anxiety on that score," replied the shoemaker,
shuttings the door of the shop. "If he were paid as he deserves, he
wouldn't need to climb my old back stairs, but could buy the handsomest
house on Unter der Linden. Turn to the left here, and then cross the
courtyard, Herr Koenig, if you please."




                              CHAPTER VII.

Meantime the brothers had again been left alone.

As soon as the music below ceased, Mohr took his hat. "To envy this
happiness is one of my favorite occupations," he growled, twisting his
under lip awry. "I pity you for being able to listen to such a thing
quietly, without becoming filled with fiendish joy or rage, I tried to
express this mood in a somewhat rattling, but I think not wholly
meritless composition, which I call my _sinfonia ironica_. When I have
a lodging and a tin pan, I'll play it to you, and then read you my new
comedy: 'I am I, and rely on myself.'"

"A great many pleasures at once, Heinz," said Edwin.

"You need not fear the length of this _concert spirituel_. Only two
bars of the symphony and an act and a half of the comedy are finished.
A man who is but half a man, never brings any work to completion."

"Fortunately, as you know, the half is more than the whole,"

"You shall give me a lecture on that subject very shortly, Philosopher.
Adieu."

He went out to search for lodgings in the neighborhood. His mother, a
widow in easy circumstances, seemed to have provided him with
sufficient means to live for some time without work. At the pianist's
door he paused, and read on the little porcelain plate: "Christiane
Falk, music teacher." Within everything was still. He would gladly have
found some pretext to ring and to make her acquaintance; however, none
occurred to him, so he deferred it until a more favorable opportunity.

Balder had returned to his work again. He seemed in great haste to
complete a dainty little box of olive-wood, which contained all sorts
of implements for sewing.

In the meantime Edwin was dressing.

This was usually accomplished in the following manner: first he hung a
small mirror, scarcely the width of his hand, on a nail in one of the
book shelves, just under Kant's critique of pure reason and Fichte's
religion of science, and then while passing a comb minus numerous teeth
through his hair and beard, gazed less into the little glass than
across at Balder. To-day, however, he did something more; he shortened
the hair on his temples and chin with a pair of scissors, and moreover
looked somewhat carefully to see whether it was cut evenly on both
sides. "I find," said he, "that familiarity with the ballet has
demoralized me. I am already beginning to be vain, and have discovered
all sorts of defects in my honest face, with which I have hitherto been
perfectly satisfied. We should have divided our good mother's beauty
between us more equally. But perhaps after all, it is better that the
inheritance has remained intact, rather than squandered upon two. Come,
give your artistic opinion, my boy, has not the plantation been very
much improved by mowing?"

"I should have spared the beard," said Balder. "It was very becoming to
you."

"You don't understand, child. It has been much too long for some time,
even for a philosopher, and although, as in the times of Julius Caesar,
no one must wander about on working days 'without some sign of his
occupation,' it is now vacation with me and I want to go out to-day as
an ordinary mortal, not as an object to startle women and children.
Come, make up your mind to accompany me. We will take a droschky, stop
at the confectioner's, where you must be treated to ice-cream to-day as
I treated myself yesterday, and afterwards--"

"To-day, Edwin? To-day--excuse me--I don't feel exactly well--it will
be better to choose some other time--"

He bent his glowing face over his work.

Just at this moment some one knocked, and the round, good-natured face
of the owner of the house appeared in the doorway, for the little
artist had insisted upon his going first. In the half jocose, half
respectful manner, which he always adopted toward the brothers, he
introduced Herr Koenig to them as a cultivated artist, and the father of
a daughter already highly educated, but who desired to pursue her
education still further. Immediately upon entering, the little
gentleman had become absorbed in looking at the copperplate engravings
and busts, and, seemingly, had forgotten the cause of his visit. But
when the shoemaker paused, and Edwin glanced smilingly at Balder, he
recollected himself and modestly told his errand.

"My dear sir," replied Edwin, "I really feel very much honored, but I
do not yet know whether I am the man you seek, for I am not a
particularly good teacher, since I have not a particle of ambition to
become a pedagogue. For a thorough teacher is indifferent to the
calibre of his pupil's mind; the more idle, stupid, and destitute of
talent the scholar, the more eager should the teacher be to make
something out of him. I, on the contrary, still have too much to do for
myself, to be able to help others who have not at least the ability to
help themselves. I can indeed show the way, but the scholar must
perform the work. And as for young ladies, with all due respect for
your daughter, Herr Koenig, how are these poor creatures, even if the
roads are smoothed before them and the goal pointed out, to journey
forward on their own feet, when from their earliest childhood, every
natural, firm, and steady step has been prohibited as unwomanly! They
trip and dance and glide and hover and soar, with variegated wings over
the green meadows of youth, but when they at last reach the highway of
sober life, they lean on a husband's arm, and expect to be supported
and carried forward by him. Excuse this uncourteous language, I have
experienced these things, and I do not see why I should not speak
openly. However, as I am now at leisure, if you will venture to try me
upon the recommendation of our landlord and foster father, I will make
an attempt to ascertain whether you are not deceived in me."

He took his straw hat, and said in an undertone to Balder: "Don't wait
meals for me again to-day, my boy, I may wander out somewhere into the
green fields, after I have made the acquaintance of this king's
daughter,[1] who is so eager for education."

He passed his hand gently over the youth's hair by way of parting, and
accompanied the two men down stairs.

When he was alone in the hot street with the little artist, the
latter said: "You have not far to go, Herr Doctor, I live on the
Schiffbauerdamm, and we can walk in the shade all the way. But, that
you may understand my daughter's peculiar course of education, allow me
to tell you something of my domestic affairs. Your landlord has made
you acquainted with my name. You have probably never heard it mentioned
before. My pictures are not remarkable performances, and for several
years past I have turned my attention more to wood engraving. A trade,
Herr Doctor, takes root in a firmer soil than art, though it may not
always be a soil so golden, and it becomes a father of a family, even
if the family consists of but two persons--however, I have never wholly
relinquished painting, adhering always to my own very modest style,
which in art circles, has even earned me a nickname. Just as there is a
cat-Raphael, and a velvet-and-hell Breughel, so I am called, owing to
my predilection for introducing old fences into my landscapes, the
zaun-koenig.[2] Predilection?" he smiled as he continued, "that is not
exactly the right word either. God knows I would rather paint beautiful
woodlands, like Ruysdell, or clear, bright atmospheres like Claude
Lorraine, if my talent were but sufficient. But I always succeed best
in small, insignificant objects. So a bit of ground with stones, weeds,
and brambles, a clod of earth on which mother nature has developed her
productive powers as freely as if it were a world in itself, in
short what we call a 'foreground,' has always given me so much to
do--especially as I am somewhat near-sighted--that I have never arrived
at real landscapes. Well, everybody must cut his garment according to
his cloth. And when we reflect aright, do not God's power and glory
make themselves manifest in just as wonderful a guise behind a low
hedge or a garden fence, as in the romance of the primeval forest, or
the surpassing grandeur of the Swiss Alps? So what I do, I do because I
cannot help it; in short I work for my own edification, and try to
represent a small portion, a little corner or bit of creation, with so
much care and love, that in looking upon my work people may see that,
even this despised spot, God's breath has touched."

Edwin had given but partial attention to these remarks, which would
usually have interested him far more deeply. His thoughts were
wandering in vague, distant realms. But in order to say something, he
remarked: "And do you find purchasers for your pictures?"

The little gentleman smiled, in a half-embarrassed, half-conscious
manner.

"Well," said he, "I can't complain. I always dispose of at least every
fourth or fifth picture; for, is it not strange! now-a-days everybody
must have his specialty; a work may be ever so worthless, but it will
possess some value, because its producer has had the courage not to
flinch or retreat from the path he has appointed for himself even if
the critics assail him with their deadly weapons. Yes, yes, it is
indeed surprizing to me, myself, but patrons of the fine arts have come
hither from Holland and from England, who wanted a real zaun-koenig and
nothing better. So it is, that in the great economy of our creator,
every creature finds its appointed place, the mite as well as the
elephant.

"But I was going to tell you something about my domestic affairs,"
continued the little man. "You see, Herr Doctor, I have now been a
widower five years and seven months, but I cannot yet speak of my dear
wife without feeling, a perhaps unmanly or unchristian, but
nevertheless unconquerable grief. Therefore I will speak no further of
her, except that during the fifteen years I lived with her, there was
not an hour which I could wish effaced from my memory. She was a
Jewess, and I am a good evangelical Christian, but even that did not
cause a single moment of bitterness, for the God in whom we both
believed, was one and the same. As for our daughter, the mother agreed
that she should be educated as a Christian, and though she herself did
not wish to be baptised, she never tried to perplex the child. She was
buried in the Jewish churchyard, but that has never troubled me. The
spot to which this noble creature was carried for her eternal rest, is
_holy_, no matter whether it was consecrated by Christian minister or
Jewish Rabbi. Since she died, I can see that I have not been so pious
as when she was alive. The memory of her blends with all my thoughts of
heaven; I can no longer, as before, be alone in the presence of my God.
Ah well. He will not impute that to me as a sin."

The artist paused a moment. His voice seemed to fail him, but after a
moment he continued:

"She has left me a daughter, who in many respects is very like her; in
others not at all. She has far more independence, and often we do not
understand each other, and that never happened with her mother. The
child is nineteen years old, and--I will not praise her--but no one
could have a better heart, to say nothing of such a talent for drawing
and painting, that I only wonder how she came by it. In many things,
flower-pieces for instance, I am a bungler to her. I ought, long ago,
to have discountenanced her close application to it, that she might
have had more time for other things, I mean for intellectual culture.
But it gave her pleasure to think that she could earn something while
yet so young, and besides I was vain of her progress. Now, however, the
punishment has come. For some time she has been melancholy, because she
fancied that she was ignorant, or as she expressed it, that she had no
clear ideas. Now to me she seems clever and learned enough, and our old
friend, the widow of Professor Valentin, cannot understand what fault
she can find in herself, except perhaps, her somewhat singular opinions
on religious subjects. But I see that it is secretly destroying her
peace of mind, and, as I cannot help her myself, I have had recourse to
you, Herr Doctor, and, just because you are no pedantic schoolmaster, I
think you will soon discover what is the matter with the dear child."

Meantime they had walked down Friedrichstrasse to the Spree, and now
turned the corner to the right. "My house is only a few hundred paces
farther," said the artist. "It would be very difficult for me to make
up my mind to live in any other part of the city. People are always
speaking so contemptuously of our good Spree, and, to be sure, it is by
no means the proudest of our German rivers, nor the poorest just here,
in the midst of Berlin. But, to an artist's eye--apart from the
impression it makes in the open country, and especially in a romantic
spot like the Spreewald--can there be anything more charming than this
view of the canal, bridges, places of lading, water steps, and the
honest old Spree boats, lying so sleepily in the noonday sun, like
great fat crocodiles on the banks of the Nile? Look; the sailors have
already eaten their dinners; only here and there a thin blue column of
smoke, circles upward from some cabin chimney; the husband is lying on
deck, under a piece of sail near his cargo of coal, and his wife
sits beside him holding the baby in her lap, and brushing away the
water-flies. Notice how the brown wood is relieved against the pale
surface of the water, and behind it all, the bright sunlight effect.
See, too, the white Pomeranian, standing on the cabin stairs barking at
the little grey cat in the other boat? Here, in the midst of our
elegant capital, you have a fragment of Holland, as complete as you
could desire."

"You have been in Holland?"

"No; I have never gone so far. But when one has seen their pictures and
the excellent photographs that we have now--but stop a moment if you
please, I must show you something else."

They had just passed some high houses and reached a place, where a
narrow, ditch-like canal, bridged where the street crossed it, emptied
into the Spree. On one side stood the blank wall of a three-story
factory. Opposite was a low hut, very narrow in front, but extending
along the canal to a considerable depth. It seemed to have formerly
opened upon the quay, by a door beside its single window, but the door
was now walled up, and the window covered on the inner side by a dark
cloth. This decaying little house was connected by means of an iron
railing with its massive neighbor.

The artist leaned over the railing and gazed up the canal, whose dirty
brown water flowed so sluggishly, that it seemed stagnant and gave
forth a mouldering exhalation.

"Of what does this remind you?"  he asked, turning to Edwin.

"What do you mean by 'this'?"

"Why, the canal, and yonder little bridge that connects the two banks,
the post to which the clothes-line is fastened, and the atmospheric
effect and coloring of the stones, which we artists call _tone_."

"It bears a distant, but by no means flattering resemblance, to Venice
and the Bridge of Sighs."

"Right!" cried the little man, who in his earnestness, failed to hear
the tinge of sarcasm in Edwin's remark. "True, I have not been in
Venice myself. But friends of mine, who have visited Italy, have
likewise been compelled to confess that this view was completely
Venetian, at least as the city is represented in Canaletto's pictures,
which, however, are doubtless somewhat cooler in tone, than the
reality. However, we are in Berlin, and it is only a harmless jest when
I talk of my lagune."

"_Your_ lagune?"

"Certainly. I live here."

"In this--"

"Yes, in this hut: you need not swallow the word. To be sure it is not
a doge's palace, this place where I have lived these twenty years, but
I would not exchange it for all the splendor of the old _sposo del
mare_, as the Venetians called their ruler. Besides, it is pleasanter
within than its exterior would lead one to expect. The door which is
now walled up, was formerly the entrance to a sailor's tavern, a
wretched, dirty wine-shop, and behind it were a few miserable rooms,
and a hole of a kitchen. Then came the stable and the wood-dealer's
shed, whose timber-yard, as you see, adjoins our little house. I had
just been married, and with all my treasures of hope and happiness, was
but a poor devil, when the host of this inn was arrested by the police
for concealing stolen goods and for other bad practices. The lumber
merchant would not have another dram-seller on his premises, and the
place was not exactly suitable for any one else. So I got it at a very
low price, had the door walled up to admit the light into my studio
from above, and though it has cost both toil and money to efface the
traces of the dirty inn--you shall judge for yourself if we have not at
last succeeded."

Taking the lead, he conducted Edwin through a large gate across the
spacious timber-yard. A narrow lane led between the huge piles of
odorous pine and beech wood, directly to the "hut," whose side view was
no more aristocratic than the front.

"These six windows belong to me," said the artist with modest pride.
Then he opened the low door and invited Edwin to enter.

The interior of the old barrack, apart from a certain gloom and
dampness, really did look more comfortable than one would have thought
possible from its exterior. An entry, painted in some light color, was
hung with etchings in plain wooden frames. A door, opposite, appeared
to open upon the canal.

"Turn to the right, if you please," said the artist, "the apartments on
the left are our sitting-room, my daughter's little room, a kitchen,
and a bed-chamber. Everything on the right belongs to art--according to
my modest style, for I sleep in my studio, and even in my dreams I
remain only the zaun-koenig, and never fancy myself a Canaletto because
I live beside a lagune."

As he concluded he opened the door of his studio.

Certainly the low room no longer showed any trace of having previously
sheltered drunken sailors, but to have painted Claude Lorraine
atmospheres there on gloomy days would have been a difficult matter.
Two windows opened upon the canal and the dark chimney of the next
house interposed itself between them and every ray of sunlight. At one
of these windows stood a low table, covered with the various tools of a
wood-engraver; at the other, a desk-like stand, before which sat a
young girl, absorbed in her work. Just in front of her a bouquet of
fresh flowers stood in a little vase, and she was evidently employed in
copying into the wreath which she was painting on a porcelain plate,
leaves and flowers from nature. On the walls hung all sorts of
sketches, interspersed with finished pictures which, even at a
distance, could not fail to be recognized as "genuine zaun-koenigs,"
while on an easel not far from the first window, stood a new
half-finished landscape, over which the artist instantly spread a
cloth.

"You must not see me too much in neglige," he said blushing. "I usually
begin very awkwardly, and make a great many strokes on my little piece
of canvas, before any clear outlines appear. But here is my daughter,
Leah. She bears her mother's name. What are you going to say, my child?
You will be pleased with me, for I have brought you something that you
have long been wishing for."

At her father's first words the young girl had arisen, but, on
perceiving the stranger she bowed modestly without moving from her
place.

"I was not conscious, dear father, of having particularly desired
anything," she now said, gazing in surprise at the merry, mysterious
face of the little man, who seemed to be revelling in her perplexity.

"'Not a teacher, child?' this very learned Herr Doctor will not get to
the end of his Latin as quickly as the good young lady. But he wishes
to ascertain how far advanced you are, before saying whether he will
give you lessons. Come, come, you need not be frightened. The
examination won't kill you, even if you should be obliged to rack your
brains a little now and then. Am I not right, Herr Doctor?"

The young girl, whose complexion was usually pale, crimsoned, and
remained silent, as if uncertain whether to take the matter in jest or
earnest. Edwin had time to observe her closely. She was taller than her
father, with a firm, slender figure, and seemed to resemble him in
nothing except the remarkably small size of her hands and feet. In the
beautiful, but perhaps rather high forehead, or in the large, dark eyes
which recalled her mother's race, there was no expression of
cheerfulness; but with the exception of the eyes there was nothing
Jewish in the face; the nose was perfectly straight, and the mouth
possessed a certain sensual fullness, which softened the sternness of
the other features. She had woven her thick black hair in braids, which
she wore in a singular fashion, crossed under her chin, so that the
pale oval face seemed set in a dark frame. A simple brown dress, worn,
despite the prevailing fashion, without crinoline, completed the
unusually grave appearance of the youthful figure.

At the first glance Edwin perceived that he had reason to congratulate
himself on the prospect of having such a scholar.

"Your father was but jesting," he said smiling. "Of course there is no
necessity for a thorough examination. On the contrary, if you can
assure me, Fraeulein, that you think yourself very ignorant, you shall
be spared any further questions."

"Well, _I_ will confess that!" laughed her father. "But you won't find
fault with the little knowledge she has acquired from school-books."

"Not at all," replied Edwin, as he approached the young girl and looked
at her work. "You see, Fraeulein, I once had to teach a young lady, who,
during the very first lesson, overwhelmed me with such a quantity of
learning, had so much to say about cuneated letters, Egyptian
mythology, besides relating various narratives about art and
literature, that, beside her, I seemed to myself like a child just
beginning its A, B, C. To be sure her wise little head was like a
lumber-room, where articles for the most varied and opposite uses are
stowed side by side without order or connection. But in her innocence
she had no suspicion of the existence of anything like clearness and
coherence, or cause and effect, in subjects and ideas. So I paid her
and her mother the compliment of saying that I found it impossible to
improve the young lady's education, and withdrew as speedily as
possible."

The father and daughter were silent. Edwin, as if thinking of entirely
different matters, walked about the room examining the sketches and
studies.

"Well, my child?"  the little artist spoke inquiringly; he was growing
restless, for he did not exactly understand the state of affairs.

"You will not complain of me for a similar cause," the young girl now
said, her voice trembling with suppressed excitement, while her eyes
sparkled with a strange light. "My case is exactly the reverse of that
young lady's. So long as my mother taught me, all study was a pleasure.
She did not make it easy; I was compelled to study out everything by
myself, and I never dared to repeat anything by rote, for she chided me
when she discovered it. Perhaps I did not learn much, or a great
variety; but everything made a strong impression upon me, and I have
not forgotten a word. But she died when I was yet very young, and
afterwards when I tried to get on by myself with the aid of books
everything seemed uninteresting, and I no longer took any pleasure in
study. And besides all this I must hasten to confess, Herr Doctor,
that, after all, you may not expect too much, that I have an actual
aversion to history and geography, and no ability to remember them. On
the contrary--but you are smiling. I expected as much; you did not
suppose it was so bad."

"And for what have you a taste, Fraeulein? What is it you desire to
learn? Do not take offence at my smile. It only meant, that, at your
age, I was not very unlike you."

She made no reply but cast a timid glance at her father. The little man
seemed to understand it. He went to the other window, and busied
himself with his bits of wood.

"I should like," she now said in an undertone, fixing her dark eyes on
the flowers in the vase, "I should like to have a clear idea of many
things which are now dark to my mind. Often when I am sitting quietly
at work, thoughts come that frighten me. Then they vanish again,
because I cannot detain and think them out. It is like being at night
in a strange neighborhood during a thunder-storm; for an instant a
flash of lightning reveals streets and alleys, and then, suddenly, all
is dark again. Or perhaps I read a passage in a book, over which I am
constantly compelled to reflect, longing to ask the author what he
meant, but no answer comes. I feel," she added in a still lower tone,
"that in many things I am unlike my dear father and a friend of ours,
the Fran Professorin Valentin, who is half a theologian, while I--well
it is not for lack of good will if I am not like her. But what I do not
understand has no existence for me, at least to contemplate it makes me
unhappy rather than happy, and yet when they say that the final secrets
of the world, and the divine thoughts, cannot be comprehended by the
human mind, I am obliged to concede the point. Only I can have no rest
until I learn whether we can know _anything_, and if so how much, or if
one, who unfortunately is unable to believe what she cannot understand,
must renounce all truth."

She stopped suddenly, as her father made a movement as if to rejoin
them, and with a hasty beseeching glance at Edwin, seemed to entreat
him not to violate the secret of the confessional.

He smiled again and turned toward the innocent little man, who
approached. "My dear Herr Koenig," said he, "your daughter has passed
the preliminary examination with great credit. I only hope that the
pupil may be as well satisfied with her teacher, as he expects to be
with her. So if it suits your convenience, we will begin to-morrow, and
I will come to you every other day at any hour in the afternoon which
you yourselves may select."

The father looked at his daughter. "I thank you sincerely, dear Herr
Doctor," said he. "See how the child's eyes are sparkling with
pleasure. Now in regard to your other conditions--"

"I shall make but one, my dear sir: that no one shall be present during
the lessons. When I give private instruction, I always insist upon this
point. Either a public class-room, or entire privacy."

"Unless you prefer some other place, Leah, you might receive the Herr
Doctor in your sitting-room on the other side of the entry, where your
writing-table stands; but I think we had better show our friend the
whole house, that he may himself choose the best auditory."

When Edwin took his leave a half hour later, he had seen every nook and
corner in the little house; the niche in the sitting-room where the
bust of Leah's mother stood, the green sofa before it, the ivy at the
window, the steps leading to the lagune, where a pleasant-looking old
maid-servant was busy with her washing; glancing toward her young
mistress, she gazed curiously at the guest, who seemed to be
illustrating Jean Paul's pun about the _Lehrmeister_, who might become
a _Mehrleister_, Edwin himself would never have dreamed of such a
thing. He was very gay, and talked brilliantly as if among old
acquaintances. Later, when he had taken his leave, and found himself in
the street, he again paused a moment by the railing which ran alongside
of the canal; he no longer thought it incomprehensible that the
occupants of this insignificant "hut" would not have exchanged it for a
palace.




                             CHAPTER VIII.


But he had not strolled far from the quay, when these newly made
friends vanished from his memory as suddenly as we blow out a candle,
and in their place appeared in most vivid hues, the vision of the
Unknown he had seen at the opera-house. The change was so sudden, that
he fairly started and stood still a moment to calm the beating of his
heart. If he had met her, bodily, on the lonely street, he could not
have been more astonished.

"A bad prospect for amendment," he said to himself, with a half
compassionate, half satisfied smile. He removed his hat and leaned over
the railing. Beneath him, the river flowed noiselessly on. A dead,
half-plucked bird floated past him, near a half-eaten apple. "Poor
thing," said Edwin, "you have endured to the end, and if not to be is
better than to be, you might be congratulated that never more will
bright-hued dainties tempt you, or hunger gnaw at your vitals when you
have naught else with which to satisfy its claims. Yet the sun is so
beautiful, and apples sweet to the taste, and I doubt not that your
worst nest was more comfortable than the filthy nothingness that bears
you away."

He listened. Few persons and no carriages passed this spot, but in the
distance he heard the hum and roar of the streets, through which rolled
the principal stream of traffic. It was pleasant to lose his own
identity in the vague sense of a manifold life, and yet at the same
time to bask in solitude. But, after a time, his enjoyment began to
pall. He turned back into the shade and walked slowly along the river
toward the neighborhood, where by passing through a few short side
streets, the zooelogical gardens may be reached. Here, too, it was
lonely at this noonday hour, and his old habit of strolling here and
there while thinking out a problem, had taught him all the paths in
which there was the least danger of meeting any one. But to-day he had
no desire to philosophize. On reaching his favorite spot, the
peninsula--not far from the marble statue of the king and the Louise
island, where a few weeks before he had developed his best thoughts for
the prize essay, he threw himself upon the grass in the dense shade of
the huge beeches and closed his eyes, that undisturbed he might devote
himself to his hopeless love dream.

Despite his twenty-nine years, his feelings were precisely similar to
those which fall to the lot of every one when attacked by his first
schoolboy love: the sensation of yielding to violence, of quite
forgetting self, and of being borne away on a flood-tide of passion, is
so strong and so delightful, that it swallows up all other emotions and
impulses, and the thought of possession, or even the desire for a
responsive feeling, can scarcely arise,--or, if at all, not in the
first stages, and in such a virgin soul as that of our philosopher. The
very unexpectedness, aimlessness, and unreasonableness of this event,
was to him, o'erwearied with arduous toil over abstruse thoughts, like
bathing in a shoreless sea, where, floating, he suffered the waves to
buoy him above the fathomless depths.

A hoarse hand-organ close by, which suddenly began to play the "Prince
of Arcadia," roused him rudely from the reverie in which time and place
were both forgotten. He sprang to his feet, and sought some escape from
the intrusive, soulless sounds. In a modest restaurant, where only a
few plain citizens were drinking coffee, he hurriedly ate his dinner,
and then as the seats were beginning to fill with afternoon guests, he
hastily departed, whither he did not himself know; he was only vaguely
conscious of a repugnance to appearing in broad daylight, in so
helpless a condition, before the brother to whom the preceding night he
had frankly confessed his state of mind.

So glancing about him, he walked diagonally through the shrubbery,
without any definite purpose, until he entered a broader avenue, when
he suddenly stood still, and with a cry of joyful astonishment gazed at
some distant object. It was at nothing more remarkable than a red and
white striped summer waistcoat, which, as the sun was shining full upon
it, was plainly visible. But it contained a little figure that he
readily recognized; a boy about fourteen years old, who wore a
high collar, a stiff cravat, a leather-colored livery jacket, and
knee-breeches of the same material. The youngster was sitting on a
bench in a droll old-fashioned attitude; he had placed his shining
oil-skin hat beside him, and was engaged in smoothing his light
hair with a little brush, glancing from time to time into a small
hand-glass.

Edwin would have recognized this boy among a crowd of miniature
lackeys, but he had not time to look at him long. Just as he took a few
paces forward, fully determined to question him concerning his
mistress, a slender figure in a light summer dress and broad Florentine
straw hat rose from the next bench, which was concealed by a drooping
branch, glanced over her shoulder at the boy, and then holding in one
hand the book she had been reading, and carrying a parasol lightly over
her shoulder, she walked rapidly toward the main avenue which runs from
the Brandebourg gate directly through the Zooelogical Garden.

Her motions were so rapid that the little fellow in the large gaiters
found it difficult to overtake her, and even Edwin was compelled to
take long strides. As he passed the bench where she had been sitting,
he saw a ribbon lying on the ground, which, in her hasty departure, she
seemed to have lost. He picked it up; it was a white satin book-mark,
the ends trimmed with gold fringe, and somewhat clumsily embroidered in
blue and black beads with the well-known symbols of faith, hope, and
charity. This discovery detained him a moment. Meantime its owner had
already reached an elegant carriage, which had been waiting for her
outside, the little page had opened the door, the lady entered without
his assistance, the horses started, and the light equipage rolled
toward the city at a rapid pace.

But today Edwin had not only better fortune than on the day previous,
but also the presence of mind necessary to seize his opportunity. An
empty droschky was moving lazily down the road; he threw himself into
it and promised the driver a double fare, if he would overtake the
carriage and not lose sight of it.

They drove through the gate, down Unter den Linden, turned to the right
into Friedrichstrasse, and then to the left into the Jaegerstrasse,
where the equipage stopped before a pretty new house. The little
servant climbed down from the box like a monkey, opened the door, and
followed the lady, who had sprung lightly out, into the house, the
carriage driving off at once.

Edwin dismissed his droschky at the corner of the street, and now with
a throbbing heart walked past the house several times on the opposite
side of the street, gazing at the open windows to see whether the
charming face would not appear at one of them. But there was nothing to
be seen, except in one of the rooms on the second story a flower-stand
containing magnificent palms and other broad-leaved plants, and at the
window near by a large bird-cage with glittering gilded wires. Here,
then, was where she lived. He had in his pocket the best possible
excuse for introducing himself, and yet for a long time he could not
summon up courage to enter the house and mount the stairs.

When he at last nerved himself to this, he lingered a few moments at
the door, trying to recall his somewhat rusty French, in case she
really should not understand German. Then he felt ashamed of his boyish
timidity and pulled the bell so vigorously, that it pealed loudly
through the silent house.

The door was instantly opened, the striped waistcoat appeared, and its
owner stared at the noisy visitor, with a disapproving expression in
his round, watery blue eyes.

"Be kind enough, my little fellow," said Edwin, "to inform your
mistress that some one desires to speak to her, and to return something
she has lost."

"Whom have I the honor--?"  asked the well-trained dwarf.

"The name is of no consequence. Do as I have told you."

The boy disappeared, but returned in a short time, during which Edwin
heard no French spoken, and said: "The young lady begs you to walk in
here a moment."

As he spoke he opened the door of a small ante-room, furnished only
with a few elegant cane chairs and a dainty marble table, on which lay
a book and fan.

"What is your name, my boy?" Edwin asked the little fellow, as he
seated himself with much apparent self-possession.

"My real name is Hans Jacob, but my mistress calls me Jean."

"Isn't this your first place, little Jean Jacques? You seem to be a
precocious genius."

"My first service was with a baron; then I learned to ride, and I had
the reins to hold when he got out of the cabriolet, for he drove,
himself. Here there is only a hired coachman."

"And how long have you lived with this young lady?"

"Just a fortnight. It's a very easy place, I have every Sunday to
myself; there is a chambermaid too."

"Can you speak French, Jean Jacques?"

The boy blushed. Edwin seemed to have wounded his pride.

"The young lady speaks German," he replied. "But there is her bell. I
must go."

Edwin mechanically took up the book that lay upon the little table.
"Balzac!" said he. "'Pere Goriot.' After all, she is probably a
wandering Pole or Russian; they speak all languages, and drink in
Balzac, with their mother's milk."

He rose and glanced into the adjoining room. The little _salon_, into
which the light struggled, through heavy crimson curtains, was rendered
still darker by the wide spreading leaves of the palms. Before the
mirror a parrot was swinging in a ring, without uttering a sound. The
walls were dark, the ceiling wainscoted with brown wood, and on the
black marble mantlepiece stood a heavy _verde antique_ clock. The
brightness and spaciousness of the next apartment, into which he could
obtain but a partial glimpse through the open door, seemed greatly
enhanced in comparison with this. Tent-like hangings with gilded rods,
a portion of a dainty buffet with glittering silverware, and directly
opposite to the door a little table covered with dishes, but, so far as
he could see, furnished with but one plate. Besides these things, he
noticed the constant chirping and fluttering of the birds in the great
cage.

Edwin had had ample opportunity, while teaching the young members of
noble families, to compare the furnishing of the "tun" with the
luxurious arrangements of city houses. Hitherto the contrast had never
been painful to him. To-day, for the first time, he seemed to himself
as he chanced to glance into the mirror, like the shepherd in the fairy
tale, who wandered into a magic castle. Any attempt to improve his
costume he gave up as hopeless, but he was about to draw from his coat
pocket the gloves which he usually carried there, when the opposite
door of the little ante-room unclosed, and the beautiful, bewitching
creature entered, followed by the dwarf.

She paused upon the threshold with an air of indignant surprise, then
turning to the boy she seemed to give utterance to some reproof, from
which he defended himself in a whisper. Thus Edwin had time to look at
her, and to recover from his own embarrassment.

Her beauty was really so remarkable, that she might have unsettled the
brains of a far more discerning admirer of womankind than our
philosopher. He had described her tolerably well to his brother the
preceding night, but here in the broad light of day, she seemed to him
to have assumed an entirely different appearance; her complexion was
more brilliant, her eyes wore a more dreamy expression, and she seemed
to possess a quiet, careless indifference, such as we see in children
who, loving nothing and hating nothing, are troubled at nought.
Moreover the light dress that enwrapped her like a cloud was
particularly becoming, and her hair, with the familiar little curls on
the neck, seemed darker from the contrast.

She greeted the stranger with a scarcely perceptible bend of the head.
"Herr--?" she began, and looked at him inquiringly.

"Pardon me, Fraeulein," he replied in an unconstrained manner, which he
feigned with very tolerable skill, "I have been unable to deny myself
the pleasure of taking advantage of a lucky chance, and of presenting
myself in person as the honest finder of your property. Besides, I
hoped I might not be entirely unknown to you."

"You? To me?"

"I had the pleasure last evening of sitting next you in a box at the
opera-house during the first act of the ballet."

A hasty glance from her wondering eyes scanned his face. "I do not
remember it," she said curtly.

"Well, I must endure the mortification," he replied smiling. He was
really glad that she treated him so coldly. His pride, which had been
intimidated by her beauty, suddenly awoke and aided him to recover his
equanimity.

"You have something to return to me?" she now said in a somewhat
impatient tone. "I have not missed anything, but may I ask you, sir, to
tell me--"

He drew the white satin ribbon from his pocket, and held it out to her.
A sudden change took place in her cold bearing. She approached him, and
her eyes sparkled with childish delight. "Ah! that," she exclaimed,
"yes, indeed, that does belong to me. I must have dropped it scarcely
an hour ago, and so have had no time to miss it. Thanks--a thousand
thanks. It is a keepsake."

She took it from his hand, and in so doing vouchsafed him her first
friendly glance, then with a bow which resembled a sign of dismissal,
she moved a step backward toward the door. But he remained motionless
in the same spot.

"You know, Fraeulein," said he, "that an honest finder is entitled to a
suitable reward. Would you think me presumptuous, if I asked you to
answer a question?"

"What is it?"

"Whether you embroidered the bookmark yourself?"

"Why do you wish to know that?"

"From a certainly very indiscreet curiosity; because I should draw from
it all sorts of inferences about the character of the fair owner. You
know, Fraeulein, the style reveals the individual, and we must judge
those who do not write books by some piece of handiwork."

She looked at him quietly, as if she considered it beneath her dignity
even to let him perceive that his jesting tone annoyed her.

"This is not my work," she replied; "under other circumstances, I
should have been very indifferent to its loss, for it is not even
pretty. But it is a present from my youngest sister, who put it in my
hymn-book the day I was confirmed."

"Strange!" he said, as if to himself.

"What is strange?"

"That book-marks, as well as books, have their destinies. From a
hymn-book to Balzac!"

"Balzac? How to you know--"

"I beg your pardon, Fraeulein; while I was waiting for you, I opened
yonder book. Do you read French works from preference?"

Her eyes again rested on him with an expression of astonishment. This
stranger, who was evidently only seeking some pretext to question or
intrude himself upon her, was making her uncomfortable. But while
meeting his calm gaze, she could find no words to dismiss him abruptly.

"Certainly," she replied. "My father accustomed me to French
literature; he was a German it is true, but he lived a long time in
Paris. His books recalled old memories."

"And do you like them? 'Pere Goriot,' for instance?"

"He at least interests me. The French is so pure, and--the style is so
good. To be sure, many things make me angry. Those heartless daughters,
who so quietly permit their old father to ruin himself for them--it is
horrible."

"Thank you, Fraeulein," he eagerly replied. "I am glad that is your
opinion. Good style, but bad music. Yet it is strange what a clever
author can do. If we met such people in real life, I think we should
refuse to associate with them. In books we submit to the most
disagreeable society."

She seemed about to make some reply, but at that moment a chambermaid
entered and said a few words in a low tone.

"I will come directly," answered her young mistress, and then turned to
Edwin. "Excuse me, sir, I am called away. Accept my best thanks again.
Jean, show the gentleman to the door."

The lad instantly stepped forward, but Edwin did not seem to notice
him.

"I should like to ask one more question," said he.

"Sir--?"

"I obtained a glimpse of your charming rooms through the open doors.
Everything that the most capricious fancy can desire seems to be
supplied, with the exception of what is to me a necessity of life."

"You mean--?"

"A small library. Even the copy of Balzac, I see you have ordered from
a circulating library. Pardon my frankness, Fraeulein, but I do not
understand how such beautiful fingers can touch a book which has
already been on so many tables and passed through so many hands of
doubtful cleanliness."

He saw her blush and cast an almost startled glance at the book on the
little marble table.

"I have not been here long," she replied, "and as yet have given no
thought to procuring books."

"Then permit me to put my little stock at your disposal. True, it is
not very rich in French literature, but if you have no aversion to
German books--"

"I know so little about them," she replied with evident embarrassment,
which lent to her features a still greater charm than their former
aristocratic indifference. "There was not much conversation on
literature in my parents' house. Just think, I have scarcely read
anything by G[oe]the."

"So much the better, for great pleasures are then in store for you. If
you have no objection, I will take the liberty of bringing you a few
volumes to-morrow." She seemed to reflect upon the proposal. "I cannot
possibly permit you to take so much trouble for a total stranger. I
will send to a bookseller."

"Are you afraid that I shall again intrude upon you in person?" he
asked, pausing at the door. "I promise, Fraeulein, that I will only
consider myself your messenger, and deliver the books at the outer
door. Or have you no confidence in my discretion, because I honestly
confessed my curiosity?"

She looked at him intently a moment, and then said: "very well, bring
me what you please; I shall be grateful. Adieu!"

With these words, she slightly bent her head and disappeared in the
adjoining room. No choice was left Edwin but to retire also.

When he reached the entrance-hall of the house and the door had closed
behind him, he paused and closed his eyes, as if to collect his
thoughts. Again he saw her standing before him in her beauty and with
her haughty ease of manner, and a great sorrow, he knew not why,
overpowered him. Little as he knew of life in the great world, or the
_demi monde_, he was convinced that all was not right with this
enchanted princess, since she merely dwelt like a rare bird in a gilded
cage, no longer her own mistress. Then again when he thought of her
calm, wondering, childish eyes, and of the little proud mouth and the
full lips, which quivered slightly when she was considering an answer
to one of his questions, it seemed impossible to attach a thought of
guilt or depravity to this mysterious life.

His own passion at the moment was completely forgotten in his unselfish
interest in her fate. And yet he did not know much more about her than
he knew an hour before. Not even her name, for it was not on the door.
And from whom could he inquire about her, even if he had not an
instinctive aversion to all underhanded measures?

Just at that moment fortune again befriended him.

A stout middle-aged woman in a bonnet and shawl, with a little basket
on her arm, slowly descended the stairs; it was with evident surprise
that she saw a stranger lingering in the hall, and, with the air of one
responsible for the order of the house, she asked whom he wished to
see. He replied that he had only brought back an article belonging to
the young lady within, which he had found, and that he was just
leaving; then pausing a few steps before her, as she followed him on
foot, he murmured absently: "What a pity!"

At this the woman stopped also, standing with one arm akimbo. "What is
a pity?" she asked. "What do you know about my lodgers, sir, that you
dare to make use of such a sympathizing expression. I beg, sir, to
inform you that there is no one in my house who stands in need of
pity."

"Well," he said frankly, "I meant no harm. But, judging from her
surroundings, the young lady seems to belong to an aristocratic family,
and yet she lives so secludedly; who knows what sad reasons--"

As he spoke he began to descend the steps; the woman, however, stood
still, leaned against the banister, seemingly unable to resist the
temptation to display her superior knowledge of the world.

"Aristocratic?" she said with a slight shrug of the shoulders.
"Gracious me! It's all in her clothes, and Heaven knows how long the
finery will last. I suppose you think the silk curtains, and the
elegant furniture, and the silver all belong to her! Only hired, my
dear sir! They don't even belong to me, for I have never rented
furnished rooms; one can easily lose one's good name through people who
don't even own their own beds. My name is Sturzmueller, and I've had
this house these ten years; I'm a widow I'd have you know, and no man
can breathe a word against me, and as for the aristocratic young lady
up stairs, if I don't soon find out all about her, I'll ask her a price
that will astonish her. I want no lodgers over whom people shake their
heads and say 'it is a pity'!"

So saying she walked sturdily down stairs past Edwin, and seemed to
have finished all that she had to say.

But now it was his turn to pause.

"So you, too, do not know what to make of this wonderful vision?"  he
asked in feigned surprise, while his heart beat violently from
excitement. "Surely she has not concealed her name!"

The woman turned and looked again at her interrogator, as if to judge
from his appearance if he was really as innocent as his questions would
imply, or some cunning spy who wanted to draw her out. But his honest
face, as well as his plain yet respectable attire, appeared to allay
her suspicions.

"Her name!" she muttered. "What do I care for a name? Toinette
Marchand--can't anybody call herself that and yet in reality bear a
name quite unlike it? Besides, it's none of my business what my lodgers
call themselves, provided I know where they come from and what they
are. But this one, why, would you believe it! during all this fortnight
I am not a whit the wiser as to whether she is really a respectable
person, or a bit of plated ware; you understand? The truth is, I rented
the rooms in the second story to Count ----, --but I must not mention
his name--who had them furnished in this way, for a cousin, he said.
What he meant by a 'cousin' one can easily guess, but we can't reform
the world, sir, and if I were to play conscience-keeper to my lodgers,
I should have enough to do. So at last everything was finished, as
pretty as a doll's house; it must have cost the count a pile of money!
and, after all, the cousin snapped her fingers at him and gave him the
slip. It was some one belonging to the opera-house, the valet
afterwards told me; a light-minded creature, who ran away one fine day
with a Russian. Well, it was all the same to me. I received my rent
regularly every quarter, could walk over the beautiful carpets in the
empty rooms if I chose, and was not even obliged to connive at a breach
of morality. But one fine morning--I was just watering the palms on the
flower-stand--the count came marching in with a beautiful Frenchwoman,
not the cousin, but--who? Ah, that is the question. He treated her very
respectfully, but while she was looking around he told me, in a
whisper, to represent that the furniture would be rented with the
apartments, but to charge no more than twelve thalers a month. Well, I
was ready enough to have my rent increased if she wanted to pay that
amount, and besides that price is very low for five such rooms, with a
kitchen and cellar. The young lady was charmed with them, took
possession at once, and ordered her trunks to be brought from the
railway station, I was to provide a servant to bring her meals from the
restaurant, the maid and the little footman she hired herself. Well,
since then though I've often asked whether I could be of any service, I
have never exchanged twenty words with her. Did you ever hear of such a
thing? So haughty and hardened at her age?"

"And the count?" said Edwin.

"That is the strangest part of all. Since that first day, when he went
away directly, he hasn't set his foot across her threshold. I haven't
even caught a glimpse of the valet, from whom I might have learned
something. Heaven knows what has happened--perhaps they quarreled at
the very beginning. However, it seems to trouble her very little; she
certainly lacks nothing,--horses and carriages, the most elegant
dresses, tickets to the theatre,--well, my good sir, you and I don't
pay for it, so it's no concern of ours. But something's wrong, that's
certain. Nothing times nothing is nothing, and I've never had anything
of the kind happen to me. You won't believe me, but she never permits a
living soul in the shape of man to cross her threshold. Not at any hour
of the day or night, I tell you, for though I live on the third story,
I know every cat that goes in and out, and besides her maid is by no
means close-mouthed. Now I put it to you, would one so young, as
handsome as a picture, and with so much money, be so much alone if
there wasn't something to conceal, something for the new 'Pitaval,' you
understand,--no, no, I won't have such proceedings in my house;
'everything open and above-board,' that's my motto, for what would be
the use of a good character, if some fine day the police should come in
upon me! But you will make no bad use of what I have said; I could not
help speaking out, and my words and acts needn't shun the light. Yes,
yes, dear sir, there is much to be learned from God's word."

While uttering these sentences, broken by numerous pauses, she had
reached the street door; here, taking a friendly farewell of Edwin, she
crossed the street to a shop.

He, too, turned away. He had not the courage to look back at the second
story windows from the other side of the street; the fair occupant
might think it strange that he was still hanging about the house. And
yet how much he would have given, for even a fleeting glance which
might dispel the dense cloud of suspicion and sorrow, which during the
loquacious gossip of the landlady had fallen more and more heavily on
his heart.




                              CHAPTER IX.


Meantime Reginchen's birthday had been celebrated in the
Dorotheen-strasse.

First of all came the dinner in her parents' great sitting-room, at
which, as usual, the journeymen and apprentices were present. Madame
Feyertag insisted that, before coming to the table, each should wash
his hands at the pump, and brush his jacket. To-day this ceremony,
which frequently was somewhat hurried, was performed with a
thoroughness that proved the homage each offered his master's daughter
to be no mere formality, but an offering from the heart. The head
journeyman had even availed himself of his superior social position, so
far as to appear with a bouquet, which, with a few well-chosen words,
he presented to the blushing child. Madame Feyertag pretended not to
notice this. She seemed to have some suspicion that the worthy man
might consider it a standing tradition in the family, that the head
journeyman must marry the master's daughter, and though she herself had
experienced the blessings of such a _mesalliance_, she hoped for a
better match for her only daughter. The shoemaker had no such
aspirations. When he reflected upon the past, he remembered very
different attentions, which even without any festal occasion, he had
paid the female members of his master's family. He was in a very good
humor, eat three large pieces of the famous plum cake, and finally
ordered two bottles of wine to be brought from the cellar, in which he
drank Reginchen's health in a speech, that spite of the strange
admixture of fatherly tenderness and incomprehensible allusions to
Schopenhauer, was admired by all the journeymen as a pattern of
oratorical art.

Yet despite all this, the solemn meal did not last more than half an
hour, and it was exactly half-past twelve when the little heroine of
the day, according to her usual custom, carried the brothers' dinner up
to the "tun." The low price which they paid for their board did not
admit of their being served with food more dainty than that with which
the people in the workroom were forced to content themselves, but
Madame Feyertag, who had a kind heart and felt an almost maternal
solicitude for Balder on account of his beauty and delicate health,
always remembered to keep some of the best pieces for her boarders
before supplying her own people.

When Reginchen entered the second story room, delighted with the
festivities of the day, and proud of the large piece of birthday cake
that fell to the brothers' lot, she was surprised to find no one but
Balder, who was sitting at his turning-lathe, and who, at her
appearance, hastily concealed something in the pocket of his working
blouse. She was afraid that, as had often happened, she would be
obliged to carry the dinner down again to be kept warm, and her
brother, the machinist, was to come for her precisely at one. But when
Balder told her that Edwin would not dine at home to-day, she
brightened up again, laid the table quickly and as daintily as the
simple dishes would permit, and placed in the middle the plate of cake,
which she had adorned with a few flowers from the head journeyman's
bouquet. Then she stood before her work with an expression of
mischievous delight, and called to Balder to sit down and not let the
dinner grow cold.

"Dear Reginchen," said the youth, as he limped forward with an
embarrassed air, "I have no beautiful flowers like George. Nothing
green and blooming grows upon my bench, you know. But, I too, should
like to recognize your eighteenth birthday to the best of my ability,
and that not by merely eating your nice cake. Will you accept as a
keepsake this little box, which I have made myself? I am sorry that you
will have to fill it for yourself, for I have not had time to buy
thimble, silk, needles, and all the other things it should contain."

He drew forth the dainty polished article, and handed it to her,
opening it as he did so, that she might see the inside. A flush of joy
crimsoned her round blooming face. But she thought it due to her good
breeding, not to accept the gift at once.

"Oh! Herr Walter," she said, smoothing her fair hair with both
hands,--it was a habit she had when embarrassed,--"Did I not beg you to
make me no more presents? My mother will scold again, for she thinks
you work too much already, and that you ought to take more care of
yourself. You must have toiled for weeks over such a pretty thing as
this--and I--it is too good for me--it is _too_ lovely--is it really
mine? If I only knew what I could do--"

"Shall I tell you, Reginchen?" he said, and his pale cheeks flushed
also--"sit down opposite me a little while; it is so dismal to eat
alone, and I should like to feel merry on your birthday, else how could
I enjoy the cake your kind mother has sent? If you leave me alone I
dare say I shan't be able to touch a mouthful of it, out of pure sorrow
for my own loneliness on such a holiday."

He had a voice that was hard to resist, and the young girl was so full
of compassion for his situation and so full of childish delight in her
gift, that she instantly pushed a chair up to the little table and sat
down opposite him.

"I really ought not to stay here any longer than is necessary to bring
up the dinner and afterward to carry down the dishes again," she said,
with a roguish affectation of secrecy. "But my mother won't be on the
watch to-day. She doubtless thinks I am making ready for the excursion,
but Fritz won't be here before one. He has only obtained leave to be
away for the afternoon, and has to come all the way from Moabit. Pray
do tell me, Herr Walter, how can you bear to live as you do? But you
are letting the soup get cold."

She eagerly pushed toward him the dish, for which he seemed to have no
special desire, and with the most charmingly officious coquetry she put
the spoon into his hand.

"To live so?" he repeated, smiling, as he ate the soup. "I don't know
how a man could live any better. A dinner before me fit for a prince,
while the sun shines on the green leaves before the open window, and
the little hostess herself condescends to serve me--I should be a
monster of ingratitude if I could desire anything better."

"Oh! nonsense," replied the young girl shaking her head. "You are only
joking, you know very well what I mean. Is it not almost two years
since you have been out of the house? It would kill me to stay in the
same place all the time."

"Because you are a little wagtail, Reginchen. Or must I not call you
that any more, now that you are eighteen years old? But I think you
will retain all your life the same activity that you showed five years
ago when we came here and when you carried my brother's books up-stairs
one by one, to enable you to run up and down more frequently. Now
jumping, you see, is not exactly my forte. But there is one peculiarity
about the pleasures a man enjoys: if he can't pursue them himself, they
are kind enough to come to him, and the happy hours that I have passed
up here during the last five years cannot be counted."

"Because, as mother always says, you are so moderate in your wants, and
so contented with everything."

"Oh! not at all, Reginchen. Your kind mother has a false opinion of me.
On the contrary, I am very much spoiled, I am by no means contented
with everything, and that is the very reason that I have no desire to
go out among the crowd of rude, coarse people, who are nothing to me,
to witness their self-torment in their endeavor to kill time, and to
lose the consciousness of their miserable, paltry, joyless lives; how
by means of bustle and fine dressing they try to appear to be something
which they are not, and standing on a huge pile of thalers which they
have scraped together Heaven knows how, attempt to pass themselves off
as great men. And now compare my life with all that, Reginchen:
constantly in the society of such a brother, possessing a few good
friends, just enough not to forget that even the best of men are not
Edwins, so well taken care of in such a pretty, comfortable house, with
no anxieties, and--besides--"

He hesitated and his color heightened. "Will you pass me the plate of
greens, Reginchen?" he asked, to conceal his embarrassment.

She did not seem to notice it.

"That is all very well," she said. "But, Herr Walter, are you not
always sick, and do you not have to bear a great deal of pain? And
health, it is said, is the greatest blessing."

He pushed back his plate and looked at her with such a light in his
blue eyes, that she grew a little embarrassed in her turn, and secretly
wondered whether she had said anything stupid or childish. To-day, for
the first time, she felt ill at ease in this gentle, cheerful presence,
confessing to herself, however, at the same time, that he was really
very handsome, as her mother had always said, and as, before, she would
never admit, since all sickness and repose was distasteful to her
bright, active temperament.

"Dear Reginchen," he said, "you are eighteen years old to-day, and it
is allowable for me to tell you, that many, nay most things, which
people repeat among themselves, are the very opposite of the truth.
Health, for instance, which is considered a necessary condition to
happiness, affords no more and no less than any of the other gifts so
commonly desired: wealth, talent, beauty, and so forth. Whether or not
these blessings will make a man happy, depends mainly upon whether he
knows how to use them. I was once acquainted with a man who never had
even a finger ache. But he did not value the gift of health,
principally because he had never been sick, regarding it as he regarded
respiration as a matter of course; his health, moreover, gave him an
opportunity to make life a burden to himself and every one about him,
because he had never learned to restrain his rude strength. It was not
until he met with an accident, and was dependent, in his pain and
helplessness, upon others, did he learn anything about human love and
the thousand little joys of life, which he had formerly despised. Yet,
Reginchen, I don't wish to persuade you to exchange with me. It would
be hard for such a wagtail to be compelled to limp about, or to sit
still. But sincerely as I hope that all your life you may keep your
perfect health, yet I am sure that should it be otherwise, you would
learn to understand me, and perceive--"

Here he was interrupted by a knock at the door. A servant entered, and
casting a sly inquisitive glance at the young pair who seemed so
absorbed in each other, dragged a basket into the room: "Dr. Marquard
had sent the medicine he mentioned, and would call in a few days to see
whether it had produced the proper effect."

When he departed with a roguish "Wish you joy!" Balder rose,
exclaiming: "Well, Reginchen, won't you confess now, that I am one of
the luckiest fellows under the sun? If I had two sound legs like Edwin,
who knows where I might be wandering at this moment. But instead of
that, here I am enjoying an enviable hour, celebrating your birthday
with a cosy dinner in the company of the heroine of the occasion, with
flowers and plum cake for dessert, and, just at the right moment, when
the conversation was growing a little serious, some excellent wine
arrives, with which we may drink ourselves merry again. You need not
get a corkscrew. Here is an auger on my bench. Do you know, we two will
do a charity in opening one of these bottles. The wine is really
intended for Edwin; he is to drink it to strengthen him. But this
otherwise perfect mortal is somewhat hard to manage in certain things.
He would be quite capable, from pure obstinacy, of sending back the
whole basket,--though it comes from an old friend,--because our
finances will not usually permit us to indulge in this luxury. So I
must make him believe the wine was prescribed for me as well as
himself, and as we share everything, he will finally drink it with me.
Come, Reginchen. You will have to content yourself with a tumbler, we
have not yet reached the dignity of crystal drinking-cups. Your
_health_, and may that blessing be accompanied by so many others, that
you will never be able to discover how paltry a possession it is in
itself alone."

He handed her a glass, and they clinked them merrily together after a
little hesitation on Reginchen's part; she feared the wine would go to
her head. She only sipped a little, but Balder emptied his glass at a
single draught, and then stepping quickly to the open window, and
before she could understand what he was about to do, he threw the empty
glass down into the courtyard where it was shattered in pieces.

"Good heavens," she exclaimed, "what are you doing?"

"Celebrating your birthday, Reginchen," he answered gaily, approaching
her and taking her hand. "May I not prove not only that I am very well,
but that I am also rich enough to throw something away? He who has
something to spare cannot be in want. And now farewell, dear Reginchen;
I hear your brother's voice down stairs. When wearied with pleasure you
lie down to rest to-night, remember that some one less light-footed
than you, rejoices that you came into the world eighteen years ago
to-day."

In spite of the warning that she must go, he held her hand so firmly
that her blush grew deeper and deeper. Suddenly, with a quick turn of
the wrist she broke away from him, and hastily collecting the dishes,
said: "I will bring you a bouquet of cornflowers, if they are still in
bloom. Good-bye, Herr Walter, and thank you again for your beautiful
present. My mother is right: you are the best man in the whole world."

With these words she ran out of the door.

He listened till the sound of her quick steps died away below, then a
shadow of sorrowful thought flitted over his face. He went to a drawer
that was constructed in the lower part of his turning-lathe, and
unlocking it, took out a portfolio containing scattered leaves which
seemed to be covered with verses. Turning them over he read a little
here and there for a time, then placing Reginchen's almost untasted
glass of wine before him, he sat down, and occasionally taking a sip
from the glass, began to write a poem.

[Illustration: Reginchen and Balder.]

About an hour elapsed in this manner. His delicate, almost girlish
features grew brighter; from time to time, with an eager gesture, he
tossed back his thick fair hair, gazed out at the sun-gilded top of the
acacia-tree and up at the patch of blue sky, that peered in upon him
over the old roof. Happiness, repose, and a divine cheerfulness beamed,
the longer he wrote, on brow and cheeks.

              They say I am ill. And it well may be;
              Yet I feel no sorrow, from pain am free.
            The current of life flowing swiftly on
              In sunlight I see,
            And sit on the shore, where the flowers bloom.

              Oh! murmur of waves, soft breeze that blesses,
              Air, water, light,--how sweet your caresses!
            Do you not beckon to me from the boat,
              Child with gold tresses?
            Ah! yes, she beckons--and onward will float!

                        If ye fade from sight,
                          Oh! star-like eyes,
                        And bereft of light,
                          Vain are my sighs,
                        Joy's radiant glow
                        E'en 'mid my woe
                          Will aye remain.

                        Oh! blessed sun
                      Of love and purity,
                      Glad soul, from guile so free,
                        How bright thy rays!
                      My flower of life unfolds to thee--
                        Thou dost not dream--how short its days!

Again, for a short time, he rested, employing his pen meanwhile by
sketching a framework of flowers and vines for the verses; he had
written the stanzas without a single erasure or the alteration of a
rhyme. This was no art-exercise which he pursued in order to fancy
himself a poet, (on the contrary, he declared that the real poet was
Edwin, only that he was too proud to let his light shine); it was only
a kind of soliloquy, and by writing down these improvisations, instead
of merely murmuring them to himself, he simply increased and prolonged
his solitary pleasure. He always carried in his own pocket the key of
the drawer where he kept the papers, and even Edwin, from whom he
usually had no secrets, was not permitted to touch this hidden
treasure.

He now took another sheet, and wrote the following lines:--

            To _this_ lot assigned,
            This joy once possessed,
            Say, can one so blessed
            On earth be sad?

            To cool my heart's fire,
              By answering love,
            To feel the desire,
              Man's brother to prove;

            Firm in purity,
              By beauty inspired,
            Ere of life weary
              By death required;

            The great mystery
              Vaguely believing,
            Germs of truth in the
              Soul's depths perceiving,

            Truth-germs unfolding
              In the light given,
            Joyfully holding
              The rain from heaven,

            A spark of divine fire
              Into the heart hurled,
            Kindles with pure desire
              A child of the world.

            To _this_ lot assigned,
            _This_ joy once possessed,
            Say, can one so blessed
            On earth be sad?

      Yet hours may come when the spirit will fail,
      Petty cares, like a swarm of flies, assail;
      Midst the current of life, with gasping breath,
      Waiting I stand, for the summons of death.

      Doubting, I question if earth is to me
      So grand, so blissful a reality;
      Outweighing all the burdens of my life,
      My aimless days of fruitless toil and strife.

      Sternly denied the brightest joys of earth,
      My homely toil no laurel-wreath is worth;
      If, wearied of the slowly passing time,
      A child should break the clock, would'st call it crime?

      O death!--but hark! now a bright footstep nears,
      Bright eyes are sparkling, and a glad voice cheers;
      My sinking spirit, roused from inward strife,
      No longer asketh--Shall I live this life?

He sat still for some time with a smile on his lips, then his face grew
graver and he sighed, as if to relieve his oppressed heart and to shake
off some thought that troubled him. On the paper that lay upon his
knees his pencil sketched a profile, which was unmistakably Edwin's.
The thoughts that occupied his mind seemed again to crave utterance in
words, but just at that moment he heard some one come up stairs with a
familiar, heavy tread. A slight shade of annoyance flitted across his
brow, he hastily thrust the portfolio back into the drawer, carefully
locked it, and then resumed his work at the turning-lathe, but the
visitor who now entered with a melancholy "Good evening, Balder,"
beheld a friendly face, in which there was no sign of the youth's
unwillingness to be disturbed in his solitary intercourse with the
muses.




                               CHAPTER X.


The new comer was a singular-looking person of middle height, clad in
coarse but neat clothes, who looked like a workman just returning from
his labor. The insignificant form was surmounted by a compact head,
adorned with thick shining black hair and beard, which seemed to
harmonize with the body as little as the large hands and feet. Yet the
homely pale face was rendered attractive by its expression of innocent,
almost childlike simplicity, and if the melancholy man, which seldom
happened, opened his thick red lips in a smile, fine white teeth
glittered through the coal-black whiskers, and the eyes under the heavy
brows could beam with a glance at once so soft and so fiery that it
might well win a maiden's heart.

Such was the expression with which, when he met Balder and when no
cloud darkened his honest mind, he used to gaze at the youth, for whom
he cherished a really enthusiastic, almost sentimental tenderness. He
never expressed it in words, of which he was usually very sparing, but
even to the most superficial observer it was touching to see what power
the youth's warm, sunny nature exerted over his rough, bushy-haired
companion, so many years his senior. It was a real "secret love," which
year by year had increased in strength and enthusiastic ardor, and
which would have found no test too severe. All the grace and harmonious
charms of life that had been denied to himself, he loved in this
beautiful, noble young friend, and in so doing had almost become a
little faithless to the other brother, who possessed older claims to
his friendship.

As Edwin was carrying his portfolio to school for the first time, a
slender timid little fellow, who was going the same way and belonged to
the same class, joined him. He was the seventh son of a surgeon,
Franzelius by name, who lived in the neighborhood; he could with
difficulty support his family, and yet his principal ambition was to
send them all to college. By means of free instruction, gratuitous
board and stipends, this was at last accomplished, and toward it
Edwin's parents had done their part, by supplying Reinhold, the
youngest, their son's daily companion, with his dinner. But even
Edwin's patient efforts to thaw his shy schoolmate, were not entirely
successful. The wretched life which was lived in his parent's home
seemed to oppress his heart more and more, when he returned from the
table of kind people in easy circumstances, to a house where it was
necessary to count the outgoing of every penny. At a very early age he
began to reflect upon the difference in the division of worldly goods,
though without bitterness, for he neither conceived nor cherished any
unattainable desires. It was rather his parents' anxious fears that
constantly made him ponder over the mystery; how had these great
discrepancies arisen, how they might perhaps be remedied, until
good-natured and unselfish as he was, he would, even as a boy, fly into
the most violent passion at the bare mention of his fixed idea. When,
in studying Roman history, he came upon the Agrarian laws and the times
of the Gracchi, he composed an essay, in which with boyish impetuosity
he defended the most revolutionary opinions, gaining for himself the
nickname of "Franzelius Gracchus," which clung to him as long as he
remained at school.

Then the fate that befell the brothers dissolved the school friendship,
until many years after, Edwin met this half-forgotten comrade in
Berlin. In outward appearance he had changed very much. The thin, shy
boy, had become a sturdy, black-bearded, defiant youth, a person whom
all well-bred and well-dressed people would avoid in the street,
especially in winter, when a coarse red shawl, which he wore twisted
around his neck, contributed not a little to the oddity of his
appearance. In mind and disposition he had remained exactly the same;
awkward, silent, and gentle, but as soon as his fixed idea was touched,
would burst into a flood of stormy eloquence that swept all before it.
Edwin had also had occasion, in student circles, to perceive how the
same man, who in a small company could scarcely finish his sentences
properly, and in individual debate was easily confused and silenced,
would fearlessly address a crowd. He had a vehemently dogmatic mind,
together with the nature of a true agitator, and he liked to utter the
few cardinal principles of his belief in full, ringing tones, but he
required for his encouragement, the echo of listening multitudes. Then
the deeper water, in which he felt at ease, supported and bore him on,
while, when out of the channel, he instantly became uncertain, and from
diffidence, especially in the presence of Edwin's intellect and
knowledge, he easily yielded, and ceased firing his heavy rhetorical
artillery.

But it was not only Edwin's superiority that attracted him. He had
become warmly attached to his old friend for a very different reason.
That he should now find the latter--whom as the petted child of parents
in comfortable circumstances, he had always beheld on the farther side
of a wide social gulf--dependent on his own exertions, and living
almost as plainly as he himself lived, secretly afforded him pleasure,
much as he wished him all possible prosperity. It threw down the
barriers between them and placed him on the same footing as his former
schoolfellow, but he was completely melted when Balder, whom he had
known and petted as a little boy, joined his brother, and with his
turning-lathe took up likewise the character of a "workman" in the true
sense of the word. According to his father's desire he himself had
studied law and had passed his first examination very creditably.
But as soon as old Franzelius closed his eyes, Reinhold with his
Gracchus-like scorn, became faithless to his career, apprenticed
himself to a printer, and regularly served his time. Now for the first
time his heart burst its bonds. He felt himself, in affliction, the
equal of his brothers "the workmen," and resolved to devote all his
energies to the improvement of their lot.

While at the university he had devoted himself to the study of
political economy and various similar subjects, albeit in his somewhat
cursory way; so now, for the furtherance of his object, he embodied in
small pamphlets or sometimes even in single sheets brief discussions on
what he considered the vital questions of the proletarian. These
impetuous essays, written sometimes in a very _dilettante_ style, he
composed and printed himself in his leisure hours and distributed
gratuitously among the working population, over which by degrees he
obtained great influence. He brought the brothers also these little
"fire brands," as he called them, with which he endangered the fields
of the Philistines, and was delighted when Balder, in his gentle way,
examined each one, though often arguing against them, while Edwin
accepted the pamphlets with a good natured jest, but could rarely be
drawn into a discussion.

For Edwin was sincerely attached to the worthy fellow. He could still
see him sitting in the jacket that had been given him, at his beautiful
mother's table, timidly taking the smallest portions from the dishes
offered. But keenly alive to the nature and connection of intellectual
questions, he possessed moreover, a mind as dogmatically intrenched, as
the agitator's was inaccessible, and so willingly avoided useless
discussions. Yet he always felt that something was amiss, if he did not
see at the usual time the honest, somewhat care worn face, that always
incited him to a brilliant display of fireworks in the shape of little
witticisms and old school boy jokes, until the thick lips under the
bushy beard parted, the white teeth glittered, and the lines between
the heavy eye-brows grew smooth. Then the gloomy enthusiast could sit
down at the brother's table and share their frugal supper, with as much
childish pleasure as if no social questions were disturbing his soul.

But to-day an unusually dark shadow rested upon his brow which contrary
to custom even Balder could not succeed in dispelling. He evidently had
some trouble, which, with his usual slowness, he could not instantly
put into words. Blundering around the room and wiping his broad
forehead with a flowered handkerchief, he had at last fallen into a
deep reverie before the table on which the plate of plum cake still
stood. Balder had invited him to eat some, and related what a great
occasion, Reginchen's birthday, had been celebrated by this luxurious
revelry. The singular man had remained perfectly mute, seated himself
at the table with a heavy sigh, and resting his head on his hands
stared as persistently at the nice slices of cake as if they revealed
to him the solution of the social problem, as the arcanum of the world
flashed upon Jacob Boehmen from a tin dish. Balder had given up talking
to him; he was accustomed to such moods and perfectly satisfied to work
at his turning lathe and devote himself to his own thoughts.

Such was the state of affairs in which Edwin found them, when an hour
after he returned home. At first he was vexed not to see Balder alone;
he was very anxious to give vent to the feelings of his oppressed soul.
He greeted his old friend somewhat curtly, then went up to Balder,
passed his hand over his head, and said: "Have I been away long? I want
to read over the dissertation, excuse me, Franzel."

With these words he went to his desk, took out a printed volume, and
the three men in the quiet room remained at silent as the two had been
before.

Who knows whether they would have found their tongues as speedily, if
Mohr had not appeared again. He had found lodgings and came to get his
traveling bag. He entered with a very bright face, but drew down his
under lip when he perceived Franzelius. After a few disagreeable
quarrels they had carefully avoided each other, as their natures
necessarily could not harmonise: Mohr, who with cynical frankness,
confessed that he always thought only of himself, and Reinhold, the
philanthropist, who never considered his own advantage and
unhesitatingly sacrificed to his ideal dreams the small degree of
comfort he might have procured.

"Why," said Mohr, nodding carelessly to the young printer, "is Bruin
here too? Well, how fares the regeneration of mankind? I should think
that since the foundation of the artificial hatching establishments, we
had advanced considerably nearer to the ideal state when every one will
have a chicken in his Sunday pot."

"I--I have no reply to make to such frivolous questions," muttered the
other in his beard.

"Still the same quarrelsome old chanticleers," laughed Edwin, closing
his book. "Do me the favor, children, not to begin to hiss at once, as
fat does when it meets fire. I'll put up with these wordy battles in
winter, when they may at least result in warming us. But in such
beautiful weather as this----"

"Hear, hear the wiseacre!" cried Mohr. "Well, then, to do honor to the
wonder that a philosopher has a clever, practical thought, I'll swear
to keep a truce for this evening. Come, let us smoke a cigar of peace
in one of the public gardens, for I'm worn out with hunting for
lodgings. But I've found what I wanted, a quiet neat little house only
ten doors from your 'tun,' kept by an old maid, who during the first
hour told me the story of her three broken engagements. So the day is
mine, and without neglecting any duty to humanity, I can devote it to
you and my thirst. So where shall we go? After being away three years,
I no longer know where to get good liquor."

"He is not yet familiar with the rules of the household," said Edwin,
glancing at Balder. "You must know, Heinz, that we never go out in the
evening, and remain at home still more regularly in the afternoon. The
stairs leading to our hen-roost are too steep for Balder, and as when
all three windows are open, we have no reason to complain of want of
air----"

"Merciful Gods!" interrupted Mohr in a tone of horror, which warned by
a glance from Edwin, he instantly tried to convert into one of
drollery--"have you shut yourselves up here like oysters? Well, a
sedentary life has its attractions, and the air in the 'tun' does not
seem to be quite so dry as formerly. At any rate the best plum cake
grows here, and I see yonder a dozen red heads, with whose assistance
one can hold out for a while."

"A basket of wine?"  asked Edwin "In spite of my positive refusal----"

"Marquard sent it, he would take no denial," said Balder. "And," he
added blushing, "as I felt a little weak toward noon, I opened a
bottle."

"Weak, child?"  cried Edwin, forgetting everything else, as he hastily
approached him. "Was it your old pain, or some new trouble? And why do
I first hear of it now?"

"It wasn't worth mentioning, Edwin. But Marquard was right, I felt
better at once. The wine seems very pure and good, you ought----"

"So much the better, if it agrees with you. And you're right, I don't
see why we should not drink our old friend's wine. If _we_ had it, and
_he_ needed it, wouldn't it be a matter of course?"

Franzelius looked at him with sparkling eyes. One of his pet theories
was that of possessing all property in common, a theory which he
practised until he had reduced himself to the barest necessaries.
Meantime Mohr had again filled Balder's glass from the already opened
bottle. He emptied it at a single draught, then poured out more wine
and offered it to Franzelius.

"Very fair," said he. "Your health, Franzelius Gracchus. Let's drown all
quarrelsome and murderous inclinations for to-day, and commence the
business of making mankind happy, with ourselves."

"Thank you," replied the printer, "I shall never drink wine, so
long----"

"What? No wine? Then you're no true friend of the people. They're
always thirsty. But no matter! I'll forgive Marquard his carriage and
patronizing bow, for the sake of his cellar. If he himself has but
mediocre ability as a man and a doctor, his wine is excellent, real St.
Julien.

"Where's our other glass?" said Edwin, looking around the room. "We
really have another, Heinrich, and in a carouse of three tipplers----"

The flush on Balder's cheeks deepened, and he stooped as if he were
searching for the missing glass on the floor.

"Of what consequence is the glass?" cried Mohr, who meantime had
attacked the cake and now had his mouth full. "The liquor's the main
thing, whether we drink it from the cask, the bottle, or a broken cup.
My friends, let me tell you that this is the first pleasant hour, that
spiteful quean, Fate, has bestowed upon me for the last three years.
I'm glad to be once more among people who fare worse than they deserve.
I know this is true of you and myself. As for our philanthropist, he at
least shows a face that will dull the sharpest sting of envy. Upon my
word, Franzel, you look as if things were going wrong. Has Delitzsch
passed you to-day without lifting his hat? Did a dozen blood-thirsty
millionaires spring from the earth during the last shower? Or were you
called upon at the last workmen's meeting, instead of making fine
speeches, to tear your breast like the pelican and let a fountain of
real St. Julien gush forth, and did you fail to accomplish the trick?"

"I see I'm only in the way here," replied the printer, glancing at Mohr
with an expression of indescribable contempt. "I'll not intrude any
longer."

He nodded to Balder and walked hastily toward the door, but Edwin
seized his hand and detained him.

"Stop!" said he. "We shall not let you go so, Mohr is incorrigible. But
there's something the matter with you, Franzel, I see it in your face,
and by our old friendship--"

The angry man compressed his lips still more firmly, and said after a
long pause: "Why should I speak of it? Ruin takes its own course."

"Ruin?"

"Why yes, sometimes sooner, sometimes later, what does it matter? And
we can only rejoice that it should proceed from this cause. It shows
in the clearest manner to what our diseased form of government has
come--and where it will arrive, if--supposing that--"

He paused again. The friends looked at each other inquiringly.

"If I'm one too many here," said Mohr phlegmatically, rising and
seizing the bottle--"I've no objection to drinking this paltry heeltap
in your courtyard."

"I have no secrets," muttered the gloomy visitor. "What has happened
took place in public; the consequences which still fear the light will
soon be noised abroad. A cry of indignation will resound through
Germany, when it is known that even now, in the light of the nineteenth
century--"

"But, man," interrupted Edwin, "torture has certainly been discarded in
the nineteenth century, and yet for the last fifteen minutes you have
been applying the thumb-screws of curiosity. Out with it; _what_ has
happened, and _what_ consequences still fear the light?"

"Then, if you must know: I was at the workingmen's educational union
yesterday--" (Mohr coughed, glanced at Edwin, and then comfortably
sipped his wine)--"There was to have been a lecture on the nature and
value of education, but the speaker was taken sick and begged to be
excused. We were just considering what was to be done, when a new-comer
rose, a guest whom no one knew. He had a strange, half humble, half
scornful Jesuit face. 'Would the company permit him to make a short
address?' The request could not be refused, and he instantly began to
speak with a boldness that surpassed everything that could have been
expected from his priestly appearance. 'Education? A dangerous thing,
at least as the children of the world were accustomed to understand it.
The devil, who goes about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may
devour, is a highly cultivated man, not easily caught by modern
enlightenment. His proverb is: Education gives liberty, and knowledge
rules the world. Yes indeed, the world! So the tempter said to the
Lord: "All these things will I give unto thee, if thou wilt fall down
and worship me!"--But "_my_ kingdom is not of this world"--and so on,
the well known litany--_True_. education desires to know nothing of the
so-called treasures of science, which morth and rust may corrupt. He
who is fitting himself for heaven, provides for the one thing that is
necessary, the'--well, you're doubtless willing to be spared the
sermon. When it was over, the honest fellows sat bewildered and
thunderstruck. The old habit, acquired in childhood, still lingered: no
debate in church!--and even the president seemed to think we ought not
to take issue with a guest. But the man had assailed our society in the
most offensive way, and were we to be silent? So I began to speak. I
was just in the mood, and besides it's a subject to which I've devoted
a great deal of thought, I was glad to give the whole society a full
discourse from the text: Disparage only reason and science! Well I need
not waste any words on the subject among ourselves. But never has it
been so clear to me, as in that hour, what a crime those persons
commit, who seek to disgust men with the earth, in order to prepare
them for what they call heaven. You know I am the last to favor the
current talk about utility. These people make the means the end,
and if they achieved their object and arranged the world according to
their plan--who that did not consider it the highest aim of life
to get his stomach satisfied and know the multiplication table by
heart, would wish to live in it? But just because there are higher
things--transcendent earthly joys, intellectual pleasures, art, poetry,
and all other lofty delights--well, you know what I think, and can
imagine how indignation against the foes of all earthly happiness
loosened my tongue. The assailer of education and heir of heaven grew
red and pale by turns. When I at last paused, and all clapped their
hands and burst into a shout of assent, he attempted to reply. But the
president would not permit him to utter another word, so he soon
slipped quietly away.

"He has enough!" I thought, "but I was not yet satisfied. I meant to go
into the next house and write a pamphlet, in which I intended to prove
by referring to history, what boundless injury the belief in
immortality does the world. And last night I did sit down and write a
few sheets, the first outline of the essay; for I was too excited to
grasp the subject properly, and one must not shake the retort when
anything is going to crystallize. But it seems I'm to have plenty of
leisure; for when I went home to dinner to-day, my landlord, the
cabinet maker, said that some policemen had been there, had inquired
very particularly about me, and had noted down the answer. The man
looked as if he wanted to say 'six weeks _investigation_ and then
exile.' He's quite right. I know them; they've long kept an eye on me,
I made them uneasy, but they could find no cause of arrest. Now the
priests will take up the matter, and then good bye! So, as I have no
inclination to leave my place vacant, I shall for the present not seek
my usual bed, but try once more how it seems to sleep in the open air."

"With your consciousness of being a second Gracchus for a soft pillow!"
exclaimed Mohr, pledging him in the glass of wine. "You must live,
noble mortal, until the last millionaire is hung with the entrails of
the last priest, which will probably occur about the same time as the
death of the Wandering Jew."

"Your jeers do not wound me," replied the printer impetuously. "There
are people who consider all the great questions that affect the welfare
of mankind a mere jest, and never think seriously of anything except
their own dear selves."

"And why not, you preacher in the wilderness? Charity begins at home.
Until I have taken care of my own dear self, where am I to find time
and courage to look after my neighbor, or provide for mankind at large?
These things are too weighty, my noble fellow, to be exhausted by the
first eloquent pen, and and that's why I wish you a long life, so you
can at least be able to study the subject at leisure."

Franzelius cast a compassionate glance at him. "So in all ages
selfishness has intrenched itself behind a hypocritical modesty," he
grumbled. "If no one wished for or did better things, before he knew
the _best_, we should still be in the condition of the lake-dwellers.
And must an idea for which hitherto only our holier instincts speak, I
mean which cannot yet be mathematically proved--and with which the
world after all would be--for when the smallest thought concerns all
mankind--Edwin will know what I mean."

"God understands you, and that's enough; see Sancho Panza at the right
place," jeered 

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