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In Paradise: A Novel. Vol. II

by Paul Heyse · English · Gutenberg #33705 · 686,470 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: In Paradise: A Novel. Vol. II

Author: Paul Heyse


        
Release date: September 12, 2010 [eBook #33705]
                Most recently updated: January 6, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN PARADISE: A NOVEL. VOL. II ***




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





[Transcriber's Notes:

  1. Page scan source:
     http://www.archive.org/details/inparadiseanove01heysgoog

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






                     COLLECTION OF FOREIGN AUTHORS,

                                No. XII.

                           *   *   *   *   *

                              IN PARADISE.

                                VOL. II.






                     COLLECTION OF FOREIGN AUTHORS.


I. _SAMUEL BROHL AND COMPANY_. A Novel. From the French of Victor
Cherbuliez. 1 vol., 16mo. Paper cover, 60 cents; cloth, $1.00.

II. _GERARD'S MARRIAGE_. A Novel. From the French of Andre Theuriet.
Paper cover, 50 cents; cloth, 75 cents.

III. _SPIRITE_. A Fantasy. From the French of Theophile Gautier. Paper
cover, 50 cents; cloth, 75 cents.

IV. _THE TOWER OF PERCEMONT_. From the French of George Sand. Paper
cover, 50 cents; cloth, 75 cents.

V. _META HOLDENIS_. A Novel. From the French of Victor Cherbuliez.
Paper cover, 50 cents; cloth, 75 cents.

VI. _ROMANCES OF THE EAST_. From the French of Comte de Gobineau. Paper
cover, 60 cents; cloth, $1.00.

VII. _RENEE AND FRANZ_ (Le Bleuet). From the French of Gustave Haller.
Paper cover, 50 cents; cloth, 75 cents.

VIII. _MADAME GOSSELIN_. From the French of Louis Ulbach. Paper cover,
60 cents; cloth, $1.00.

IX. _THE GODSON OF A MARQUIS_. From the French of Andre Theuriet. Paper
cover, 50 cents; cloth, 75 cents.

X. _ARIADNE_. From the French of Henry Greville. Paper cover, 50 cents;
cloth, 75 cents.

XI. _SAFAR-HADGI_; or, Russ and Turcoman. From the French of Prince
Lubomirski. Paper cover, 60 cents; cloth, $1.00.

XII. _IN PARADISE_. From the German of Paul Heyse. 2 vols. Per vol.,
paper cover, 60 cents; doth, $1.00.

XIII. _REMORSE_. A Novel. From the French of Th. Bentzon. Paper cover,
50 cents; cloth, 75 cents.

XIV. _JEAN TETEROL'S IDEA_. A Novel. From the French of Victor
Cherbuliez. Paper cover, 60 cents; doth, $1.00.

XV. _TALES FROM THE GERMAN OF PAUL HEYSE_. Paper cover, 60 cents;
cloth, $1.00.

XVI. _THE DIARY OF A WOMAN_. From the French of Octave Feuillet. Paper
cover, 50 cents; cloth, 75 cents.






                                   IN

                                PARADISE

                               _A NOVEL_


                           FROM THE GERMAN OF
                               PAUL HEYSE



                                VOL. II



                                NEW YORK
                        D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
                          549 AND 551 BROADWAY
                                  1879







                              COPYRIGHT BY
                        D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
                                 1878.





                              IN PARADISE.





                               _BOOK IV_.




                               CHAPTER I.


A mile or two from Starnberg, on the shore of the beautiful lake,
stands a plain country-house, whose chief ornament is a shady and
rather wild little park of beeches and cedars. This stretches from the
highway that connects Starnberg with the castle and fishermen's huts of
Possenhofen, down to the lake--a narrow strip of woodland, separated
only by picket fences from the neighboring gardens, so that a person
wandering about in it is scarcely aware of its boundaries. The
house itself is equally small and simple, and contains, besides one
good-sized apartment, with several sleeping-rooms to the right and
left, only a turret-room in the upper story, whose great north window
shows at the first glance that it is a studio. From it can be seen,
over the tops of the cedars, a bit of the lake, and beyond it the white
houses and villas of Starnberg, at the foot of the height from
whose summit the old ducal castle--now converted into a provincial
court-house--rises like a clumsy, blunt-cornered box.

Some years before, a landscape painter had built this modest summer
nest, and had made his studies of cloud and atmosphere from this turret
window. When he died, childless, his widow had made haste to offer the
property to the one among her husband's acquaintances who passed for a
Cr[oe]sus; thus it was that the villa came into the possession of
Edward Rossel, to the great surprise and amusement of all his friends.
For our Fat Rossel was known as an incorrigible and fanatical despiser
of country life, who was never tired of ridiculing the passion of the
Munichers for going into the mountains for refreshment in summer, and
who preferred, even in the hottest weather, when none of his friends
could hold out in the city any longer, to do without society altogether
rather than to give up the comforts of his city home even for a few
weeks.

He maintained that this sentimental staring at a mountain or woodland
landscape, this going into ecstasies over a green meadow or a bleak
snow-field, this adoration of the rosy tints of sunrise and sunset, and
all the other species of modern nature-worship, were nothing more or
less than a disguised form of commonplace, thoughtless indolence, and
as such certainly not to be condemned, particularly by so zealous a
defender of _dolce far niente_ as himself. But they must not suppose
that this particular form of idleness was the highest and worthiest of
human conditions; at the best the benefit which the mind and soul
derived from it was not greater than if one should look over a book of
pictures, or listen for hours to dance-music. Let them drivel as much
as they liked about the sublimity, beauty, and poetry of Nature, she is
and remains merely the scenery, and the stage of this world first
begins to repay the price of admission when human figures make their
appearance upon it. He did not envy the simplicity of a man who would
be willing to sit in the parquet all the evening, staring at the empty
scene, studying the woodland or mountain decorations, and listening to
the voice of the orchestra.

To this the enthusiastic admirers of Nature always responded: It was
well known that his ill-will toward Nature arose from the fact that no
provision had been made for a comfortable sofa and a French cook at all
the beautiful spots. He never made the slightest attempt to defend
himself against these hits, but, on the contrary, he maintained in all
seriousness, and with much ingenuity, his argument that a thinking
being could derive more enjoyment of Nature, and a deeper insight into
the greatness and splendor of the creation, from a _pate de foie gras_
than from watching a sunrise on the Rigi, with sleepy eyes, empty
stomach, and half-frozen limbs enveloped in a ridiculous blanket--a
melancholy victim, like his neighbors, to Alpine insanity. Whereupon he
would cite the ancient races who had never known such an exaggerated
estimate of landscape Nature, and yet, for all that, had possessed the
five senses in enviable purity and perfection, and had been very
intellectual besides. It is true, they had not known the celebrated
"Germanic sentiment;" but there was every probability that the decline
of the arts dated from the uprisal and spread of this epidemic, for
which reason it was particularly out of place for artists to favor this
sort of _Berghuberei_ (as the Munichers call the country fever), with
the exception, of course, of those who get their living by it--the
landscape, animal, and peasant painters--a degenerate race of whom Fat
Rossel never spoke without drawing down the corners of his mouth.

But much as he liked to disparage German sentiment, he could not find
it in his heart to refuse the widow of the landscape-painter when she
offered him the house on the lake for a price that could hardly be
called low. Without any further inspection of the place he concluded
the bargain, and, without changing a muscle, quietly suffered the
malicious laughter which burst upon him from all sides to die out. "To
possess something," he said, calmly, "was not at all the same thing as
to be possessed by something." For that reason he would not need to
join in their raving, merely because he found himself among people who
were crazy and enraptured. And, true to his theory, whenever he was at
his villa he pursued his usual comfortable sybarite life, and
maintained that Nature had very great charms if one only looked at it
with one's back.

He had had the house, which was built in a rustic style, most
comfortably fitted up, with a great variety of sofas, rugs, and
easy-chairs, and always had this or that friend with him as a guest; so
that even the studio above the tree-tops, in which he himself never set
foot, was not altogether lost to its proper use. Heavenly repose, he
used to say, would not be nearly as sublime if there were not mortals
in the world to bestir themselves and cultivate the field of art with
the sweat of their brows.

Now, this year he had taken his aesthetical opposite, good Philip
Emanuel Kohle, out with him; had quartered him in the chamber to the
left of the little dining-room--he himself occupying the one on the
right--and it is almost unnecessary to add, had given him the exclusive
use of the studio. For the rest, they only met at dinner and supper,
since the morning slumbers of the host lasted too long for the
industrious guest to wait breakfast for him. Moreover, they could never
come together without getting into some discussion, which was always
welcome to Rossel, and, as he asserted, highly favorable to his
digestion at any time of the day except in the morning. The more he saw
of him the more pleasure Rossel took in this singular, self-communing
man, who, bloodless, insignificant-looking, and unsophisticated as he
seemed, bore about with him a truly royal self-respect, and the
consciousness of immeasurable joys and possessions, without for a
moment demanding that any mortal being should acknowledge his inherent
sovereign rights.

Then, too, though he was so unassuming and so thankful for proffered
friendship, he conducted himself toward his host with perfect freedom,
for he held the most sublime doctrines in regard to the earthly goods
that were lacking in his own case, but were so richly at the disposal
of his friend.

A little veranda, with a roof supported on wooden pillars and overgrown
with wild grape-vines, had been built out into the lake. A table and a
few garden-chairs stood upon it, and from it one could look far away
over the beautiful, unruffled water and the distant mountains. At night
it was delicious to lean over the balustrade and see the moon and stars
dancing in the waves. The nights were still warm, and the scent of the
roses was wafted over from the garden; on a day like this one could sit
in the open air until midnight.

Fat Rossel had seated himself in an American rocking-chair, with his
back toward the lake; a narghili stood by his side, and on the table,
in a cooler, was a bottle of Rhine wine, from which he filled his own
and his friend's glass from time to time. Kohle sat opposite him, his
elbows resting on the table, his shabby black hat pulled down over his
forehead, from beneath which his eyes gleamed fixedly and earnestly out
of the shadow like those of some night-bird. They appeared to be
magically attracted by the lines of silver that furrowed the lake, and
it was only when he spoke that he slowly raised them to the level of
his friend's high, white forehead, from which the fez was pushed back.
Rossel wore his Persian dressing gown, and his silky black beard hung
picturesquely down upon his breast. Even in the moonlight Kohle looked
very shabby in comparison with him, like a dervish by the side of an
emir. The truth was, Kohle had but one coat for all times of the day
and year.

"You may say what you like, my dear friend," said Fat Rossel,
concluding a rather long dispute about the difference in character
between the North and South Germans--he himself was from Passau and
Kohle from Erfurth--"there is one talent you people on the other side
of the Main are lacking in; you can swim excellently, but you can't lie
on your back and let yourself drift. Didn't I drag you put here to this
tiresome summer retreat because your aspect had become positively
unbearable to a flesh-painter, your skin having dried to a respectable
parchment, and you standing in danger of composing yourself into an
early grave? And now you don't do anything better out here; but consume
one yard of paper after another, while the shadows in your face grow
blacker from day to day. Why are you in such haste, my dear Kohle, to
produce things for which no one in the world is waiting?"

Kohle's pale face never moved a muscle. He slowly drank a few drops of
wine from his glass, and then said, calmly:

"Forbid the silkworm to spin!"

"You forget, my dear godfather, that the worm you cite as your model
has at least the excuse that it spins silk. If you could get so far as
to do that, the thing would have a practical purpose. But your
spinning--"

"Now you are talking again against your better convictions,"
interrupted the other, coolly, "There are more than enough people
nowadays who pursue their so-called art for a practical purpose. Just
listen once when our colleagues talk about their 'interests.' One would
imagine he was at the Bourse: for this picture, five thousand gulden;
for that, ten thousand, or even twenty and twenty-five thousand; and
that a certain artist has an annual income of so and so much, and owns
several houses besides--these things make up the motive power of an
incredible number of them. Their pictures have no longer a value, but
merely a price. How to go to work and make an equal amount from the
fabrication of painted canvas, that is the pivot on which all the labor
of an artist's fancy turns, instead of steering straight for the thing
itself, as it ought by rights to do. Well, I have nothing in common
with this worm that nourishes itself by crawling about in the dust. But
what does it matter to me whether I spin silk, or only a plain thread
that delights me alone, and from which I can beat my wings and soar
away into space?"

"You are a thousand times too good for this century of banks and
bourses, my dear enthusiast!" cried Rossel, with a sigh of honest
admiration. "But, even though you despise the golden fruit on the tree
of life, still all sorts of other things flourish there, which even the
best of men need not be ashamed to find beautiful and desireable: for
instance, fame or love, upon which you also turn your back with sublime
contempt. Your life is quite as earnest as your art, and yet you know
what Schiller says. If you go on in this way a few years longer, your
flame of life will have consumed all its wick; and the magic-lantern
pictures which the light has thrown on the dark background of your
existence will go down with you into eternal night."

"No!" cried the other, and his yellow face lit up with a red flush. "I
do not feel this fear! _Non omnis moriar!_ Something of me will be left
behind; and though you may be right that no glory will come to me
during my life, a soft shimmer of posthumous fame will warm my bones
under the ground, of that I am certain. For better times are coming, or
else may God take pity on this wretched world, and dash it to pieces
before it becomes one vast dung-heap from which no living flower will
spring. Many a day when I have begun to lose faith, amid the
wretchedness of the present, I have repeated to myself those comforting
verses of Hoelderlin's about the future of mankind."

"Now don't bring in your Hoelderlin as a bondsman for yourself," cried
Rossel. "To be sure, he was just as unpractical and as little suited to
the times as you; and, moreover, one of those erratic fellows who have
strayed out of the grand Greek and heathen worlds, and lost themselves
in our shallow present--an artist for art's sake, a dreamer and
ghost-seer in broad daylight. But for all that, he knew very well what
makes life worth living; and though he despised gold, and did not run
after fame very eagerly, he took love so seriously that he even lost
his reason over it. But you, my dear Philip Emanuel--"

"Are you so certain that I am not on the straight road to it?" Kohle
interrupted, with a peculiar, half-shy, half-bashful smile. "It is
true, neither this nor that particular beautiful woman has caused me to
tremble for the little sense I possess. But the woman and the beauty
which I, being what I am--"

He broke off, and turned round in his chair, so as to present only his
profile to his friend.

"I don't understand you, godfather."

"The thing is simple enough, I have never found a beautiful woman who
claimed so little of a suitor as to be willing to take up with my
insignificant self; that is to say--for I despise alms--who could
seriously be satisfied with this drab-tinted sketch of a human figure
that bears my name. And as I am too ignorant of the art of making the
best of it, and seeking out a sweetheart who shall be suited to me in
all ways and shall bear the stamp of the same manufactory, I stand but
a poor chance so far as love is concerned. You will laugh at me,
Rossel, but, in solemn earnest, the Venus of Milo would not be
beautiful enough for me."

A short pause ensued. Then Rossel said: "If I understand you rightly, I
must confess that I don't understand you at all. Besides, your estimate
of woman is quite wrong. What you want is a husband; some one who shall
show you that she is lord and master, and not a mere puppet. Put aside
both your humility and your arrogance, and pitch in whenever you
stumble upon a cheerful life. However, do just as you see fit. Who
knows but what some time the Venus of Milo herself will take pity on
you for having passed over all lesser women-folk in order to wait for
the goddess?"

"And what if she has already appeared to me, ay, has visited me day by
day up there above the tree-tops?" said Kohle, with a mysterious smile.

He pointed with his hand toward the studio, whose window sparkled
softly in the starlight.

Rossel stared at him in amazement.

"You fear I am on the point of breaking into a divine frenzy," laughed
the little man. "But I haven't yet confounded dreams and reality. That
I have seen her, and have learned from her all sorts of things that
other mortals do not yet know, is certain. But I believe myself that I
only dreamed all this. It was on my very first morning out here. The
evening before I had been reading the _Last Centaur_. The birds woke me
very early, and then I lay for a few hours with closed eyes, and the
whole story passed before me in a continuous train."

"What story?"

"I am now at work sketching it, after my own fashion, against which you
will protest again. There is a cyclus of six or eight pictures--shall I
tell you the story just as I am building it up in outline? It ought
properly to be told in verse, but I am no poet. Enough, the scene opens
with a mountain-cliff somewhere or other, the Hoesselberg, let us say,
or any other mythological fastness in which a goddess could have lived
apart from the world for a few centuries. From out it steps our dear
Venus of Milo in proper person, leading by the hand a half-grown boy,
who is no less a person than the little Amor. They are both but
scantily clad, and gaze around with wondering eyes upon a world that
has greatly changed since last they saw it. A city lies before them,
with battlements and towers of strange shape standing out against the
sky. Horsemen and pedestrians are coming out of the gate, dressed in
bright-colored garments of a peculiar cut, which were nowhere in
fashion in the world when the old gods were worshiped. The sky is
clouded over, and a drizzling rain is gently falling, which forces the
lady and her little boy to seek another place of refuge, since they can
no longer find their way back to their old retreat. Yet they lack the
courage to enter the town, with its swarming mass of human beings. But
in the mountain over across the valley stands a high stone building,
from which a tower, with a beautiful chime of bells, seems to ring out
over the land an invitation for all men to draw near. It is true, this
cannot be expressed in the sketch, but then the cloister over on the
hill must have something homelike about it, so that everybody will
understand why the fugitives, standing below in the rain, under shelter
of a laurel bush, are gazing up at it with longing eyes. And now,
when the sun breaks forth again, they muster up their courage and knock
at the cloister gate. The nuns rush out at the cry their sister
gate-keeper utters when she sees this queenly woman, with the
black-eyed child of the gods, standing on the threshold, both half
naked, and with their blonde hair falling about their shoulders. Then,
too, as is natural, the nun understands no Greek, which would have
enabled her to interpret the stranger's request for hospitality; nor
can the abbess herself make out anything more as to the strangers'
origin and character. But of one thing she is certain--this is not a
strolling beggar of the usual sort. Thus, in the third picture, we see
Madame Venus sitting in the refectory seeking to still her hunger; but
the food is too coarse for her, and she tastes nothing but the cloister
wine. They offer her a coarse, woolen nun's-dress, which, however, she
scorns to wear. The only other dress they have on hand is the thin gown
belonging to a beggar who died in the cloister a short time before.
This she consents to put on; and although, here and there, her
beautiful white skin peeps through a tear in the old rags, she seems to
think this better than to be confined in the black shroud of the
sisters. Her little boy has also been provided with a shirt, and is now
being passed around from hand to hand, and lap to lap; for each of the
nuns is eager to caress him. While they are sitting thus, on the best
of terms, the priest of the place comes to have a talk with the abbess.
He suspects something wrong, and stands on the threshold, dumb with
amazement, and devours this strange beggar-woman with his eyes. But the
little rascal of a boy goes up to him, and succeeds in making his
reverence fall over head and ears in love with the strange lady, and
scatter his older sentiments for the abbess to the four winds. A fourth
sheet shows him as he strolls up and down the little cloister garden
with Madame Venus, passionately declaring his love. At the window
stands the pious mother of the convent, torn with jealousy; and it
requires little imagination to foresee that her ecclesiastical friend
has hardly turned his back before this dangerous guest is, under one
pretext or another, thrust rudely forth into the wide world again, with
her little boy--who is tired, and would have liked to sleep instead of
having to wander about in the stormy night. But a house or hut is
nowhere to be found, while, on the other hand, suspicious-looking
groups pass by them: gypsies, who cast covetous eyes at the beautiful
child; and one of them--a wicked, toothless old hag--actually catches
him by the skirts of his little gown. But, fortunately, he glides out
of her hands like an eel, and flies into the thicket, and his mother
after him: who is so lost in thought that she scarcely heeds the
danger. 'Where can all the others have gone?' is the question over
which she broods ceaselessly.

"I don't know yet, myself, whether I shall show any more of her
adventures by the way. Every day something new occurs to me, with which
I might illustrate, both humorously and seriously, how, homeless and an
outcast, this beauty had to beg her way through this sober world of
ours. But, whenever she appeared at the door of simple and natural
beings, she needed to utter no word, and not even to stretch out her
hand. She touched the hearts of all; and every one--though here and
there with a secret shudder--gave her from his poverty as much
as he could spare. Young people, upon whom she had bestowed but a
single glance, left house, and home, and calling, and wandered after
her--through populous regions as well as through the wilderness--until,
in their dreamy blindness, they fell over steep precipices, or into
raging torrents, or came to an untimely end in one way or another. But
she herself, growing sadder and sadder, wandered along her way, and
thought of the times when the mortals who beheld her grew blissful and
happy and not wretched, and when they gave banquets in her honor, and
laid the most beautiful gifts at her feet; then she was a goddess, with
a train of followers whose numbers were incalculable.

"Brooding in this way, she comes one evening to a celebrated pilgrims'
chapel, lying in a charming little valley, and shaded on all sides by
evergreen trees; and it is so late that no one observes her as she
enters into the empty sanctuary with her boy--who is weary, and whose
feet are sore--still holding fast to the skirts of her beggar's gown.

"Only the eternal lamp is still burning before the altar, but the moon
shines through the arched windows, and it is as bright as day within.
The godlike woman sees a brown, wooden, life-sized figure seated on a
high throne. Two glass eyes glare upon her, and on the head flames a
golden crown; a mantle of red velvet falls about the angular shoulders,
and on her knees lies a wax child in swaddling clothes. She approaches
quite near, and touches the mantle, and plucks at the heavy folds;
whereupon the clasp on the neck of the image becomes unfastened, and
the lean, wooden body appears, looking ghastly enough. A shudder creeps
over the beautiful woman as she sees this image before her in all its
lean, worm-eaten ugliness. 'Ah!' she thinks to herself, 'this
princess's mantle will become me better than it does that old piece of
carving!' and begins to wrap herself in its heavy folds, which give
forth an odor of incense; and then she sets the crown on her head, and
asks her boy whether she pleases him. But he only blinks at her a
little, for he is tired to death. Then she takes pity on the poor
child, lifts the image from its gilded throne, and the wax infant rolls
to the ground and is dashed to pieces. She does not heed this, however,
but mounts the steps and seats herself in the chair under the canopy,
and the little Amor nestles warm in her lap, and, half covered by the
velvet mantle, falls asleep on her heavenly bosom. All around her it is
still; no sound is heard but the whirr of the bats as they fly hither
and thither under the high dome, not daring to light on the crown of
the stranger as they were accustomed to do upon the wooden image, being
frightened away by the brightness of her eyes; until at last the eyes
close, and the mother and son sleep quietly on their throne above the
altar.

"In the early morning, even before the pilgrims who are encamped all
about the chapel have awakened, a young man comes along the road,
and, thinking no evil, enters the open portal, through which the gray
light of morning has just begun to steal. He has often seen the
wonder-working image that was worshiped here, but has never found that
it exerted any particular power upon himself. And now he merely goes in
and kneels down in a corner to let his heart commune with its God. But
as his eyes roam absently about the chapel they encounter the divine
apparition on the altar, sending a shock full of bliss and longing,
adoration and rapture, to the very depths of his heart. Just at this
moment the divine woman opens her eyes, makes a movement--which also
wakes the boy--and has to think a little before she can remember where
she is and how she came there. Her look falls upon the youth, who
stands there gazing up at her, looking so handsome and earnest, and as
if he were turned into a statue. She smiles graciously upon him, and
moves her hand in token of greeting. Then a holy dread overcomes him,
so that he flies from the chapel, and it is only when he is alone in
the solitary wood that he recalls what he has seen, and realizes what a
miracle has been revealed to him. And immediately the yearning comes
back to him. Like a drunken man he staggers back to the chapel, where
he finds the pilgrims already at their first mass. But the marvelously
beautiful lady with the boy has vanished; the wooden Madonna is again
enthroned under the baldachuin, and even a wax child lies upon her lap,
for the priests have supplied the place of the broken one by another.
Everything is in its old place, only the crown sits a little aslant on
the brown, wooden head, for the sacristan has not succeeded in
repairing the mysterious destruction any better. But the youth turns
his steps homeward, and bears about with him, through his whole life,
the after-glow of this wonderful apparition; striving always to
represent, to his fellowmen who had not beheld it with their own eyes,
how she had looked upon him--at first earnestly and dreamily, and then
with a winning smile--and how the boy, with his wondering gaze, had
illuminated everything about him, as if with balls of fire. And in his
efforts to do this--for he was an artist--he has attained to greater
and greater power and influence over his fellow-men, and each time has
succeeded better in catching the face; and that is the secret which can
be found in no history of art--the reason why this young Raphael has
become the greatest of all painters, and his picture of the Madonna
surpasses all others in beauty and in power."




                              CHAPTER II.


"By all the good spirits, but you are a poet!" cried Rossel, and he
sprang up with so unusual an alacrity that his red fez slipped off his
head.

"A poet!" responded his modest friend, with a sad smile. "There, you
see how low we have sunken nowadays. If it ever occurs to one of us to
let any idea enter his head that goes beyond a whistling shoemaker's
apprentice, or some celebrated historical event, or a bathing nymph, he
must immediately hear himself scouted as a poet. Those old fellows like
Duerer, Holbein, Mantegna, and the rest, were left unmolested to spin
into fables whatever struck them as beautiful or odd. But, nowadays,
the doctrine of the division of labor is the panacea for all things;
and if a poor fool of a painter or draughtsman works out for himself
anything which a poet could by any possibility put into verse, people
immediately come running up with Lessing's 'Laokoon'--which, by the
way, no one thinks of reading nowadays--and prove that in this case all
bounds have been overstepped. If a poor devil of an artist has a fancy
for poetry, why doesn't he go to work and illustrate? After all, it is
a trade that supports its man, and one who follows it can be a
thorough-going realist, and can easily guard himself against all danger
of infection from poetry. But an arrogant wight of an idealist, whom
the world refuses to keep warm, and who, therefore, must take care not
to let the sacred fire go out on the hearth of his art--"

"You are getting warm without cause, my dear Kohle!" interposed the
other. "Good heavens! it is indeed a breadless art, that of the poet,
but a deadly sin it certainly is not; and I, for my part, could almost
envy you for having such ideas as those you have just been telling me.
I'll tell you what--finish your plans, and then we will both of us
paint this beautiful story of Dame Venus inside there on the wall of
our dining-room. The devil must be in it, if we don't succeed in
producing something that will throw the Casa Bartoldi deep into the
shade."

He knew when he said this what a great proposal he had let fall upon
the listening soul of his friend.

Kohle, like all art apostles of his stamp, despised easel and oil
painting, as it is usually practised. On the other hand, the great aim
of his longing and ambition was to be able, just for once, to wield his
fresco brush to his heart's content on a wall a hundred feet long; and
his friends were fond of plaguing him about a wish that had once
escaped him--"My life for a bare wall!" Heretofore no one had been
willing to entrust him with a square yard of his house, or even of his
garden, for this purpose. And now, suddenly, he had only to put forth
his hand, and see his greatest desire for monumental art-creation
fulfilled.

At first he could not believe in such overwhelming good-fortune. But
when the look of glad surprise and trembling doubt which he cast upon
his host encountered a perfectly serious face, he could no longer hold
himself in his chair. He sprang to his feet, threw his shabby black hat
high into the air, and, with outstretched arms and glowing face,
prepared to throw himself upon his friend, who was slowly strolling
back and forth. "Brother!" he cried, in a half-stifled voice, "this--
this--" But Rossel suddenly stood still and made a motion with his
hand, which checked the enthusiast in the very height of his wild
excitement.

The remembrance of a similar moment, when his heart had overflowed
toward his friend, and he had been upon the verge of formally offering
him "good-comradeship," came back to him with a rude shock. Then the
word had not yet passed his lips, when Rossel, at the very same moment,
though apparently without intention, had begun to speak of his aversion
to the display of tenderness among men, and had frightened away this
outburst of brotherly affection. And could it be that even now the ice
was not to be broken between them, and that this fulfillment of the
dearest wish of his life was nothing but the favor of a gracious
patron, a whim on the part of the rich host toward the poor devil who
sat at his hospitable table? His proud, sensitive soul was just on the
point of revolting against this, when from afar off a sound struck upon
his ear, which, as he instantly perceived, had been heard by Edward
sooner than by him, and which had been the cause of his gesture of
repulse. The soft notes of a flute came wafted to them over the lake,
nearer and nearer to the spot on the bank where Rossel's villa stood.

"It is he!" said Rossel. "Even the peace of night is not so sacred as
to guard defenseless beings from the attacks of this romantic amateur.
Look here, Kohle, see how the boat is just floating out of the shadow
into the silvery path of the moon--Rosebud stands erect in the centre,
like Lohengrin; and that tall figure at the tiller is undoubtedly
Elfinger's high-mightiness--they are making straight for our
balcony--well, let the will of the gods be done!"

The notes of the flute died away in a melting trill, and immediately
afterward Rosenbusch sprang ashore. "_Salem aleikum!_" he cried, waving
his hat. "We make our attack from the side of the lake, obeying
necessity and not our own desire, for a mouse-hole where two travelers
might lay their heads for the night couldn't be had in Starnberg for
all the gold of California. Saturday and this beautiful weather have
lured half Munich out there. I immediately thought of you, old boy, and
told Elfinger, who thought it would be presumptuous for us to force
ourselves on you without a special invitation, that, in addition to all
sorts of oriental qualities which are hateful to me, you also possessed
three most estimable ones--namely, a number of superfluous divans,
excellent coffee, and a spirit of hospitality worthy of a Bedouin.
Consequently, that, unless your shady roof chanced to be sheltering a
few odalisques who had already taken possession of all the couches, you
would not turn us away from your threshold. At the worst, it won't be
any great misfortune to two jolly juveniles like ourselves to pass a
night, just for once, on the floor of a fishing-boat.

           'Upon the laughing wave below,
            The stars are mirrored bright;
            The mighty heights that frown around
            Drink in the mists of night,'"

he sang, to an air of his own composing, his eyes turned upon the
mountains that lay hazy in the distance.

"You are welcome to my poor roof," responded Rossel, with gravity,
cordially shaking hands with the actor, whom he greatly esteemed, and
whose modesty caused him to hang back a little. "All the divans I
possess stand at your service; and of blankets, too, there is no lack.
I only hope, for your sake, that you have already satisfied the grosser
wants of the body. Our daily supply of provisions is exhausted, and
there is no attendant spirit at hand whom I could send to the neighbors
in quest of aid. I have only old Katie out here, and she--"

"Does she still live, that venerable virgin with the silver locks, who
thinks how she might have had children, and grandchildren, and shakes
her head?" cried the battle-painter. "Come, Elfinger, it behooves us to
go and offer our homage to the lady and mistress of the house."

"You will have to curb your impatience until morning, my dear Rosebud;
the old woman has taken it into her head to relieve the loneliness of
the long winter out here on the lake by making _Enzian schnapps_, and
diligently devotes herself the whole summer long to the consumption of
her own manufacture, so that she is good for nothing after eight
o'clock. The most tender flute-serenade would not wake her from her
deathlike Enzian sleep. Were it not that she is reasonably sober during
the day, is a good cook, and is as faithful as an old dog, I would have
sent her to the hospital long ago."

In the mean time, Rosenbusch had paid off and sent away the boatman,
whom he never spoke of except as the "Fergen," and now rushed up the
steps to the balcony, where, with a merry jodel he threw himself into a
chair, and drank the health of the others from Kohle's half-filled
glass.

          "'Well for the rich and happy house,
            That counts such gift but small!'"

he cried. "Long life to you, dear _Westoestlicher_. Truly, Rossel, there
are moments when I acknowledge and honor the old proverb, 'Wisdom is
good, especially with an inheritance.' If I could call a spot of earth
like this mine, I myself would try to be as wise as you, and no longer
assist at the decline of modern art. But no; after all, I couldn't
stand doing nothing but feeding my white-mice and giving myself up to
intellectual laziness. However, enough of this. Out here is truce and
neutral territory, and I know what I owe to hospitality."

"Since you began it yourself," said Rossel, with a smile, "I have a
single favor to ask of you. I have a number of song-birds in my garden,
and I am afraid you will drive them from me if you give a loose rein to
your baleful passion for music. They will acknowledge your superior
genius, and shrink from competition. If you positively must play, row
out upon the lake. There is a southwest wind which will waft the
strains across to the castle over opposite, where they will do no
harm."

"So be it," responded the battle-painter, with great seriousness;
"though, in any case, we shan't burden you with our presence very long.
For, to-morrow--" He broke off, for Elfinger gave him a warning look.
In the meanwhile, Kohle had hastened down into the cellar, and now
returned with a few slim bottles and the wine-cooler, which he had
filled afresh with ice.

He had not yet spoken a word; but his whole face beamed with an inner
content such as he seldom exhibited. The thought of the bare walls
inspired him as the happiness of a secret love does others. Meantime,
Elfinger had descended again to the bank, from which a little path led
to a bathing-house. Soon his friends who had remained behind saw him
swim out into the lake, his black, curly bead rising out of the silver
path of the moonlight, "like the head of the Baptist on Herodias's
charger," said Koble. "Except that he feels himself much better off
than that poor devil," remarked Rosenbusch, who was comfortably
drinking and smoking. "You must know that we wouldn't have had the
absurd idea of making a pilgrimage out here on Saturday evening, in
company with the whole population of Munich, had not our sweethearts
shown us the way. Papa Glovemaker has permitted them to visit a Frau
godmother, who is staying in Starnberg for the summer. We had no sooner
gotten wind of this, through a trusty go-between, than we very
naturally made up our minds that we could find no better place to spend
to-morrow than here. Of course, we have taken care to make arrangements
for meeting to-morrow. We are going to take you with us as guard of
honor, Philip Emanuel. It is to be hoped you have no objections to the
plan?"

"Not the slightest," responded Koble, good-naturedly. "Of course, the
Frau godmother will fall to my share."

"And how about Elfinger's sweetheart? Is that little bride of heaven
also in the conspiracy?" asked Fat Rossel, who was sitting in his
rocking-chair again.

"Nothing certain is known about that; but, at all events, our friend
builds great hopes upon this favor of fortune, which will permit him,
for the first time, to pass several hours in the company of his
darling. Only think; we also succeeded, a short time since, in finding
out what it really is that has disgusted the good child with the world,
and that is driving her into the convent by main force."

He cast a look upon the lake, as though he were measuring the distance
between the balcony where they sat and the swimmer in the water.

"If you will keep close about it, I will tell you the secret," he
continued, in a low voice. "After all, it only does honor to the poor
girl that she wants to take the sins of others on her own shoulders,
and do penance for them all her life long. Papa Glove-maker, you must
know, appears to have been by no means such a very long-faced character
in his youth, but, on the contrary, to have led a pretty wild life, and
to have been mixed up in scrapes that were not always of a particularly
edifying nature. However, he married young, and soon after this event
there came a mission of Jesuits to the city, or to some place in the
neighborhood--on this subject the records are silent--and the young
sinner, who had already had ample opportunity for repentance in his
marriage relations, allowed his conscience to be shaken to such an
extent by the priests that he suddenly took a fancy to retire almost
entirely from the world, neglected his business so that he almost
reduced himself to beggary, and practically separated himself from his
young wife. He had long lost her love, for which he did not seem to
care; but this was not the worst. Devoted to his vigils and penances,
he is said to have known of and condoned an intimacy which she soon
after formed with a young landscape-painter, who lived for a long time
in the house. The birth of a little girl, who was named Fanny, ended
this relation; but, even then, the friendship shown for the artist did
not at once cease. He stood as the child's godfather; and every year
afterward he continued, although he had removed from Munich, to make a
visit to the house on little Fanny's birthday. It was soon obvious,
however, that Herr Glove-maker's views had changed; that he viewed him
with less and less favor each time that he appeared; and that a crisis
was approaching. And so, on one of these birthdays, when the girl had
already begun to think for herself a little, there must have been a
scene between her three elders, which was overheard by the unfortunate
young creature. A sudden revelation came upon her, that terribly
darkened and shattered her innocent spirit, so that she grew
introspective and melancholy--and perhaps she had some spiritual
adviser who was always giving her new fancies, and painting the terrors
of the hereafter in stronger colors. Nanny, our informant says, knows
nothing of the whole horrible business; and Fanny used to be just such
another merry creature. If this melancholy idea did not so weigh upon
her--that she must do penance for the sins of her parents--she would be
as healthy, bright, and warm-blooded as her younger sister. Since
Elfinger has learned this family secret, he has gained new hopes of
turning this little bride of heaven back from the cloister. But it will
hardly succeed; and if he doesn't use heroic remedies--"

He didn't finish his sentence; for just then his friend, refreshed by
his bath, came running up the steps; and now, with an obvious sense of
comfort, but with the rather quiet manners habitual to him, gave
himself up to the enjoyment of the wine. Kohle, too, spoke only in
monosyllables, so that Rosenbusch and Rossel had to bear the burden of
the conversation. Moreover, as the day had been hot, and as they all
really needed rest, the bottles were soon emptied, and the airy spot on
the bank of the lake deserted.

Upon entering the house, Kohle's first care was to light the candles.
Then he dragged out two woolen blankets from a wardrobe, where all
sorts of things were stored. While occupied with this work he allowed
his eyes to wander stealthily and tenderly over the long wall of the
little room, as if he were measuring off and taking possession of the
site of his future deeds. Two low, well-stuffed divans stood against
these walls, an old table occupied the centre, and over it hung a
chandelier with polished brass branches. The broad glass door of the
hall opened upon the lake, and no sound penetrated into this airy room
but the gentle murmur of the splashing waves, and a soft snoring from
the chamber near the kitchen where old Katie had her bed. After all the
doors had been shut and locked, even this nocturnal music was heard no
longer.

The two new guests had just stretched themselves out on their couches,
by way of experiment, and had wished their host good-night with a great
deal of laughter and joking, when they were roused again by a distant
ring at the park gate. Kohle hastily seized a light and ran out. Five
minutes after they heard him return; he was talking with some one whose
voice they none of them seemed to recognize. But, the moment they
entered, the three shouted as with one voice:

"Our baron! And so late at night!"

They had recognized Felix more from his figure and bearing than from
his features, though the light of the candle fell full upon his face;
for it looked wan and transformed as if by some severe illness. His
eyes, roaming restlessly about the room, had a piercing, feverish
glitter, so that his friends stormed him with questions as to whether
he was sick or had seen a ghost on his way through the wood.

He gave a forced laugh, passed his hand across his cold forehead, on
which great beads of perspiration were standing, and declared that he
had never felt better in his life, and that he was as proof against
ghosts as the babe unborn. In spite of all this, there was something
constrained in all his movements, and his voice sounded hoarse and
unnatural, as it often does when a person is laboring under great
excitement.

He told how he too had been unable to find quarters in Starnberg, and
had left the horse on which he had ridden out at the tavern, in order
to make the remaining half-hour's journey to Rossel's country-seat on
foot; and that, in trying to follow the rather confused directions
which had been given him, he had gone a good deal out of his way. It
was this that had reduced him to his present demoralized condition. But
he would not disturb them on any account, and only asked for a drop of
water and a corner where he could stretch himself out, for he was as
tired as a dog, and would be content even with a dog's kennel.

He drained off a large glass of wine at a single swallow, then, with
averted face, shook hands with his friends and made a few forced
jokes--something he never thought of doing when he was quite himself.
He flatly refused to accept of Kohle's offer to give up his bed to him,
but gladly consented to be led into the studio, where, by the aid of a
few blankets, a deer-skin, and a shawl, they succeeded in transforming
an old garden-bench into a very respectable bed. Then, without even
waiting for the others who had escorted him up-stairs to leave the
room, he threw himself down upon the couch--"already half in the other
world," he tried to say, jestingly, as he nodded good-night to the
others.

Shaking their heads, his friends left him. It was evident that this
late visit could be explained by no such innocent circumstances as had
occasioned that of the two who had preceded him. But, while they were
still standing outside the door exchanging remarks about Felix's
singular condition, they learned from the deep breathing within that
the object of their anxiety had fallen fast asleep.




                              CHAPTER III.


The clear song of the birds awoke him while it was still in the gray of
the morning, and not a sound could be heard in the house below.

The tops of the pine-trees, seen through the broad studio-window,
recalled to his mind where he was, and how and why he had strayed
thither.

In the afternoon he had met the lieutenant, whom he had not seen before
for a week, although he had zealously frequented all the places where
Schnetz was generally to be found. He knew that Irene had left the city
with her uncle. In his dull consternation upon learning this in reply
to an indirect inquiry at the hotel, he had not even inquired in which
direction they had gone. She had fled from him, that he knew; his mere
silent presence sufficed to frighten her away, to make the town in
which he lived distasteful to her. Whither had she fled? To Italy, as
she had at first planned?--to the east or to the west? What did it
matter to him, since he dared not follow her? Nor did he really care to
make any inquiries of Schnetz, who undoubtedly knew all about it. And
yet he was eager to see the only human being who might possibly give
him news of her. And when at last he encountered him in the street,
after a day of depression and brooding, on which he had not even seen
Jansen and had neglected his work, his heart beat so fast and his face
flushed so deeply that it seemed as if his unsuspecting friend could
not help reading all his secret thoughts in his eyes. And it really did
so happen that the very first words which Schnetz ejaculated, in reply
to Felix's inquiry as to how he was, had reference to the fugitives.

Things went wretchedly with him. He had hoped to be rid of his serfdom
and slavery to woman, now that his whimsical little princess had gone
off with her servile valet of an uncle! Vain idea! The chain which held
him now reached as far as Starnberg, and only an hour ago he had felt
himself jerked by it in anything but a gentle way. A note from the
uncle summoned him to come out in all haste on the following day.
Visits had been announced for Sunday from all manner of youthful _haute
voles_, noble cousins and their followers; but the old lion-hunter had
previously accepted an invitation to a shooting-match at Seefeld, which
it would be quite impossible for him to escape, and his niece, poor
child, who, for some reason or other, was daily growing paler and more
nervous in the country air, felt herself quite incapable of doing the
honors of the little villa without the assistance of a zealous and
active cavalier. Consequently, Schnetz was her last hope, and he could
assure him of Irene's kindest welcome, and of his own eternal gratitude
if he would come and be her knight! "You will readily understand, my
dear baron," concluded the grumbling cavalier, slapping his high boots
with his riding-whip, "that there are moral impossibilities which
prevent the slave from breaking his chain. But to the hundred times I
have already cursed this Algerian camp-friendship, I have added to-day
the one hundred and first. It is true, I certainly have a certain
curiosity to see how this 'kindest welcome' of her proud little
highness will seem. You know I have a secret weakness for this gracious
little tyrant of mine. But it is asking a great deal of me to expect
that I should bear with her whims and humors for a whole day. Pity me,
happy man! you who are free from all service, and receive no other
orders than those which come from the genius of art."

His speech had been long enough for Felix to think of some appropriate
and sufficiently cheerful answer.

"You are terribly mistaken, my dear friend," he said, "if you think I
wear no chain. Art, do you say? She is a gracious mistress to him alone
who has gotten so far as to be able to rule her while he serves her.
But, as for a wretched beginner and blunderer to whom she has not yet
given her little finger to kiss, no raftsman or woodsman in the
mountains groans under such a load. A thousand times I ask myself
whether it was not, after all, a piece of folly for me, at my time of
life, to join the scholars who are learning her first A B C; and
whether I shall not discover to my horror, after the lapse of many
weary years, that all this precious time has been thrown out of the
window of Jansen's studio. It is certainly large enough for such a
purpose."

"Hm!" growled the tall lieutenant. "You are singing a bad song to an
old tune. Nowhere do you come across existences that are failures, more
frequently than in a city of art like this. It's so damned seductive to
go singing--

           'Free, ah, free, is the life we lead,
              A life filled full of pleasure--'

and yet, what you say is quite right--he who cannot rule art, him she
oppresses; and that to a worse degree than does any duty of life. You,
as I know you, don't seem to me quite in your proper place. Both of us
ought to have come into the world a few centuries earlier; and then I,
as a leader of bandits, after the manner of Castruccio Castracani, and
you, as a politician of the old energetic and unscrupulous stamp,
might not have cut a bad figure. But now, all we can do is to help
ourselves as best we can. Now let me tell you something. You have been
over-excited, and have lost your spirits. Come out to the lake with me
to-morrow. I will introduce you to her young highness. Perhaps you will
fall in love with her and find favor in her eyes, and then our little
princess and both of us would be made happy at one stroke."

Felix shook his head with increasing embarrassment. "He was not the man
for such company," he said, in a stammering voice; "Schnetz would get
little honor by introducing him. He couldn't swear that he wouldn't go
out to the lake. He certainly did stand in great need of a change of
air. But, unfortunately, he could be of no use to him in entertaining
his countesses, baronesses, and young nobles."

With these words they had shaken hands and parted.

But no sooner did Felix find himself alone than his passionate grief
and his old yearning came upon him with such force that he threw all
his resolutions to the winds, and thought only how he could be near her
once more. The evening train did not leave for some hours. It would be
impossible to wait for it, or to pass the intervening time in any
civilized fashion. He hired a horse and mounted, dressed just as he
was, and left the town at a sharp trot, without giving notice at his
own house of his intended absence, or even taking leave of Jansen.

His horse was none of the best, and was somewhat tired from having been
in use before that day. Consequently he was soon obliged to moderate
his speed, and had only accomplished half his journey, when the train
whirled by him. But he was not at all sorry to have to take the last
part of the way at a walk. The nearer he approached his goal, the more
conflicting became his feelings. What object had he in coming here at
all? He knew that she avoided him, and that she would unquestionably
leave this retreat too, if she should form but the slightest suspicion
that he was following her, and seeking an opportunity to meet her
again. And in what a light must he himself, his pride, his sense of
delicacy, appear to her, unless he carefully avoided even the
appearance of trying to intrude himself upon the peace that she had won
with such difficulty? If she could do without him, ought he to show how
painful it still was for him to do without her?

He reined up his horse so sharply that the animal stood still,
trembling. All around him were solitary woods, and the road that ran by
the side of the railway was utterly deserted. He sprang off, threw the
reins over the horse's neck, and threw himself on his back at the side
of road, on the thick, dry moss, which sent out a cloud of fragrant
dust into the heated air.

Here he lay; and if his manliness had not forbidden him, he would have
liked nothing better than to relieve himself by a flood of burning
tears, like a helpless, unhappy child, to whom some one has shown its
favorite plaything and then taken it away again. Instead of yielding to
such girlish weakness, he strengthened and stilled his rebellious heart
with that defiant spirit which is the man's form of this youthful
feebleness. He gnashed his teeth, cast threatening glances up at the
tree-tops and the blue dome of the sky, and behaved himself generally
in a way so boyish, and so unworthy of the great statesman that Schnetz
believed he had detected in him, that even his horse, hearing his wild,
disconnected words, and the strange gnashing and raving by which they
were accompanied, looked up in amazement from his grazing, and turned
his head toward his rider with an expression of silent pity. "Is it any
fault of mine," he raved to himself, "that a ridiculous accident has
brought her to the very spot where I was on the point of beginning a
new life? Must I fly before her, like a fool, the moment this absurd
fate brings her near me again? The world is surely large enough for us
both; and yet now, though she knows why I have pitched my tent in this
particular place, she persists in haunting the immediate neighborhood,
so that I can't take a step outside the gates without running the risk
of meeting her. What am I saying? Why, I do not dare even to go out to
the lake! I am to be cut off from light and air, and left to smother in
the Munich dust! In other words, I am to condemn myself to perpetual
imprisonment for a crime of which I do not even repent. No! I owe
something to myself as well. Why shouldn't I show that I have put the
whole affair behind me once for all, and go on living as though certain
eyes were no longer in the world? Cannot one person ignore another?
Shall it last forever, this fear of ghosts? As if one couldn't go
around a street corner without meeting a dead and buried love!"--he
sprang up suddenly, smoothed his hair, and brushed the dust from his
coat--"and though her eyes should look down upon me from every window
in Starnberg," he cried, "I will ride through the town and laugh at all
these apparitions!"

So he swung himself into the saddle again, and rode over the few
remaining miles of his journey at a sharp trot. When at last a blue
strip of the lake sparkled through the tree-tops, and the houses of the
town came into view, a gray, starlit twilight had already settled down;
so that, after all, he could ride through the streets between the rows
of lighted windows, without any fear of being recognized.

Nevertheless, it was almost a relief to him when, upon inquiry at all
of the three inns, he was told that no room could be had for the night.
He thought at once of Rossel's little country house, of which he had
often heard his friends speak. As the way was described to him, he
could still arrive there in good time, and before his friends had gone
to bed. So he contented himself with a hasty drink after his sultry
ride through the woods, handed over his animal to a hostler, who
promised to take good care of it, and got under way again.

He had not had the heart to inquire for Irene's villa, though he had
thought for a moment of doing so--only that he might avoid it all the
more surely. But he did not allow her name to pass his lips. Clinching
his teeth, he went his way, past the garden fences and walls. The warm
night had enticed every living thing out into the open air. Under the
vines and in the summer-houses, on garden-benches and on balconies, old
and young sat, walked, and stood; and here and there one could hear the
clear but subdued sound of girlish laughter, as it suddenly burst forth
from whispered conversations or deep silence, like a rocket that starts
instantly from a humble fire-work into the dark heaven of night. Some
one was playing a cither, to which a man's voice sang a low
accompaniment; from another house a full soprano voice sang Schubert's
Erl King, to the loud music of a piano; and from yet another was heard
a violin concerto, with a clarionet _obbligato_. All harmonized as well
as the different voices of the birds in the woods, for the sounds were
softened and melted into one another by the sultry night air.
Involuntarily Felix stood still and listened.

As chance would have it, his eyes rested on a little house from which
came no sound of song or music, and which was overhung with exquisite
roses, while tall hollyhocks nodded over the garden-fence. In the upper
story was a room with a balcony, lit by a hanging-lamp. The door stood
wide open, but the brightly-lighted apartment beyond seemed to be quite
empty. Of a sudden, just as the clarionet was playing a solo, a shadow
entered the bright frame made by the balcony door. A slender, womanly
figure stood on the threshold for a moment, then stepped out in full
view and leaned over the balustrade. Her features could not be clearly
distinguished from the street, and the watcher below still hesitated to
believe his beating heart. But now the shadow moved, and turned its
face toward the bright door, as if some one in the room had called to
it. For a minute or two the outline of a clear-cut profile could be
seen sharply defined against the background of light. It was she!--his
beating heart had known her sooner than his open eyes; and now it beat
all the more wildly as the apparition disappeared into the room again
as quickly as it had come. So this was the place! Now he knew it--now
he could mark the house well, so that he might always carefully avoid
it by a wide _detour_. He trembled all over, and his feet would not at
first obey him, when he tried to tear himself away and continue his
wandering. In his excitement he missed the road that runs along by the
lake, and followed the side-road leading to the Seven Springs. It was
only when he reached that spot, and found himself in the midst of a
swampy thicket, that he became aware of his mistake. Then, with the
stars for his guides, he began to search his way back again. But once
more he lost the right track; the sweat rolled down his forehead. With
laboring breast he forced his way through the thick underbrush; and,
panting like a wounded stag, succeeded in reaching a glade from which
he could see the railway, and over beyond it, through the tree-tops,
the broad surface of the lake, glittering in the moonlight. A signalman
whom he met put him upon his way again. He saw that he had already gone
far beyond his goal, and his anxiety lest he should disturb his friend
by coming to him at so late an hour, quickened his steps. Thus it was
that he reached Edward's in the state in which we have already seen
him.

But the strength of his youth pulled him through all his troubles
overnight. He awoke in the morning with all his senses refreshed from
those bright dreams with which the soul, healing silently as her wont
is, had striven to restore her shaken balance. Nor did this bright
cheerfulness of the morning desert him when he was fully awake, and was
forced to admit that matters stood no better with him to-day than on
the day before. A feeling of courage made the blood course warmly
through his veins: a secret delight in life, and a quiet confidence
which he could not altogether destroy, and which was very different
from the boastful courage of the previous day. He opened the window and
stood for a long time breathings in the fresh fragrance of the firs.
Then he stepped before the easel, on which stood Kohle's cartoon
representing the first scene of his legend of Venus, a plan of which,
sketched in hasty outlines on a long roll of paper, lay near by. Felix
was enough of an artist to appreciate this singular conception, even
without an explanation; and, in his present romantic and excited state,
it attracted him wonderfully. He seated himself on the wooden stool
before the easel, and became absorbed in the contemplation of this
first sheet, which was now almost completed. The beautiful goddess,
leading her boy by the hand, had stepped half out of the shadow of a
wild and overgrown gorge, and was gazing wonderingly toward a city
which could be seen perched on a distant height, with Gothic
battlements and towers. A river, which wound around the base of the
hill, was spanned by a quaint old bridge, over which moved a long train
of merchants with heavily-laden wagons, accompanied by a few travelers.
A little further in the background was a shepherd-boy, stretched out on
the grass by the side of his flock, playing a reed pipe and gazing
dreamily up at the fleecy summer clouds. The figures were sharply and
almost harshly outlined, but there was a certain dignity in the whole,
that aided in heightening the fantastic charm of the conception, and
in holding the thoughts of the observer aloof from the realities of
every-day life.

Felix was still lost--as if in a second morning dream--in the
contemplation of this fairy world, when he heard a cautious step creep
up the narrow stairway, and stop at his door. He cried "come in," and
could not help laughing when he caught sight of Kohle's honest face
peering in with an expression as if he feared to find a man in the last
stages of illness. Upon his informing his amazed friend that he was in
excellent health, and that the picture of the goddess had probably
worked this miracle, the artist's features lighted up, and he began,
bright morning as it was, to speak of his work in the same spirit of
high-strung enthusiasm in which he had fallen asleep the night before,
and to give his explanation of the sketches, which, when unrolled,
extended across the whole breadth of the studio. Then the fact that
Rossel had given him leave to make use of the walls of the dining-room,
and had even offered to assist in the painting, had to be communicated
to Felix. Then, at last, he told him about the others; how they had
risen long ago, and, without waiting for breakfast, had started off for
Starnberg--Rosenbusch on matters connected with their love affairs,
and in order to make arrangements for effecting a meeting in the
afternoon; while Elfinger, who was passionately fond of fishing, had
gone to a trout-brook near the Seven Springs, with whose owner he was
acquainted--for he insisted upon contributing his share to the day's
dinner. The master of the house himself never made his appearance
before nine or ten o'clock. He was in the habit of taking his
breakfast, and of smoking and reading, in bed; declaring that even then
the day was much too long for him not to shorten it by any legitimate
stratagem.

But Kohle had not yet finished what he was saying when the stairs once
more began to creak, this time under a slower and more ponderous tread.
Contrary to his usual habit, Fat Rossel had turned out early, in order
to make inquiries concerning Felix's condition. He had not even taken
time to complete his toilet, but came in his dressing-gown, his bare
feet thrust into his slippers. He was perceptibly relieved when Felix,
looking fresh and bright again, advanced to meet him and shook his
hand, really touched that his anxious friend should have sacrificed his
comfort for his sake.

"There are good fellows still left in this wretched world," he cried;
"and I should be a villain indeed to make their lives uncomfortable. It
is true, my friends, all within and about me is not just as it should
be. But whoever shall see me drawing down the corners of my mouth and
making a long face to-day, let him call me a Nazarene and break his
maulstick over my back."

Rossel nodded his head thoughtfully at these words, for this sudden
change in the young man's mood did not appear quite natural to him;
however, he did not say a word, but seated himself on the stool before
the easel--having first laid a pillow on it--in order to study Kohle's
designs.

"Hm--hm! So--so! Fine--fine!" were the only critical remarks which he
uttered for the space of a quarter of an hour. Then, however, he began
to go into details, and, as he did so, all the strange traits of his
nature came into view.

For, just as his own fancy was inexhaustible in raising buds that never
bore fruit, so too, in regard to the works of others, he had gradually
lost the faculty of patiently following the slow maturing of a thought
in accordance with the inherent laws and quiet workings of Nature. For
young people especially he was dangerous, for he first excited them
powerfully, and led them in a perfect reel through a world of artistic
problems; and then, the moment they went to work in earnest upon a
particular task, his keenness and superior knowledge disgusted them
with the subject they had taken up, by demonstrating to them a variety
of other ways and methods in which the theme might be treated even more
happily. Then, if they decided to destroy what they had begun, and
begin anew according to one of the ways suggested, they found
themselves no better off than before, since the one decisive and final
solution always receded farther and farther into unattainable distance.
In this way they lost all disposition to strike out boldly and
energetically; became hair-splitters and theorists after the style of
their master; or, if they did not possess enough mind or money for
this, they gave themselves up in their desperation to mere mechanical
work, which they pursued in secret, taking good care never to knock
again at the door of their former oracle with a question about art.

"There is no one who sees into a picture, or out of it again, as
quickly as Rossel," Jansen had once said, and Felix now had an
unusually good opportunity of observing the force of this remark, in
the manner in which Rossel examined Kohle's designs. For since, in this
case, the critic was himself to lend a helping hand, his fancy was even
more active than usual in rearranging what had been done, in order that
it might, as far as possible, appropriate the picture to itself. How
the light effect was to be arranged for every picture, what problems of
color would enter into the question, how Giorgione would probably have
composed the background, and what effect it would have if, for
instance, the whole first scene should be transposed from broad day
into evening twilight--all these questions were weighed in the most
serious fashion; while all the while the position of the figures, the
way in which the space was divided, and the landscape, were so
mercilessly changed about, that finally the new conception of the work
had scarcely anything in common with the original plan, except the mere
subject.

Nor was even this last point to be regarded as definitely settled, but
was merely to be looked upon as a basis for further consideration. But,
while Kohle's face kept growing longer and more anxious, that of his
fellow-laborer beamed with growing satisfaction. Every muscle in it
quivered with intellectual life, and his black eyes flashed with
genuine enthusiasm from beneath his white forehead. When finally he
rose, he extended his arms above his head and cried:

"There is nothing finer than a good work which has been taken hold of
at the right end. You shall see, Kohle--the thing will go. I take such
pleasure in it that I would begin to-day--at once, if it didn't happen
to be Sunday and I had not, before all things, to play the attentive
host. However, you will have quite enough to do in making the changes
in the cartoon. In the meanwhile I will assist my household dragon in
composing a bill of fare--a thing which will take more thought, let me
tell you, than even our dame Venus."

As soon as he had gone the two looked at one another, and Felix could
not help bursting into a loud laugh, in which poor Kohle joined--at
least with a pathetic smile.

"Now you see what comes of being too wise about anything," said he,
regarding his sketch with a sigh. "When, in my stupidity, I went
straight on following my _certa idea_, or even my nose, something
came of it at all events. But after these criticisms, which were,
by-the-way, all excellent and capital and appropriate, I am afraid the
whole thing will go to the deuce again! If it were not for the
beautiful wall down stairs I would tell him candidly that so ill-mated
a span--as ill-matched as an ox and horse--would never drag the plough
very far. Better to let the lean horse do the work alone, even though
the furrows should not be quite so smooth. Alas, alas, alas! My poor
dame Venus!"




                              CHAPTER IV.


Nevertheless, the creative instinct was too powerful in him to let his
depression at the interference of this eternal waverer affect him long,
or sap his strength. In the very midst of his upbraiding, after he had
angrily thrown the first sheet into a corner, he took a second frame of
card-board, and began to sketch the scene where the homeless beauty,
with her naked boy, is standing at the gate of the convent, surrounded
by the staring nuns, whose looks and attitudes express doubt and
suspicion. Felix threw himself on his couch again, and lay smoking,
rarely throwing in a word, as he watched every movement of the other's
hand. The proximity of this man, who was self-reliant, so humble, and
yet so constantly striving at some lofty aim, exercised a singularly
soothing influence upon Felix's restless soul. He confessed this, when
Kohle began to express surprise that any one should leave the town,
head over heels in this way, and rush into the country, in order, when
he arrived there, to shut himself up in a sunless garret room, and look
on while a man painfully trundled his barrow over a hard road, toward a
goal of art which is generally supposed to have long since been left
behind.

"My dear Kohle," he said, "only let me stay here. I should like very
much to learn something from you which would be of more benefit to me
than a walk or a bath in the lake--namely, your art of knowing just
what you want, and of wanting nothing which you cannot have. Was this
art born in you, or have you gradually acquired it, and paid your
instruction-fee for it, as for other arts?'

"The best part of it is inborn," answered Kohle, quietly going on with
his sketching. "You must know that I came into this world as poor as a
church-mouse, and endowed with so small a proportion of all the goods
and gifts that fall to the share of so-called fortunate mortals, the
first-born and favorite children of Mother Nature, that, in my boyhood,
I had little pleasure in life, and would have parted with it very
cheaply. But then I discovered that I possessed something which
out-weighed all the glittering treasures in the world--such as beauty,
wealth, wit, or great intellect. I mean the ability to dream with my
eyes wide open, and to interpret my dreams for myself. The actual
world, with its joys and splendors, was as good as closed against a
poor devil like myself. How could such a wretched creature as this
Philip Emanuel Kohle, this lean, yellow ragamuffin in poor clothes, who
stumbled awkwardly through the world, and who could neither fascinate
women nor impress men, have the impudence to take his place at the
bounteous table at which the children of fortune felt at home? So I
held myself aloof, and earnestly and zealously set to work to evolve a
second world from my dreams--one which belonged to me, and from which
no one could bid me depart--a world which was far more beautiful,
sublime, and perfect, than the actual world about me. And as I
wasted no time or strength on anything else--neither in wretched
money-getting, nor in foolish ambition, nor even in hopeless love
affairs--my nature grew up straight and true, and in the greatest
development of which it was capable, which is by no means the case with
every one; and I could not help laughing in my sleeve, when I noticed
that I passed among my friends for a simpleton and a narrow-minded
fool. The truth is, my simpleness was the very thing that contributed
most to my secret contentment, when I saw how seldom the manifold
desires and restless striving of others led to happiness. '_Chi troppo
abbraccia, nulla stringe_,' say the wise Italians. I embrace nothing
but my art; but I embrace it the more passionately because it exists
for me alone. There you have the whole secret. There is a juster
apportionment of good and evil in this world than we are willing to
admit in our hours of depression."

Felix was silent. It was on the tip of his tongue to say that he envied
him. Yet he felt at once how thoroughly right this quiet man was in his
last assertion. He felt that he would not, for all the peace in the
world, have given up his own miserable condition; for, at the same time
that it gave him the keenest anguish, it brought with it the certainty
that so charming a creature as his lost love was still in the world,
and had been brought so painfully near to him again.

When noon came, they were called down into the garden by the
white-haired old woman, who, in her sober moments, was a most excellent
and active servant. The table was laid in a shady arbor near the house.
Rosenbusch and the actor had returned from their different expeditions;
the latter with a basket full of excellent trout, and the other
with a face which showed plainly enough that he too had not come
back unsuccessfully but had gained all he had promised himself from
his morning walk. He was in full gala-dress, consisting of his
violet-colored velvet coat, a white waistcoat, and a gigantic Panama
hat, beneath which his hair and his red beard, which had been shorn to
so little purpose, had already begun to sprout again. His honest,
merry, handsome face was radiant with good-humor; and as Elfinger did
his best to be entertaining, and Felix to make up for the alarm he had
occasioned on the previous day, the meal was enlivened by all sorts of
jollity and good stories.

Nor was there, for that matter, any lack of more substantial dainties;
and Kohle, who had voluntarily taken upon himself the office of butler,
ran out every few minutes to fetch up another dusty bottle; for Rossel,
who was a light drinker himself, had a sort of passion for collecting
the rarest brands of wine in his cellar, if only a small supply of
each. It was not long before the programme which had been prepared for
the afternoon leaked out. They proposed to row over to Starnberg in
Rossel's pretty little boat, to land there, and then, while strolling
along the shore, to encounter, as if by pure accident, the two sisters,
who were to go out with their aunt, under the pretext of taking a walk.
Then, upon a polite invitation, they were all to get into the boat
again together, and be rowed out upon the lake, in whichever direction
circumstances and the mood of the moment might suggest.

Rossel pronounced this plan to be very wisely conceived, but flatly
refused to take part in it. He had an aversion, founded on principle,
to all pic-nics, especially where there were ladies whom one was
obliged to treat with politeness and consideration, relinquishing to
them the most comfortable places and the daintiest morsels. For lovers
this was no sacrifice, since they could indemnify themselves in other
ways. But such a restraint could not be imposed upon free and
independent natures without great injustice. He would, therefore,
remain at home until the day grew cooler, and study Regis's translation
of Rabelais, which he had long had in mind to illustrate. Toward
evening he would stroll into the wood in order to take a look at his
mushroom-bed; for he had made it his especial task to forward the
culture of the mushroom in the woods about Starnberg, as well as the
general improvement and introduction of all edible fungi. Then, when
they came home late at night, intoxicated with sour beer and sweet
words, a supper should await them that would be "worth the toil of
princes."

Felix, too, would gladly have remained behind. But there was no way for
him to do this without betraying his secret. And, besides, what else
could he do to quiet his secret yearning--since it was impossible for
him to approach her by daylight? He secretly consoled himself by the
thought that, when they returned, late in the evening, he would creep
to the garden-fence again, and watch the bright room leading off the
balcony.

Philip Emanuel Kohle's feeble attempt to excuse himself, because of his
bashfulness in ladies' society, was clamorously voted down. As he was,
moreover, the only one of the party who carried a chart of the lake in
his head, he could not find it in his heart to desert his friends.

There was a thunder-storm in the air, but it looked as though it had
come to a halt in the west, and would pass off harmlessly. The sky was
dark and lowering, and the lake was as smooth as a mirror, when the
light but roomy boat shot out of the little bay. Rossel stood on the
shore, waving his handkerchief and fez. Kohle sat at the tiller,
Elfinger rowed, and Rosenbusch, as they glided along past the green
banks, took advantage of the permit Rossel had given him, to play upon
his flute some of his most pastoral melodies--doubly melting this time,
for he was on his way to his sweetheart's side, and to Heaven knows
what romantic adventures.




                               CHAPTER V.


They had scarcely landed at the end of the lake when they saw in the
distance the three figures they were looking for, strolling slowly
along the road that circled the shore. When within hailing distance,
the prearranged farce of a chance meeting and recognition was played
with the utmost seriousness, and it was impossible to detect, from the
godmother's manner, whether she had accepted a _role_ in the comedy, or
whether she innocently believed that the two gentlemen who lived
opposite the sisters in the city had merely seized this opportunity to
exchange a word or two with their lovely neighbors for the first time.
The girls bore themselves in accordance with their respective
characters--the elder quiet and sparing of words, the younger gay and
coquettish even to audacity. They were dressed charmingly, and indeed
almost elegantly; but Fanny wore dark ribbons, while Nanny's little hat
was adorned with a red rose and trimmings of the same color. The
battle-painter had warned the good Kohle at the dinner-table against
the godmother, as a pious creature, enthusiastic about art and
notorious for enticing into her net innocent young painters of a
serious turn of mind. But she was, in fact, a pleasant little soul
enough, far on in the thirties. She had lost her husband, a well-to-do
confectioner, shortly after their marriage, and was fond of protesting,
with many sighs, that she never, never could forget him. A Gothic
temple, made of sugar and adorned with numerous figures of saints,
which he had made for their marriage, as a sort of triumph of his art,
still stood in a state of good preservation under a glass case upon her
sideboard. Nevertheless rumor said of her that she had not always
harshly repulsed the numerous offers she had received as a widow,
though she had been too wise to give the slightest cause for public
gossip. Certain ecclesiastical gentlemen, who were in the habit of
going in and out of her house, gave her the best certificate of
character; and though she did not close her door to young artists, she
took care to see that they were proper, respectable people, who painted
church pictures with long robes, and did not wear their shirt-collars
after the fashion of too erratic genius; and that they held aloof from
all pagan theories of art. To this godly way of life she owed it that
her own godmother, the glove-maker's wife, had trusted her with "the
children" for a day, although some malicious people pretended to think
that to go gadding into the country was not exactly the thing for
well-preserved widows.

She was quite modestly dressed, but yet in such a way that her figure,
already somewhat inclined to _embonpoint_, was shown to the best
advantage. In her manner she kept a wise mean between the severe
dignity which a God-fearing woman of an uncertain age usually maintains
toward youthful giddiness, and a too free approval of the pranks that
danced through her godchild's head. At the same time she did not try to
keep the silent Felix from knowing that his slim, manly form had made
an impression on her; though she was wise enough to do it so slyly as
to give a motherly sort of aspect to her interest in him. It was only
when the ungrateful man, whose poor soul was quite unconscious of its
conquest, continued to walk at her side in complacent abstraction,
casting furtive glances all around to see whether he was running
directly in the way of her whom he must especially avoid--then only did
she withdraw her favor from him and bestow it upon the insignificant
Kohle, whom Rosenbusch had introduced to her as a painter of the
severest style, a disciple of the great Cornelius, and one whom she
needed only to make a better Christian in order to win in him a new
pillar of ecclesiastical art. Kohle submitted to it all with a most
patient smile, and really began to pay pronounced attention to this
stately creature as well as he knew how, merely that he might not seem
to stand in the way of the others' sport.

They had been strolling up and down the shore for about a quarter of an
hour in this way, when, as if without the slightest premeditation, the
proposal was made that they should take an excursion on the water; a
proposal which was accepted after a good deal of well-acted hesitation
on the part of the godmother, and much entreating and flattering and
coaxing on the part of the blonde Nanny.

Soon afterward the boat, with its merry freight, shot out upon the
sunny lake, rowed now by Felix, who had had occasion to exercise this
noble art on many waters of the Old World and the New. Kohle sat at the
tiller and thought only of his dame Venus, notwithstanding the nearness
of the beautiful art-enthusiast who was opposite him. The two pairs of
lovers occupied the middle seats, Elfinger gazing devotedly on the
lovely face of his neighbor, who let her little white hand trail
through the green water, and seemed to-day to enjoy the beauty of this
world with all her heart. She held a large sunshade over her head in
such a way that her companion might also profit by its shade; the first
favor she had ever bestowed upon him, and one which made its modest
recipient very happy. Her vivacious sister, on the other hand,
maintained that Rosenbusch's great hat was really a family straw-hat,
and could afford protection against sunstroke to a whole ship's crew.
She freely exposed her laughing face to the sun, bound a white
handkerchief to her sunshade, which she planted like a flagstaff
between herself and her adorer, and declared that she was looking
forward with great pleasure to the storm which was undoubtedly about to
burst forth and bury them all in the depths of the lake, with the
exception of those who could swim--swimming being a great passion of
her own. She also offered to save one of the others, only it must not
be Rosenbusch, whose velvet coat was too heavy, and would certainly
drag down its owner.

Aunt Babette--for this was the godmother's name--attempted now and then
to give her a reproving glance. But, as no one took the slightest
notice of this, she made up her mind to become young and worldly again
herself, particularly as the heat made all restraint doubly burdensome.
She unwound the lace shawl from her round shoulders, drew off her
gloves and untied her ribbons, so that she looked in her _neglige_
almost as young and certainly as full of life as the serious Fanny. She
laughed even louder than the two girls at the jests and tricks which
Rosenbusch displayed for their amusement. He was celebrated for his
power of mimicking the whirring of a quail, the cackling of a hen, and
the noise of a saw. He told long and ridiculous stories in different
dialects, and delivered a sermon, with the most solemn pulpit
utterance, in a senseless jargon which he gave out to be English. But
his great masterpiece was a pantomimic scene representing nuns praying
at their nightly devotions. To do this he bound a handkerchief round
his head, and wrapped himself up in a lady's cloak so that only his
eyes, the tip of his nose, and his hands-folded over his breast--were
left visible, and then began with hypocritical zeal and constant change
of expression to roll his eyes and nod his head and murmur over his
rosary, now as an antiquated, dozing nun, who kept dropping off to
sleep between her prayers; now as a deeply contrite and extravagantly
penitent sinner, and again as a well-to-do sister, grown gray in the
convent, who had long since learned to regard the matter from its
practical side, and refrained from unnecessary exertion, but strove
from time to time to keep up her spirits by taking a stolen pinch of
snuff.

This amateur exhibition had worked so irresistibly that even the worthy
godmother nearly lost her balance from laughter, and had to be
supported by Kohle; and it was only when the show had come to an end
that it seemed to strike the conscience of its mischievous author that
he might possibly have offended Elfinger's devout _fiancee_ by this
absurd parody. Whereupon, assuming an air of mock contrition, he begged
a thousand pardons of Fraeulein Fanny, while in secret he reckoned it as
a good work to have given her a foretaste of the joys that awaited her.
Then, as if in penance for his offense, he suddenly began to play the
"_O Sanctissima_" upon his flute, with such beauty and pathos that even
the wild Nanny grew serious, and began to sing a gentle accompaniment,
in which her sister joined.

It rang out sweetly over the lonely, brooding stillness of the lake, so
that they did not end with this first song, but followed each other
with their favorite airs.

Elfinger sang an excellent tenor, and took great pains to make his song
strike home to the heart of his lovely neighbor. The two rowers alone
were dumb, though they had drawn in their oars upon getting well out
upon the water. Kohle had no more voice than a crow, and Felix felt as
if his breast were encircled by the seven girdles of the legend.

As they floated along thus peacefully and quietly, a west wind sprung
up, and carried them unnoticed toward the opposite shore, where a
much-frequented garden-restaurant smiled on them from out the verdure
of a gently-sloping bank. Elfinger proposed that they should land here
and drink some coffee--a suggestion to which no one had an objection to
offer. And while they drifted slowly toward the shore he closed the
entertainment with a song which Rosenbusch had once written for one of
their feasts in "Paradise." It went to the tune of a popular melody,
and the author accompanied it skillfully on his flute.




                              CHAPTER VI.


While the few stanzas of the song were sung, they had approached so
close to the bank that the people in the garden, where a mixed Sunday
company was collected, could hear the flute, and could even catch the
words. Some of the guests had left their places in order to take a
nearer look at the musicians; and as Rosenbusch had a large circle of
acquaintances, he was enthusiastically greeted on all sides. With an
air of complacent self-importance, he conducted his lady, who was
suddenly overcome with fear lest she too might be recognized and
reported to her father, to the only table which was still unoccupied.
The others followed; Felix alone remained behind for a few minutes at
the boat to repair some trifling damage to the rudder.

Then, as he started after his friends, seeking them in the crowd from
table to table, until he finally caught sight of Nanny's coquettish
little hat with the red rose by the side of the white "family straw" of
her cavalier--what was it that made him suddenly stand still in the
scorching sun, with his eyes fixed upon a little summerhouse, in which
six persons were sitting about a round table?

It was the shadiest spot in the garden, and the party within had caused
it to be distinctly understood that they had no intention of admitting
any others, by occupying all the chairs that were still vacant with
their hats, umbrellas, and canes. Nearest the entrance, like a sentry,
sat the tall, lank figure of the lieutenant, in his well-known
riding-coat; and at his side a slender young lady with downcast eyes,
as if, in the midst of all this confused buzz and hum of conversation,
she were occupied only with her own thoughts.

Just then Schnetz addressed some remark to her, and she looked up and
let her glance wander over the garden. Thus it happened that her gaze
met that of the young man who was standing so conspicuously in the sun.
It is true, he instantly lowered his eyes; but he had already been
recognized, and could no longer think of retreating unnoticed. Besides,
at that very moment he felt himself touched on the arm by Kohle, who
had been up to the restaurant in the mean while to order coffee.

"What are you standing here for?" cried his busy friend. "Come and help
me entertain the Frau godmother, who is boring me to death with her
talk about the black Madonna in Altoetting, just from pure spite because
you play St. Anthony to her."

Felix stammered out a few unintelligible words and allowed himself to
be dragged away. The chair which they had reserved next to Aunt Babette
stood, fortunately, with its back toward the summer-house. But scarcely
had he seated himself in it when Rosenbusch began: "Have you seen our
lieutenant, baron? This respected amphibion is taking his dry day
to-day among the nobler fowl, and appears, to judge from his
disconsolate air, to be gazing with longing at our moist element. What
a joke it would be if I should go up and beg him to introduce me to the
old countess and the young baroness! The latter would probably remember
having met me at that _soiree_ at the Russian lady's, where you left me
to make love to her alone."

Whereupon he gave the girls and their godmother a detailed account of
the musical entertainment, and of his conversation with Irene. Little
Nanny, who had possibly been infected by some of papa's prejudices in
regard to art, should be made to understand how highly a battle-painter
is regarded in the highest social circles, and what an enviable
position would be accorded to her as his wife. But the lively girl did
not appear to form a very exalted idea of his success.

"Are you quite sure, Herr Rosenbusch," she said, "that they recognized
you again? The beautiful Fraeulein scarcely moved her head when you took
off your hat to her, as though she meant to say, 'You are undoubtedly
mistaken in the person, sir.'"

"It was merely her surprise, and a passing feeling of displeasure at
seeing me approach in such charming company. She may have attributed
too much meaning to the pretty speeches I made to her that night. These
high-born Fraeuleins are devilish sensitive, and for that reason I now
refrain from speaking to her. But why don't you go over and introduce
yourself to the ladies, my dear baron--you who have blue blood as well
as they?"

Just at this moment Schnetz, in all his lankness, stepped up to their
table and greeted the ladies with formal politeness, at the same time
shaking hands with his friends. The fact that he should meet Felix here
did not seem to strike him as strange.

"You happy mortals!" he growled out, biting his cigar, and pulling his
hat down lower over his forehead, while he withdrew a little distance
from the rest with Felix and Elfinger. "You all get on so capitally
together, and it does one good to hear you laugh so heartily; while we
are keeping up the usual sort of conventional twaddle, which consists,
upon my soul, in each one's saying nothing which the others could not
have said as well. They have just been wondering, behind my back, that
I should have anything whatever to do with you people, whom they look
upon as _mauvais genre_. A few artists and two pretty girls, at whose
papa's Madame the Countess buys her gloves--_quelle horreur!_ But the
ladies are not so bad; even the young countess, with the fixed dimples
in her highly-colored cheeks--by Heaven! little Fanny over there looks
ten times as much like a countess--even she is a good child, _au fond_,
and the right sort of a husband might still make something of her. But
as for that cousin of hers, to whom she is as good as engaged, and the
other young nobleman, with the imperial and the heavy manner--between
ourselves, he is dead in love with my little princess, who scarcely
honors him with a look--_tonnerre de Dieu!_ what nice specimens they
are of our high-born youth! And to think of my being condemned to go
about among them without treading on their toes! Thus are the sins of
the fathers visited upon the children! The first Schnetz who, whether
as marshal or hostler, helped an Agilolfinger into the saddle, has it
on his conscience that I, the unworthiest of his descendants, still
belong with the rest of them, hard as I try to make myself disagreeable
and even unbearable."

They agreed to meet again in the evening at Rossel's villa, and then
returned to their respective parties. But our friends soon grew
impatient of quietly sitting at table over their coffee. The
neighboring wood invited the lovers where they could be free from
chaperonage, and Aunt Babette was paying too close attention to an
exposition of art by the "interesting young man," as she called Kohle,
to take any heed of the fact that Rosebud and Nanny occasionally
disappeared from view entirely, while Fanny anxiously insisted upon not
getting out of sight of the others.

Felix soon lost himself in a lonely side-path. His heart was hot within
him, and wild plans chased one another through his brain. He realized
only too well that matters could not go on in this way; that this state
of indecision _after_ the decision would soon drive him to despair. If
the old world really was not large enough for him to avoid one woman
in, the ocean must separate them again, and this time forever. What he
was to do over there; how he could justify his resolution to Jansen, or
reconcile it with his choice of art as a profession, or with his own
pride, were questions which were still enveloped in darkness. But as
for tamely submitting, and allowing himself to be made a fool of by
capricious fortune, which seemed as if it had deliberately set itself
to work to bring the two lovers together on every possible occasion--to
this he would never consent!

Whether he himself had not played into the hands of chance a little,
yesterday, was a question he did not ask.

A distant peal of thunder, rolling toward him from the west, suddenly
roused him from these confused and bitter thoughts. The sky above the
tree-tops was still blue, but was overcast by that light, lead-colored
haze which precedes an approaching storm. There was no time to waste if
they wanted to get across the lake before the storm should break. For
already the air held its breath so utterly that not a leaf rustled on
the trees, and not even the note of a bird was heard. The lake, along
the banks of which Felix was hastening, was still unruffled by a breath
of wind; but its mid-waters were black with the reflection of the
heavy, low-hanging cloud that spread over the heaven like a gigantic
slab hewn from a single block of slate. Behind it, the bright sunlight
still glowed on the horizon, and the distant mountain chain shone out
in the delicate green of spring, as if bathed in eternal peace.

The approach of the storm had been observed by the people in the
garden, and most of the guests had been prudent enough to embark on the
steamboat which had just left, and was now half-way over to Starnberg.
But by the time Felix had joined his friends again it was too late for
them to choose this shorter way. Besides, Rossel's villa was a good
deal nearer than the Starnberg station, and Rosenbusch, who always had
his head full of adventures, was already dreaming of the improvised
quarters for the night, which should be prepared for the ladies in the
dining-room. He took very good care, however, not to give utterance to
these romantic projects, but merely urged a hasty departure, in order
that they might escape the rain.

When they reached the landing-place, they found Schnetz and his party
engaged in an annoying scene.

The young boatman who had rowed them over flatly refused to start on
the return trip, in view of the storm that threatened to break upon
them at any moment. The boat was too heavily loaded to get over the
water quickly, and his master had given him a bad pair of oars, the
good ones having been sent off with another boat early in the morning.
The gentlemen might offer him what they liked, but he would not make
the trip; he knew what he was saying, and what it meant "when the lake
and the sky came so near together."

One of the young gentlemen was addressing the lad--who was a
neatly-dressed young fellow, and wished, perhaps, to spare his Sunday
clothes--in rough and imperious tones, commanding him to obey without
further parley, and to leave the responsibility to them. The lake was
as smooth as a mirror, and there was so little wind that the storm
might very likely be an hour in reaching them. But when, upon the
boatman's remaining obstinate, he tried to wrench the oar from the
defiant fellow's hand, saying that, if a lout like him had no pluck, he
might at least get out of the way and take himself to the devil--all
the man's pent-up fury and insulted _amour propre_ burst out; with an
angry answer in the most forcible epithets of his country dialect, he
threw the oar at the young count's feet, took his jacket out of the
boat, and, with a malicious grin, wishing the company a pleasant
journey, started off toward the highway which winds along by the
lake-shore.

"The thunder-storm comes just right for him," said the waiter-girl, who
had been attracted to the spot by the quarrel, and who now stood gazing
after the angry fellow as he hurried away. "The ladies and gentlemen
mustn't think that Hiesl had started to run back to his father's on
foot; he knew well enough there was going to be a wedding celebrated in
Ambach, and had been impatient to get there for some time; for the
red-haired waiter-girl in the tavern there had completely turned his
head, and all because she wouldn't have anything to do with him--though
he would marry her on the spot if she would take him, and he was not
one to be sneezed at either, and was earning a good living too. So he
had caught at the pretext that the storm would be upon them before the
party could get back to Starnberg again, and was on his way as fast as
his legs would carry him, so as to get to Ambach, which was nearly an
hour from here, with a dry skin. Oh! these men!"

She seemed to think it very foolish for him to run so far, when he
could find all he wanted close at hand. But in reply to their question,
whether there really was so much danger of the storm, she gave the most
comforting assurances; it might not reach them for several hours yet,
and, very likely, if a wind should spring up it would pass over
altogether.

The young count, who now regarded it as a matter of honor to undertake
the trip and to outshine the obstinate boor by his superior skill as a
boatman, allayed all the old countess's doubts and fears; and the young
people did not shrink from a trifling lake-storm, particularly as
Schnetz, who was filled with horror at the bare thought of staying here
overnight, declared that there was not the slightest reason for
anxiety. He himself would take charge of the tiller as he had done when
they came out, and in half an hour they would undoubtedly be landed
safe and sound at the opposite bank.

The whole scene had taken place so near the spot where the artists and
their companions stood, that not a word had escaped them. They were,
however, in even less of a humor to let themselves be frightened by the
distant growling of the heavens, and had already rowed out quite a
little distance into the lake before the more aristocratic boat shoved
off from shore. Felix bent to his oar with redoubled energy in order to
put as much water as possible between himself and his beloved enemy,
and it looked as though they would reach the opposite shore in half the
time usually needed for the passage.

Nevertheless, it was strange that on this return voyage such a deep
silence should have succeeded to the high spirits with which they had
first rowed over. Even Rosenbusch said nothing, but contented himself
with casting the most eloquent glances at his sweetheart, who now sat
silent and pensive, with her head resting on her sister's shoulder.
Elfinger and his beloved looked away from one another down into the
dark water; and only Aunt Babette gave a little scream from time to
time when a vivid flash of lightning tore zigzag through the blue-black
clouds, and illuminated the woods on the bank in a green, ghastly
glare.

The young nobleman in the other boat pulled a good oar. He was a
handsome, chivalrous young fellow, who certainly did not deserve the
contempt with which Schnetz had spoken of him. In order that the ladies
who had intrusted themselves to his care might be landed in safety as
soon as possible, he sought to overtake the other boat, in spite of its
lead. But his powerful exertions came to an end in a very unexpected
way. One of the oars, rotten with age, suddenly broke short off in the
middle; and at the same instant the first gust of wind swept with a
melancholy howl across the surface of the lake, which, as if
transformed by the touch of a magician's wand, began suddenly to surge
like a miniature raging ocean.

Schnetz rose from his seat at the tiller.

"I entreat the ladies not to prove false to the coolness they have thus
far shown, because of this little accident," he said. "We could
undoubtedly get across even without a second oar. But to have one will
be better. I will inquire of my artist friends over yonder if they
haven't one to spare."

He wore a little metal whistle, suspended by a green cord from a button
on his waistcoat. With this he piped a sort of boatswain's signal.

Elfinger started. "That is Roland's call!" he said, seriously. "What
can he want of us?"

Felix raised his oar from the water; the two boats approached one
another.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Schnetz, "allow me, first of all, to make
you acquainted with one another, as well as such a thing can be done on
such a rocking floor, and without the customary bows. I have the honor,
ladies, to introduce you to my friend Baron Felix von Weiblingen, who
has just deserted a diplomatic career for the liberal arts, and, as you
perceive, knows how to handle the oar as skillfully as the chisel and
modeling-tool. Herr Graf ----, Herr Baron ----, Messieurs Rosenbusch
and Elfinger--the ladies, I understand, are already known to one
another. Look here, baron, can't you help us out with an oar? One of
ours has come to grief. We have suffered a slight shipwreck."

Felix stood up. Although the waves rocked the little boat violently,
his slender, powerful figure stood out strong and erect against the
black, stormy sky. At the approach of danger he had recovered all his
coolness and confidence, qualities which he had often enough had a
chance to test in his adventurous journeyings through the solitudes of
the New World. Even the face opposite him in the other boat, the pale
oval framed by the hood of a gray cloak from beneath which straggled a
brown lock--even the glance of those eyes, which preferred to gaze down
into the dark, tempestuous depths rather than to meet his--nothing
could shake his coolness now when the time had come for him to show
himself master of the moment.

"We carry a few extra oars with us, it is true," he shouted back,
raising his voice, for the storm began to howl louder and louder. "But
I should prefer to help you with them in our own boat--Elfinger is an
excellent oarsman--and to fasten your craft to ours. Then we will take
you in tow, and the passage will be much safer and quicker; for your
boat is a flat-bottomed, badly-built affair, without keel or cut-water,
and all you gentlemen are in it for the first time."

"Agreed!" roared Schnetz in return. "Let us connect ourselves with our
_remorqueur_ with all possible speed, and then _vogue la galere!_"

Rossel's well-equipped craft had, fortunately, a good supply of ropes
at hand, so that Kohle, from his seat at the stern, soon drew the
drifting boat up to his own and made it fast with a firm knot. Then
Felix and Elfinger bent to their oars, and their four strong arms
seemed to drive the two boats as if in sport over the raging surface of
the water.

Not a word was spoken in either vessel. To the countess's whispered
question to Irene: whether this young baron belonged to the well-known
Weiblingens in D----, there came no answer. The young countess had
grown as pale as her high-colored complexion would permit. Her cousin
sought to conceal his ill-humor at the accident, by trying to light a
cigar; but the wind was too much for him. In the first boat, too, a
breathless silence reigned. Rosenbusch alone bent over from time to
time, and whispered a few words to his blonde sweetheart, but they were
lost forever in the storm. The gale raged above their heads with
increasing fury, lightning and thunder burst almost continuously from
the black clouds, and the blast, as it whirled the tumult through the
sky, seemed so violent that the clouds had no time to dissolve in rain.
All around the shore lay wrapped in darkness, and in the south, where
gusts of rain mingled the sky and lake together, every trace of the
mountain line had disappeared.

Suddenly Felix's voice made itself heard at the extreme end of the
little flotilla: "I think it advisable, Schnetz, for us to change our
course. Otherwise we shall tire ourselves out pulling against this
head-wind without making any progress westward. In spite of all our
exertions, we haven't reached the middle of the lake yet, and, as we
may expect a deluge at any moment, I would propose, in the interest of
the ladies, that we turn about and try to reach the land quickly at any
price. What do you say?"

"That we have no voice whatever in the matter!" Schnetz shouted back.
"In a storm the captain commands upon his own responsibility! and with
that, enough said!"

A strong shove of the tiller showed that Kohle had decided in favor of
silent obedience. The good effects of the change were felt immediately;
for now the two boats, sailing with the current and the wind, skimmed
as though with wings over the high waves.

But they already had been driven too far toward the south to reach
their old harbor again. When they had approached near enough to the
bank to distinguish trees and houses, they saw a scene which they did
not recognize--an inn close upon the lake, from whose windows streamed
a bright light and the merry sound of dance-music.

"We have arrived just in time for the wedding," growled Schnetz. "If we
don't go to the devil first, we can while away the time by dancing--the
best way to get rid of all the bad effects of our fright. May I have
the honor, countess, of engaging you for a cotillion?"

The old lady, who had been suffering the keenest alarm, and had
secretly made all sorts of vows to her patron saints, drew a long
breath of relief, and said, laughing nervously: "If anything had
happened to us, _mon cher_ Schnetz, your godlessness would have been to
blame for sending so many good people to the bottom. Well, _Dieu soit
loue, nous voila sains et saufs._ Melanie, your hair is atrociously
disordered. How have you borne it, my dear Irene?"

"I was not afraid. Still I shall be glad to get on shore."

And, indeed, just at this moment, the rain-drops began to fall one by
one on the broad surface of the lake.

Another quarter of an hour of vigorous work at the oars and the
foremost boat passed through the surf of the flat shore and ran up on
the beach. Felix sprang on shore and helped out the sisters and the
godmother. When it came to the turn of the party in the other boat, he
left to his friends the duty of setting the ladies ashore dry-shod,
while he busied himself in fastening the two boats to posts upon the
bank.

The old countess came up to him, overflowing with earnest assurances of
her gratitude, which he politely put aside. Upon her presently
repeating her inquiry about his family, he dryly replied:

"I come from beyond the sea, countess, and have left my family tree in
the backwoods. But you will get wet if you stay out here any longer. My
friend, Herr Koble, will have the honor of conducting you into the
house. It is well known that a captain must not leave his ship until it
lies safe at anchor."

The good lady wondered to herself that a young man, who seemed to be so
_comme il faut_, should relinquish the honor of becoming her knight to
a _bourgeois_. But as she was rather confused and helpless, and did not
exactly know where to look for her son and son-in-law, she accepted the
painter's arm with condescending amiability, and, turning around every
instant to see that her daughter was following, she hastened toward the
house, in which the music had not ceased for a moment.

Schnetz had taken possession of the two sisters, and the young count
approached Irene to conduct her into the house. But she declined his
proffered arm with a gesture of thanks, wrapped herself closer in her
cloak, and hastened after the others.

She had not looked around at Felix, but at the threshold she hesitated.
Perhaps her beating heart was secretly whispering to her to turn, rush
into the storm and rain, and call to the lonely man upon the shore.

Just at this moment her cousin turned to her with some casual question,
laid a hand upon her arm, and drew her across the hall into the guests'
room. She threw back her head with such a hasty movement, that her hood
fell off. Her young face, which she had learned only too well how to
keep under control, became cold and stern, and the moment which might
have broken the ice passed away unused.




                              CHAPTER VII.


Nor had Felix looked around at Irene. And yet he knew exactly when she
entered the door, and vanished into the house.

His work on the shore had long been completed. The two boats were
fastened securely to their chains, and the heavy surf bumped their
wooden sides against one another with a dull, monotonous sound. It was
by no means pleasant here in the rain. The drops fell thicker and
faster; leaves and twigs were torn from the trees near the boathouse,
and sent whirling far and wide. And yet this lonely man here in the
storm could not even now make up his mind to seek refuge in the house,
which stood before him with its bright windows looking so hospitable
and cozy, and protecting a crowd of happy beings from the furies of the
gale.

He was just considering whether he should not retreat, into one of the
boats which, lying under the roof of the boat-house, would at least
offer him a dry place of refuge, when a vivid flash of lightning lit
up the darkness around, and in the next instant, even before the
thunder-clap had time to follow, he heard a scoffing laugh, not far
away. He saw now that he was not quite alone. On the bridge of the
steamboat-landing, which was built on piles and ran out for some
distance into the lake, stood the young boatman who, an hour before,
had foretold the storm, and had refused to make the return journey. As
if he felt at home amid this whirlwind, he stood there in his
shirtsleeves, his jacket thrown over his shoulder, bareheaded, smoking
a short pipe, and leaning upon the railing of the bridge. His eyes were
fixed with an evil, piercing fire upon Felix, whom he had probably
mistaken for the young count because he had been busied with the boats.
As soon as the noise of the thunder had died away, he burst out anew in
a loud, scoffing laugh. "So Hiesl is a stupid boor, and doesn't know
anything--not even his own business? He ought to learn it from the city
gentlemen? Ha, ha, ha! I only wish you had had all the flesh washed off
your bones. Ha, ha, ha! Well, look sharp now, and carry the thing
through. It's just jolly inside there, and perhaps next time Heaven
will have sense enough to--"

The howling of the storm drowned the rest of his speech. Felix had a
sharp reply on the tip of his tongue, with which to rebuke the fellow,
and at the same time to show him that he had made a mistake in the
person. But now the tempest broke in such a terrible deluge of rain
that he was absolutely deprived of sight and hearing, and had to grope
his way to reach the house with a tolerably dry skin.

The heavy house-door was torn from its chain by the storm, and closed
behind him with a deafening crash. In the lower entry a number of
people sat at little tables hung on hinges along the wall, and just
large enough to hold the plates and beer-mugs. A country waiting-maid,
who was coming out of the kitchen, told Felix that his party were
up-stairs dancing, and asked whether he wanted anything. He silently
shook his head, and slowly ascended the stairs; not with the intention
of joining his friends, but merely to find where she was, and which
room of the house it would be necessary for him to avoid.

Not a soul was to be seen in the dimly-lighted hall above; but all the
doors stood open on account of the heat, and poured forth a mixture of
lamp-light, smoke, and noise, while the floor creaked under the regular
tread of the dancers, and the air trembled with the surly grumbling of
a gigantic bass-viol. The dancing-hall lay at the extreme end of the
corridor. Felix walked along it without looking into any of the other
rooms until he reached the end door, where he found that, by standing
behind the spectators, he could comfortably overlook all that was going
on within. The bridegroom seemed to be a young forester, and his bride
a burgher's daughter from the city. Consequently, the whole affair had
a certain something about it which distinguished it favorably from
ordinary country weddings, and the couples spun around through the
spacious hall in quite an orderly fashion, and without the customary
shouting, screaming, and romping, to the music of several stringed
instruments, a solitary clarionet, and the occasional sound of a
woodman's horn.

The first couple that Felix made out through the blue mist of
tobacco-smoke was Rosenbusch with his Nanny. And, to his surprise, he
saw Elfinger and his sweetheart waltzing gracefully close behind them;
and the future bride of heaven seemed to abandon herself without much
resistance to this worldly pleasure.

And now even the young countess herself appeared amid this mixed
company, whirled by the young baron, her betrothed, far more rapidly
than would have been good _ton_ at a court ball. Her brother, the
count, stood in a retired corner, apparently paying his court to Aunt
Babette, who would not let herself be seduced into dancing again for
any price in the world. In the adjoining room, which he could only half
overlook, he perceived his friend Kohle, absorbed in an earnest
conversation with the countess.

No trace of Irene anywhere! Could she have hidden from him? It was
hardly possible that she could be in the other rooms, where the more
elderly relatives of the bridal couple sat, eating and talking. And yet
he must know whither she had gone, in order to spare her another
painful meeting.

A waiting-maid entering through one of the open doors just at this
moment, he determined to ask her about the Fraeulein. But when he called
to the tidy-looking girl, and she turned her head toward him, a
half-joyful, half-embarrassed cry of surprise escaped them both. A
little more and the girl would have let the mugs fall from her hands.
Trembling and blushing she put down her load on a chair, and covered
her face with her hands.

"What a queer place to meet _you_ in, Zenz!" said Felix, going up to
her kindly and holding out his hand. "How long have you been here? But
you don't know me any longer!--or won't you give me your hand because
you are angry with me?"

The girl stood motionless, leaning against the wall and deeply flushed,
her hands outstretched, with the fingers wide-spread as if in
supplication. She was dressed much more daintily than the waiter-girls
down-stairs; her thick red hair, hanging in two heavy braids down her
back, was wound around with a little string of corals, and her arms
were bare to the elbow. Her charming figure showed to advantage in its
short dress and tight-fitting bodice, and a little rose in her bosom
set off the whiteness of her neckerchief and of her little coquettish
waitress's apron. It was no wonder she found suitors enough out here in
the country, and could play the prude toward the young boatman.

"Well, Zenz," Felix began again, for she still remained silent, "is it
all over with our old friendship? You ran away from me once so
treacherously, you naughty child--I searched every corner for you--but
I bear you no malice on that score. Look here, perhaps you can tell
me what has become of the young Fraeulein?--the tall one with the
water-proof? She is not with the others."

"I know the one you mean well enough," the girl answered, suddenly
growing quite unembarrassed, for he behaved so coolly and seemed to
have forgotten all the past. "You mean the handsome one who has
something distinguished about her, more than all the rest. She couldn't
stand it long in the hot rooms, but had a chamber given her up-stairs,
so as to be all alone, for she had such a terrible headache, she said.
Do you know her? But of course you do; you came with the party. Why, I
shouldn't wonder if she were your--"

She broke off and peered in his face, with a sly look. Something of her
old frivolity flickered up in it; but then she scornfully curled her
lips.

"For all I care!" she said, shrugging her shoulders. "What difference
does it make to me who your sweetheart is? Go up the stairs there and
knock at No. 17. You will find what you are looking for."

"Zenz," he answered, with a troubled look, "you are very much mistaken
if you think--But tell me, first of all, how you have been, and whether
you like the life out here better than in the city, and whether I can
help you in any way?"

He felt the necessity of showing his friendliness in some way or other
to this good creature, whose devotion he had so coldly repulsed, that
he might efface the painful remembrance from her mind. She seemed to
feel this, and to be grateful for it. A soft blush--no longer of
embarrassment, but of joy--mounted to her cheeks.

"How do I like it here?" she said, laughing. "Oh, pretty well so far.
The people of the house treat me very well, and if I do my duty, what
do I care for any one else? Only it's just a little dull and lonely
here."

"I imagine there is no lack of people, Zenz, who would be glad to help
you while away the time if you would only let them."

She did not answer at once, but listened in the direction of the
stairs, where some one had just crept up and had stopped half-way as if
to listen. There was a pause in the music, and any one standing on the
dark stairway could not have helped hearing every word that was spoken
on the landing above. The girl's face assumed a slighting, contemptuous
expression. She seemed to know who was standing there on the watch, and
purposely raised her voice so as to give the listener the full benefit
of what she said.

"Have you, too, heard that gossip?" she said. "Well, if any one ever
says to you again that Zenz has got a lover here, give him my best
regards and tell him he is a mean liar. I know very well that the
waiter-girl in Leoni says all sorts of bad things about me because
Hiesl, the fisherman, who used to keep company with her, tries to pay
court to me. But, though I am only a poor girl, I am a hundred times
too good for such a wild fellow as he is, going about on every holiday
picking quarrels, and spending all his money on drinking and bowling.
Just think of it, that little Spanish knife I took from your table that
time by mistake--or rather not by mistake--I really believe, may God
forgive me, I would have liked best to kill myself, I felt so wild and
unhappy that night!--well, I have carried it about with me ever since;
I used to wear it stuck in my bodice instead of the spoon which, as a
waiter-girl, I ought to have carried, and it's not a week ago that I
told Hiesl my opinion of him once for all, and he grew so furious that
he snatched the knife away from me, and cried out 'to remember him if
anything happened,' or something of that kind. But I laughed, and said
unless he gave it back to me something _would_ happen, for I would
complain of him to the police. _He_ my lover! Well, I _should_ be a
fool! Besides, I don't want any lover at all; it always ends in the
girl's being deceived; and the one she can get she doesn't like, and
the one she likes she can't get. And now let me go, Herr Baron, the
ladies and gentlemen inside are waiting, and you must go and pay your
court to the Fraeulein. Why should you waste your time out here with a
waitress?"

She made a movement as if to take up her mugs again, but without
hurrying herself particularly.

Just at this moment the music struck up again, playing a cheerful but
not very lively waltz, apparently with the purpose of inviting the more
elderly guests to join the dance.

"Zenz," said Felix, looking her straight in the face, "I don't care
anything about the Fraeuleins inside there; and, besides, I don't feel
in a mood for love-making. As soon as the storm is over, I am going off
without taking leave. If any one asks after me, you need only say that
I wanted to be in Starnberg in time to catch the last train. But first
I want to know whether I can't do you a favor of any kind, or get
something for you in the city, or whether you have any wish that a good
friend could fulfill for you? Speak out, Zenz! I am so unhappy myself
that I would like, at least, to give a little bit of happiness to some
one else."

She looked searchingly in his face, as if to see whether he was in
earnest. She could not understand why he should not be happy.

"Do you know," said she, at last, "if what you said was not meant as a
joke, I have a wish, and there is nothing so very terrible about it
either--I would like to dance with you, just once."

"To dance with me?"

"Of course I know well enough what is proper, and that a waiter-girl
shouldn't mix among the wedding-guests unless it happens to be a
peasant's wedding. But to be always hearing this beautiful music, that
makes you tingle down to the tips of your toes, and yet never to be
allowed to swing round with the rest, is very hard. I only mean that it
is almost the same out here in the entry as in the hall--you can hear
every note and the floor is smooth and clean. Will you?"

He still hesitated. He certainly felt in no mood for dancing. But when
she suddenly put out her hand with a quick movement to seize her mugs,
as if she interpreted his hesitation to mean that, after all, he felt
himself too good to be her partner, he could not find it in his heart
to let her go away from him a second time feeling mortified and
insulted.

"You are right, child," he said. "Let us dance. A man needn't be
particularly merry to have dancing feet. Come! But you must show me how
they do it here in the country."

He put his arm round her slight and yielding figure, and she clung to
it with evident pleasure. "It goes splendidly," she whispered, after
the first round. "I feel as if I were being lifted up into heaven. Do
you remember how you put me on your horse, that time? Good Heavens! how
long ago that seems, and yet it's only a few weeks!"

He did not answer, but went on dancing, rather gravely and seriously;
for it was no easy task to move easily up and down through the long,
narrow entry. And all the while he felt that his partner clung to him
more and more tenderly, while he himself remained perfectly cool; and
it was only when it seemed to him that they had had enough, and he had
released the girl from his arms again, in front of the chair on which
her beer-mugs stood, that he stroked her round face caressingly and
said: "Was that right, little one?"

She trembled slightly, glancing over his shoulder in the direction of
the stairs which led to the upper story. Suddenly she pushed him from
her, whispered "Thank you," and, quickly seizing her mugs, ran past him
and down the stairs.

He looked after her in surprise. What was it that had transformed this
girl so suddenly? A sudden suspicion arose within him. He rushed toward
the stairs, and peered up into the darkness. There was no longer
anything to be seen. But he heard a light footstep up above creeping
softly across the entry, and immediately afterward the latch of a door
was heard to fall, and a key was turned in the lock.

A cold shiver passed over him, as the thought suddenly flashed across
him that this must have been she. She had started to go and join the
company, and had turned back when half-way down the stairs, in order
not to disturb his dance with a waiting-maid--!

The discovery was so crushing that he remained standing motionless in
the middle of the corridor, and heard and saw nothing of what was going
on around him. He was finally roused from his stupor by one of the
wedding-guests, who, in stumbling past, struck against him with no
little force. He slowly felt his way down-stairs, passed across the
lower hall, and stepped out into the open air in a truly pitiable state
of mind.

The storm had passed, but the air still trembled from the shock, and
now and then a drop fell from the roof, or the distant reflection of
the fading lightning flashed across the clear sky. The mountains stood
out on the horizon like light, sharply-defined clouds, and the
reflection of the stars danced up and down upon the waves, which seemed
to keep up the turmoil longer than anything else, and still surged
darkly on the shore.

Felix went down to the bank, and walked to the extreme end of the
landing-pier. In the commotion of his thoughts, he found it impossible
to decide as to the course he should pursue. Should he at once seek an
interview with her, and explain how it had all come about--this
inconceivable, unheard-of, unpardonable scene? That after such a
painful meeting he had not scorned to flirt with a waiter-girl; that he
intended anything rather than to play a defiant and indifferent _role_;
that only a series of most unfortunate circumstances--but how could he
explain to her what it was that had induced him to behave so tenderly
toward the poor creature? And would she listen to him at all, for that
matter? After all, it seemed as if it would be better for him to write.
But even that would only help him out of the last phase of this
serio-comic dilemma. What was to guard him from a repetition of similar
scenes, if he continued to remain anywhere near her?

He stood for a long time leaning over the railing of the bridge,
staring down into the restless, surging waves, lost in wild thoughts,
while through the open window the clarionet squeaked and the bass-viol
growled, as though there were none but happy people in all the world.

At last, making a violent effort, he roused himself. He was determined
to avoid meeting a human face at any price, and to make his way to
Starnberg on foot.

But, as he turned round, he saw behind him, planted in the middle of
the narrow way, a dark figure, which he immediately recognized as that
of Hiesl, the boatman. In his face, which he could plainly distinguish
in spite of the darkness, he could read the bitterest enmity. Besides,
the fellow had spread his legs, and thrust out his elbows, as if to
obstruct the way, and now stood grinning impudently in his face.

"Fine weather, Herr Graf," he cried, hoarsely and thickly. "Quite fine
again for taking a walk, alone or with a single companion. I suppose
you won't be left alone long--ha, ha, ha! She'll probably get away from
the wedding soon, so as to dance a little while with the Herr Graf, all
alone by yourselves--ha, ha, ha!"

"Get out of the way, fellow!" cried Felix, stepping close up to him.
"If you are seeking a quarrel, you will find you have hit on the wrong
man."

"The wrong man?" blurted out the peasant, who coolly remained standing
where he was, and merely folded his arms across his breast. "That would
be a joke; if I couldn't see who the right man is, two feet off. You
are a count, and I am only a stupid country lout--isn't that the way?
And Zenz dances with you, and hangs on your neck, and turns her back on
me. So now, you see, I know all about it; I'm sober, too, and
understand my business as well as the next man. If the Herr Count would
perhaps like to row out upon the lake with the girl, Hiesl would
consider it an honor to provide a boat for his high-mightiness's
pleasure; and if the stupid country lout has to hold the light for the
Herr Count--"

"Out of my way, you fool!" cried Felix, now angry in his turn at the
jealous fellow's crazy attack. "If you touch me with a finger, I'll
break every bone in your body. I don't understand a word of what you
have been raving about. The waiter-girl isn't my sweetheart, and if it
will give you any satisfaction, you can wait and see whether she will
steal out here to meet me. If you had your five senses about you, and
hadn't left your eyes behind in your beer-mug, you would see that I am
not your Herr Count. So get on! I'm in no humor to stand any more
nonsense!"

The peasant made no answer, nor did he laugh any more; but stared
straight in Felix's face, and stood like a post. And now when Felix
stepped forward to pass by, he suddenly felt himself seized around the
waist and violently pushed back. The blood rushed madly to his
forehead. "You blackguard!" he cried, "if you will have it, you shall."

He struck his adversary in the chest with such force that for a moment
the sturdy fellow's arms relaxed their hold. But the next instant he
felt himself grasped again and forced back to the edge of the wharf,
where the posts projected out of the water as high as a man's head, and
the water itself was deep enough to give plenty of room for the
steamer's keel.

"You or I," gasped the furious peasant. "You or I! If she won't have
me, she sha'n't have you either, you damned city puppy!" He struggled
with renewed fury to push his enemy over the railing. But Felix was on
his guard. By a quick push he gained the shore side again, and forced
his opponent back almost to the last plank. For a moment the battle
paused. The next instant Felix felt a violent stab; a sharp-pointed
instrument had been thrust into him under the armpit between his breast
and shoulder, so that his left arm dropped paralyzed by his side.

He felt at once that he was seriously wounded, and a terrible fury
seized upon him. "Murderer!" he cried; "you cowardly ruffian, you shall
pay for this!"

Exerting all his strength, he threw the fellow to the ground, seized
his throat so firmly with his right hand that he could do nothing but
gasp, and would have strangled him had not the man, who had suddenly
become sober, and who was lying on the very edge of the wharf, been
crafty enough to draw the supple Spanish blade, with all his force,
across the hand that was choking him. The moment the bloody hand
released his throat, he slid over the edge of the wharf and immediately
vanished in the lake below.

The dull, splashing noise of the fall suddenly brought the victor to
his senses. But he felt absolutely indifferent about the fellow's
rising again and gaining the shore. He had no other feeling than one of
disgust at this wild struggle in such a wretched cause. And now, when
he found himself alone on the high wharf, a cold shudder passed over
him, as if he had just shaken off a mad dog and hurled him into the
water. He peered down into the lake and then tried to laugh; but
shuddered anew at his own voice, that sounded so strange to him. Then,
too, the squeaking, idiotic clarionet and the comfortably grunting
bass-viol kept sounding in his ears;--what a world, in which all this
could be huddled so close together! Then, leaning on the railing, over
which the blood from his hand was trickling, he raised himself up, and
was conscious now, for the first time, of a piercing pain in his
shoulder. But his legs still bore him. Away, only away! was all he
thought. The resolution he had previously formed, before the murderous
fellow came in his way, rose clearly before his mind again, to hasten
to Starnberg, from there back to the city, from the city to the ends of
the earth. Only away! without looking back--no matter what was left
behind him!

He took a few steps away from the wharf, in the direction of the road.
But he had not gone far when he lost consciousness, his knees gave way
beneath him, and he fell senseless on the rain-soaked earth.

A moment after the house-door was opened, and Schnetz stepped out into
the open air, followed by Kohle, bearing a large umbrella. The old
countess had begged them to go out and see whether the return trip
might now be taken without danger. They themselves were anxious to
escape as soon as possible from the stifling, sultry tumult of the
wedding festival; while the others, who had caught the dancing fever,
did not appear to notice how the hours had slipped away.

Schnetz cast but a single glance at the heavens, and then said, with
the confidence of an old soldier who has reconnoitred a hostile region:
"It's all right. We may give the signal for breaking camp. But first we
must take a look at the boats. What's become of the baron? Did you
notice, Kohle, that during the whole trip he has been in a mood like
that of a cat in a thunder-storm, for all he pretended to be so quiet?
_Nom d'un nom!_ I wish--"

The word died on his lips. For just at that moment he caught sight of
him of whom he spoke, lying lifeless on the damp ground. He bent over
him in horror, and called him by his name. When no sound came in
answer, and only the pool of blood in which he lay gave sign of what
had happened, he quickly recovered his presence of mind and coolly
weighed the situation.

"There's no medical assistance to be had in this hole," he said; "we
must row him over to Fat Rossel's villa, and send at once for the
Starnberg doctor, who fortunately is said to be a skillful man. What
are you sniveling in that wretched fashion for, Kohle? He isn't going
to die on the spot. In Africa I've seen a man pull through far worse
cases than this. Pluck up your spirits, man, and before all things
don't make a noise. Not a soul must know of this until we are safely in
our boat. We must take Rossel's boat for us three alone, so that he can
lie at full length; how the others will get home is their own lookout.
The young gentlemen will undoubtedly know how to help themselves out of
the scrape."

He tore a leaf from his note-book, and wrote a few words upon it. "So,
give that to Red Zenz, the waiter-girl. She appears to me to be a
plucky sort of person who doesn't lose her head easily. She is not to
give the note to the young baroness, who is the only person here to
whom I owe an explanation, until we have embarked. Make haste, Kohle,
make haste. Meantime I'll be making a bed in the boat."

In five minutes Philip Emanuel came running back again, with Zenz
following close at his heels. She did not speak a word, for Kohle had
enjoined the strictest silence upon her, but her face was as white as
chalk; and when she saw the wounded man she fell on her knees beside
him and groaned aloud.

"Be quiet," commanded the lieutenant; "this is no time for whimpering.
Have you got a piece of linen, girl? We must make a bandage."

Still remaining on her knees, she tore off her white apron and the
kerchief round her neck. It was only when Schnetz had hastily bound up
the shoulder and the wound in the hand, and, with Kohle's aid, had
carefully borne the unconscious form into the boat, that she raised
herself from the ground and followed the men to the shore.

"I am going with you," she said softly, but very decidedly. "I must go
with you. I gave the note to the other waiter-girl; she will see that
it is delivered. For Christ's sake, let me go with you! Who else is
there to take care of him?"

"Nonsense!" growled Schnetz; "he won't need any care on the way over,
and on the other side there is help enough. What are you thinking of,
girl? You can't run away from service in this free-and-easy way."

"Who is to hinder me?" she said, laughing defiantly in the midst of all
her anxiety and wretchedness. "I belong to no one. I tell you I will go
with you, if it were only to hold his head on my lap on the way, so
that he would lie softer. If you won't take me with you--there's an old
dug-out over there--I'll row after you as true as my name is Zenz. I
must hear what the doctor says, and whether he will live."

"Then come along, in the devil's name, you witch; but no shrieking and
bawling. Get into the boat, Kohle; so, lift him carefully now--and you,
girl, take a seat in the middle. It's true, it won't do any harm if he
has something softer under his head than this bundle of sticks."

A few minutes more and the slender boat pushed off from the shore.
Schnetz rowed and Kohle sat at the tiller again; but, instead of the
merry company that had occupied these same seats but a few hours
before, amusing themselves with singing and flute-playing, there now
lay on the bottom of the boat a white, silent passenger, with closed
eyes; and at his head crouched a pale girl, who, from time to time,
silently dried with her long red locks the heavy drops of blood which
oozed out from under the bandages. Her head was sunk upon her breast.
The others must not see how the big tear-drops coursed steadily down
her cheeks.




                             CHAPTER VIII.


Up-stairs, in a bare, meanly-furnished room of the tavern, lay Irene.

The dim beams of the setting sun shone in through the little
window-panes, which were still dripping from the rain, but did not
penetrate to the sofa where the poor girl cowered in an agony of grief,
covering her face with her hands and vainly trying to close her ears so
tightly with the folds of her hood that she should not hear the music
of the waltz below. The walls and floors of the lightly-built upper
story groaned under the regular step of the dance. Never in all her
life, she thought, had she been more wretched and miserable, not even
in those gloomy days before she resolved to write Felix a letter of
farewell. Then there was still a certain greatness, dignity, and
harmony left both within and about her; now her condition was painful
and revolting to a degree that seemed almost pitiably ridiculous.

She, lying up here in torture; and he down below in the best of
spirits, whirling about with a waiter-girl in his arms, to the music of
a peasant's orchestra--not among the other wedding-guests even, but
apart, secretly, in the way one only dances when one is very much in
the mood for it, or very much in love! She did not even have the
consolation of thinking he had done this merely out of defiance to her,
out of secret lovesickness and grief. He could not possibly have had a
suspicion that she would come down and surprise him at his dance; that
she would see how tightly the girl clung to him, and how reluctantly
she finally released herself from his arms.

She had flown up-stairs as if pursued by a ghost, had pushed the bolt
to behind her with trembling hands, and had thrown herself on the hard
little sofa, and shut her eyes and bowed her head as if now the death
blow might fall at any moment. And down below, the jovial bassviol
hummed and buzzed, and the clarionet abandoned itself to the most
extravagant passages.

For the moment she hated this man, whom heretofore, through all their
separation, she had mourned over as one does over a dead friend, who,
though lost, is still dear forever. When she thought that the hand
which had once caressed her had stroked the chin of this coarse
red-haired girl, a pang of bitter aversion shot through her heart, as
if she felt herself humiliated and dishonored by the mere association.
She shed no tears, but only because her pride rose up in all its
strength against such a proceeding. And yet she had to bite into the
silk lining of her hood with her little teeth in order to suppress her
sobbing and restrain her weeping.

She felt that she must take some step to put an end to this unbearable
state of things; that she must start the very next morning on the
Italian journey which had been so unfortunately postponed. But to-day,
now, when before all else she must avoid meeting him again, she must
escape from this mad-house where she stood in positive danger of going
crazy herself.

Just then a knock was heard at the door. She sprang to her feet in
alarm. If it should be he? if he had come, perhaps, to justify himself
to her; to excuse his outrageous behavior?

She was incapable of uttering a sound; and, even after the knock had
been repeated a second time, she was unable to ask who was there. It
was only when she heard the voice of the waiter-girl, who called
through the door that she had a message to deliver to the Fraeulein,
that she found strength to drag herself with trembling knees to the
door, and open it. She took a note from the girl's hand, shook her head
quickly in reply to the question whether she wanted a light, and bolted
the door in the face of the hastily-dismissed messenger, who would have
been glad of a chance to talk a little.

There was light enough at the window for her to decipher the martial
handwriting of the lieutenant.


"My friend has suddenly been taken very ill. I must transport him to
Rossel's villa without delay. Please to excuse my desertion to the
other ladies. Commending myself to the indulgence of my noble young
mistress, I remain, in the most devoted haste,

                                               "SCHNETZ."


"My friend"--she knew that no other could be meant than Felix; and yet
this news, which, at any other time, would have given her a deadly
shock, came to her now like a release from the bitterest torture. Would
she not bear anything rather than know that he was happy after the
wrong he had done her? Might not the outrageous scene she had just
witnessed be explained as coming from a freak of fever--from a last
flaring-up of his spirits before the final breaking-down? Then, in
spite of all, he was still worthy of her secret thoughts--ay, she even
owed him some apology, and could grieve for him, and show him that
sympathy which we owe to all who are in suffering.

A heavy weight fell from her heart. She read the note a second time.
"Rossel's villa?"--that lay only half an hour's walk from theirs. She
might get news before the evening was over. Schnetz would very likely
come himself and tell her.

But, while she was absorbed in such thoughts, she let her eyes sweep
across the lake, and saw the boat, rowed by Schnetz and Kohle, just
pushing off from the shore. The twilight was still bright enough to
enable her to distinctly recognize the girl in the waitress's dress,
who sat on the low seat and held the youth's head in her lap. If there
had still been any doubt in the watcher's mind, it would have been put
at rest by the sight of the red braids, with which the little Samaritan
appeared to be caressing the insensible man.

With quick strokes of the oars the boat shot out on the broad surface
of the lake. A few minutes, and the figures in it had faded into
shadows. Soon, only a faint line on the lake's polished mirror
indicated the course the silent craft had taken.

A quarter of an hour after, Irene entered the room next to the
dancing-hall, where the old countess was impatiently awaiting the
return of her cavalier, who had only left her to make preparations for
the homeward voyage. She was frightened by the Fraeulein's colorless
face, and overwhelmed her with anxious inquiries. Irene handed her the
lieutenant's note, in lieu of any other answer. The lively excitement
into which this very unfortunate incident threw the good lady diverted
her thoughts completely from Irene's condition. The young people, too,
who were hastily called away from their dancing, were far too much
occupied with one another, and with the question what was to be done,
to find anything odd in Irene's mute and stony manner. Besides, she had
already complained of a headache. The countess scolded at Schnetz for
having taken no thought of her. To whom could they intrust the guidance
of the vessel now? She flatly refused Elfinger's and Rosenbusch's
willingly-offered aid, nor would she listen to such a thing as their
looking about for a boatman in the house, but declared that now no
price would induce her to trust herself upon the water again. Instances
had been known where the wind had suddenly sprung up and driven back a
thunder-storm that had once passed over!

In the mean while, the young count had been in consultation with the
landlord, and now came to report that a carriage could be ready
immediately, which would easily carry them to Starnberg inside of an
hour. The other party might then make use of their boat, unless they
should prefer to wait until the vehicle came back. But as the sky was
clear, and the night warm and lovely, both the sisters and Aunt Babette
thought it would be more advisable to make the voyage across than to
wait several hours more in the close house.

So they took leave of the wedding-guests with more or less ceremony,
and made preparations for starting. The old countess, who, for several
hours past, had shown herself extremely gracious as long as Schnetz was
present to act as go-between, and the unknown young baron had lent a
certain respectability to his burgher friends, now suddenly seemed to
become conscious again of the gulf between her and the savers of her
life--particularly in the case of the girls, whom she did not honor
with another word. She gave Rosenbusch to understand, in pretty plain
language, that she was very angry with Schnetz, who had quite forgotten
all "_egards_" toward her, and had gone off without even coming to take
leave in person. The battle-painter, who found himself placed in a
rather embarrassing situation, was just on the point of making some
excuse for his absent friend, when suddenly the words stuck in his
throat. They had left the house in order to wait outside until the
carriage should be ready. There, on the white gravel close to the bank,
Rosenbusch saw a dark spot, from which a broad trail of drops ran down
as far as the landing-place. "Good God!" he cried. "What is this?
Blood? Freshly-shed blood? Countess, if this blood should really have
come from our baron, our friend Schnetz would undoubtedly be justified,
even by the severest court of honor, for having failed in the laws
of courtesy. I beseech you, don't let the others learn anything of
this--young ladies are so devilish timid and frightened at the sight of
blood--"

Unfortunately the warning came too late. Irene had just stepped up to
the place where they were standing. When she caught sight of the
ghastly trace, she uttered a low cry, staggered back, and leaned for a
moment upon Rosenbusch, who officiously sprang to her assistance. This
scene caused the others to hasten up; and after the first shock was
over, they exhausted themselves in speculations upon this mysterious
occurrence. Who could possibly believe in hemorrhage in a young
man of such conspicuous strength and powerful figure? And as for a
fight--where were they to look for an adversary?

The friends were still standing around the ghastly spot, shocked and
not knowing what to do, when one of the hostlers, belonging to the
hotel, came running up and told them he had also discovered traces of
blood on the landing-bridge, and this knife lying near them, on the
bank. It was not an ordinary peasant's knife with the blade fastened
firmly in the handle, but a slim dagger of Damascus steel, and the
handle bore a distinct impression of a bloody hand; no one except Irene
knew to whom it had belonged.

In the mean while the carriage had driven up, and they lifted Irene in.
Though still suffering terribly, she struggled hard to maintain her
composure. The mother and daughter and the two young men crowded into
the other places as well as they could. Another short leave-taking,
whose brevity was perfectly explained by the gloomy mood they were all
in, and the aristocratic part of the company rolled away.

A few minutes later the boat pushed off from the shore, rowed by
Rosenbusch and Elfinger. The night was still and clear, and the cool
wind blew, soft and damp, upon the girls' hot cheeks. But they sat
nestled close to one another, and gazed in silence at the sparkling
water; nor did either of the friends utter a word. Aunt Babette alone
made a slight attempt at conversation, by saying how amiable these
aristocratic persons were upon nearer acquaintance, and what a pity it
was they could not have returned home together; for she had been
telling the young count so much about Rosenbusch's flute-playing.

As no one made any answer to all this, she, too, grew silent, folded
her hands in her lap, and appeared sunk in pious meditation.




                              CHAPTER IX.


It was close upon midnight when Irene's uncle returned, in his open
wagon, from a trip to the Ammersee. The old lion-hunter was in glorious
spirits; he had made several bull's-eyes at the shooting-match; had
made love to the ladies; and had found a willing ear for his most
fabulous African hunting-tales even among the men. Even his famous
story of how he had aimed a double-barreled English rifle at a lioness,
and had fired two shots so rapidly one after the other, that the ball
from the right barrel shot out the animal's right eye, and that from
the other the left--even this narrative, about whose truthfulness some
doubts had occasionally been expressed, was apparently swallowed in all
faith. The champagne had done all the rest; so that the happy man
started out of the sweetest dreams when his carriage drew up before the
wicket-gate of the Starnberg villa.

He was surprised to see that the balcony-room was still lighted up. It
was not in the least like Irene to allow an affectionate anxiety for
her night-owl of an uncle to keep her awake, and all signs of light
were extinguished in the neighboring houses. Then it occurred to him
that perhaps Schnetz had decided to stay out overnight, and to sit up
until his return. He was glad of this, for it would afford him an
opportunity to give an account of his triumphs to a connoisseur in such
matters; and he was therefore disagreeably disappointed when, upon his
entering the little _salon_ up-stairs where the light was burning, his
young niece alone advanced to meet him.

Her face looked so strangely agitated, her manner was so excited, that
his champagne spirits departed on the instant, and he asked, in great
alarm, what had happened, and what had become of friend Schnetz? and
why Irene, who was evidently unwell, had not gone to bed?

Speaking rapidly and with difficulty, she gave him an account of what
had passed. Not until she had finished the story did the name of him
who had played the chief _role_ in this bloody catastrophe pass her
lips.

But the effect produced by her account was very different from what she
had expected.

Instead of expressing horror and sympathy the lively gentleman ran
around the room uttering a cry of joy, rubbing his hands and behaving
himself generally in such a delighted way, that Irene regarded him with
amazement, and finally asked him whether he had been listening to her,
or whether his thoughts were still with the merry hunting-party he had
just quitted.

"No, no! my dearest child," he cried, suddenly halting before her. "You
suspect me wrongly. Unfortunately I am accustomed to being
misunderstood by you, and to being accused of a frivolity which
sometimes overtakes me even in those moments when my proud little niece
assumes her most tragic tone. But, believe me, Irene dear, I see no
reason in this whole catastrophe that you have told me of to change my
way of thinking. That our Felix has lost a few drops of blood will not
do the scapegrace any particular harm, perhaps, and will take the
wildness out of him a little. At the worst, there will be no immediate
bad consequence--for that I can trust my good old Schnetz; and
Providence will not be so foolish as to send such a fine young fellow
over the bourn by such a miserable knife-scratch as this. And if we
escape with a simple fright, the whole situation will be left in the
best condition imaginable to repair some foolish errors that we have
made. Come, my child! Look me in the face, and confess that in secret
you are of my opinion."

She looked him directly in the eyes, but with a sad expression.

"We misunderstand one another again, uncle."

"Say, rather, you don't think it becoming to wish to understand my
honest and candid opinion. But, since you are ten times brighter and
more diplomatic than an old hunter and soldier like myself--"

"I entreat you, uncle--"

"You can't fail to understand, without any further explanations on my
part, that it amuses me enormously to see our youngster Felix, whom I
imagined to be wandering about God knows where, a sighing and rejected
suitor, suddenly turn up next door to us. Do you mean to tell me that
chance has arranged all this so skillfully? Pooh, pooh!--you can't
cheat me. I tell you he has been traveling after us, and has secretly
followed his old flame, whom he still worships, into the primeval
forests of Starnberg and across the tempestuous lake of Wuerm; and,
since there was no other way of making up to you again with any
self-respect, he has adopted the very wisest course, and one that never
fails in its effect upon you soft-hearted souls, namely, that of
creeping into your sympathy by means of a few ounces of spilt blood, of
which article, by-the-way, he still possesses a very fair abundance.
And now--"

"Unless you want me to leave the room, uncle, spare me these perfectly
groundless insinuations. Have I not told you that he had no suspicion
of our plan to make a stay in Munich, and that Schnetz told me how he
entered a studio with his old friend Jansen, with the intention of
becoming a sculptor? But even if it were all just as you have arranged
it in your own mind--what difference would it make in my resolution?
Hasn't this unfortunate meeting proved the truth of all that I said to
myself when I gave him back his promise?--has it not confirmed my
belief that we could never be happy together? And yet, you imagine I
would think differently of him because he now lies dangerously ill, and
perhaps dying, of wounds which were undoubtedly given him by his rival,
that peasant fellow--in a fight--about a tavern-waiter--"

Her voice failed her; she turned away to repress her tears; but her
passionate pain overcame her, and, bursting into uncontrollable
sobbing, she sank back on a chair near the open door leading on to the
balcony.

Even the jovial mood of her good-hearted foster-father was not proof
against this passionate outburst of long-suppressed feeling. He had
always regarded the girl's self-possessed bearing with amazement, and
had secretly attributed to her a certain coldness of heart, for she had
never given him an insight into the struggles and storms of her young
life. And now she sat before him like a child that has given way to its
grief, deaf, apparently, to all comforting words and caresses.

"You will bring things to such a pass," he cried, in ludicrous
desperation, "that I shall be forced to take up my old trade, and go
out lion-hunting again in my old age. Upon my word it's less wearing
work than having anything to do with a pair of estranged lovers, who
will neither come together nor yet separate entirely. The thing worked
passably as long as you were able to face it out. After all, although I
always looked upon it as a piece of foolishness for you to give such a
lover his dismissal, just because he didn't want to kiss the slipper
before his marriage: still, I supposed you must know what you were
about, and it was impossible for me to supply a mother's place toward
you, and explain how we men ought to be managed. At all events, things
ran smoothly, and we went on living peacefully together. But now, when
the ice suddenly breaks and you lose all control over yourself--tell
me, what in the world am I to do? My experience with wild animals has
made me something of a savage; but I instantly become the most cowardly
and chicken-hearted of domestic animals if a woman--and particularly
one I care so much for--begins to cry in my presence."

She suddenly drew herself up, shook back her curls and passed her hand
across her eyes.

"You shall not have to complain of it again, uncle," she said, in a
determined tone; "most assuredly, never again. You are right; it is
foolish to cry about something that was all over long ago. You will
never, never see me do it again."

"My brave girl!" he said, embracing her and kissing her wet cheek, a
liberty he very seldom ventured to take. "I am glad you still care a
little for your old uncle. But now, go to bed, for it has grown so
late--"

"To bed!--in this terrible state of anxiety? What are you thinking of,
uncle? Will it be possible for you to sleep?"

"Why not, you little goose? Ay, the sleep of the righteous, for I have
done my duty to-day, and have shown how our race can shoot--"

"And you can deep before you know how he is?--and what the doctor has
said? I should have sent over to inquire before this, but the people of
the house are all asleep, and my maid Louisa is a stranger here and
would not be able to find the place."

"And you think I myself--well, I must confess!--at one o'clock at
night, tired to death by all my laurels--"

"Uncle, unless you want to see me die of anxiety--"

She threw herself into his arms, and clung to him in such helpless
entreaty that he could not resist. Sighing, and bitterly cursing in his
heart the feminine caprice which could first cast off a fine young
fellow and then make her life hang on his, he left the house once more.

She called down to him from the balcony, gave him the directions for
finding the nearest way to the physician's house, and then stood there
motionless, in the cool night air, waiting for his return.

He came back in a quarter of an hour, but brought no comforting
intelligence. The physician had not yet returned from Rossel's villa,
and would, in all probability, spend the night there. He had made the
physician's wife, whom he had routed up out of her sleep, promise
faithfully to send news the first thing in the morning.

So there was no help for it, the night had to be passed in the most
agonizing state of uncertainty.

But before the sun had long been shining across the lake, the physician
came in proper person; led, not only by the message that had been left
for him the night before, but also by a note that Schnetz had
commissioned him to deliver to his old comrade and brother-in-arms. In
this missive, in his own odd style, he supplemented the physician's
bulletin by all sorts of details. The wound in the hand, he said, in
conclusion, was, it was to be hoped, of no great account; a sinew had
been grazed, but not cut through, so that the determination of this
noble youth to augment the number of breadless stone-hewers would, in
all probability, not be defeated by the brutal intervention of a
Bavarian fist. The physician, on the other hand, reported that the
wound in the left shoulder was not altogether without danger, as the
stab had reached the extremity of one of the lungs, and a long rest and
course of nursing would be necessary before the arm could be used
again. For the rest, the patient would receive the best of care in Herr
Rossel's villa; his blood and circulation were in a thoroughly healthy
condition, and serious danger was quite out of the question.

The doctor, who had never before seen the baron and the beautiful,
silent Fraeulein, and who found nothing strange in her sympathy, as she
had formed one of the party on the day before, soon took his leave,
with a promise to keep them regularly informed about the case. Scarcely
had he gone, when Irene declared she would not go away from the place
until all danger was over; but that then she would not breathe the air
on this side of the Alps a moment longer--it weighed upon her spirits.

Her uncle had to give her his word of honor that he would consent to
this arrangement, and also that he would not let Schnetz observe how
deeply they were both interested in the wounded man, but would explain
their sympathy as arising from pure philanthrophy. And it really was
nothing more than that, she said.

Even though every inner bond was severed between them, still, she would
never be able to answer for it to her conscience if she should start
off before the question whether he might not possibly need her had been
definitely set at rest.




                               CHAPTER X.


Was it nothing but abstract philanthropy that suffered Irene to find no
rest in any place or any occupation all that day, in spite of the
comforting assurances of the doctor?--that drove her from the piano to
the writing-desk, from the writing-desk out on to the balcony, and from
the garden down to the shore? Not a step sounded on the floor, not a
carriage rolled past in the street, but what she trembled. She had
herself sufficiently under control, however, not to betray her
nervousness by a single word. But her feverish restlessness did not
escape her uncle, who, the night before, had gained for the first time
a clear insight into a nature usually so proud. He was secretly
rejoiced at this, much as he pitied the poor child in her restless
grief. For the first time in years he felt that he was the wiser of the
two; that he was being justified by the course things were taking, and
that his good advice, which had once been scorned, was now redounding
to his credit. But as he really loved her, he behaved with the most
labored delicacy and consideration toward the young sufferer; never
touched her hidden wound by a single word, and only grumbled now and
then at the faithless Schnetz, who, considering the slight distance
that separated them, might certainly have come over and given him a
report of the patient by word of mouth.

He knew that this thought was never out of Irene's mind for a moment,
and that all her listening and waiting turned upon it. But when the
afternoon came, and no new message made its appearance, he threw his
rifle over his shoulder, kissed the hand of his pale little niece, and
left the house to scour the woods for a while. If Schnetz should show
himself in the mean while, they were to hold him prisoner for the
evening.

Scarcely did Irene find herself alone, when she fancied she could not
breathe the air in the close little rooms any longer. She hastily
caught up her sketch-book, put on her hat, and called her maid to
accompany her for a walk. She had recently discovered a picturesque
spot, with old trees and high ferns, farther back in the woods, which
she wanted to sketch. She trusted that she should be able to find it
again.

Once outside in the streets, she took such quick steps that the girl
could hardly keep up with her. But Louisa was too well-trained to take
the liberty of asking any inquisitive questions. That her mistress was
not just as usual; that she kept her head turned away as much as
possible, and did not address a single word to her faithful attendant,
she could not, indeed, help noticing. But then these high ladies have
their moods. At first, the Fraeulein seemed to be looking around, right
and left, in search of the goal of her artistic efforts. Then, after
they had walked along the forest-road for about a quarter of an hour,
and one villa after another, lying amid park and garden shrubbery,
began to appear on the bank of the lake to the left, the most lovely
old tree-trunks and foreground effects could not win a look from her.
Several times she stood still before one of the gates, and appeared to
be speculating as to who might live in the house beyond. The day
before, Schnetz had given her, in his favorite manner, a humorous
description of "Fat Rossel's" villa, and had cut a silhouette of its
occupant out of a piece of blotting-paper. These were but weak clews.
So she went on farther and farther, and her cheeks grew more and more
flushed from the rapid exercise, and her companion, who was rather
inclined to corpulence, found it harder than ever to keep up with her.

At last she ventured to ask a laborer whom they met, carrying a
pick-axe and shovel, where Herr Rossel's villa was. The man pointed to
a park-fence made of rough, pine stakes, and was very much amazed when
the young lady rewarded this trivial service with a bright half-gulden.

"Louisa," the Fraeulein said, standing still for a moment to recover her
breath and push back her hair, "you will wait for me outside here. I
have to make some inquiries about something in the garden, and will be
back directly. The spot where I meant to sketch lies off to the right,
in the middle of the wood, and I see now that the afternoon light will
not be as favorable as I thought. It doesn't matter. I shall still be
able to draw a few lines. In the mean while hold my sketch-book--or no,
I will take it with me--you would be sure to get the leaves out of
order. Sit down there on that stump. I sha'n't be gone more than five
minutes."

The girl obeyed without a word. She had never before heard the name of
the gentleman about whom Irene inquired. She tried to make out some
connection in the whole mysterious affair. But as she did not succeed,
she soon gave up thinking about it, and rejoiced at this comfortable
rest in the cool quiet of the woods after her quick walk.

In the mean time her young mistress had hurried over the rest of the
way. The park in the rear of Rossel's little house appeared to be quite
empty and deserted, nor was any one to be seen at the windows. For a
moment she stood hesitating at the little wicket-gate before she could
muster up courage to lift the latch. Then she opened the gate quickly
and entered the little shady inclosure, through which wound a number of
well-swept gravel paths.

But now, as she stepped out from among the pines, and saw before her
the flower-garden and the lawn, whose green turf extended to the
threshold of the house, she stopped in alarm, and would have given a
great deal could she have retired into the shadow again unobserved. For
right in front of her, in the midst of a clump of tall rosebushes from
which she was cutting the finest flowers for a bouquet, stood Zenz, who
recognized her at the first glance, and did not appear at all surprised
to meet the Fraeulein here again, after the events of the day before.

She gave Irene a good-natured and confidential nod, and said, without
waiting to be addressed:

"You have come most likely to inquire after the Herr Baron--haven't
you, now? Well, I am much obliged for your kind inquiry; and he is
getting on just as well as ever as he can, the doctor says. Only he
must be kept very quiet and can't receive any visits from strangers.
That's the reason we carried him right off last evening into the studio
up there in the turret, where he can't hear a sound from the kitchen
and the rooms below; so that even when old Katie has one of her
tantrums, and storms and raves about, it won't disturb his peace at
all. But not a soul can go in to see him except Herr von Schnetz, Herr
Kohle, Herr Rossel--and I, of course, because I am his nurse. I have
just run down into the garden to cut him a few roses. It's a good thing
to have something pretty by a sick person's bed, so that it will please
him when he wakes up. Meantime Herr Kohle is sitting by him and looking
after the ice bandages."

While she was prattling on in this _naive_ strain, Irene had the
greatest difficulty in restraining her secret aversion toward the girl,
who innocently went on with her work; appearing quite a reputable
person, too, now that she was without her waitress's apron, and had her
red braids simply coiled around her head.

"I wish to speak to Lieutenant von Schnetz a moment," replied Irene, in
the coldest possible tone, "since, as you say, he is not busy just now
in the sick chamber--"

"The lieutenant? He is asleep. See, Fraeulein, over there where the
curtains are let down. He has been lying there for the last two hours,
trying to make up a little bit for what he lost last night. Good
Heavens! What a fright we did have! and every one had more than his
hands full before we could get a decent bandage made, especially as old
Katie couldn't have been waked out of her sleep if the world had been
coming to an end. So I staid here, too, so that there might be some one
to wait on the gentlemen. There are so many things about which men
folks, even the very wisest of them, are as foolish as little children.
Isn't it so, Fraeulein? And then--I couldn't bear to be anywhere else,
until I know that he is sure to get sound and well again. When people
have known each other as well as we two--and only to think that such a
thing as this could happen, and that a splendid handsome gentleman like
him should be almost stabbed to death just because of a poor girl like
me, and he quite innocent, too--"

Irene had made a movement as though to leave the place as quickly as
possible. These last words made her think better of it.

"Innocent?" she said, carelessly, without looking at Zenz. "Do you
know, then, how it all came about?"

"To be sure I do," cried the girl, eagerly; "I was the cause of it all!
I wouldn't have anything to say to him, to Hiesl, I mean, and why
shouldn't I confess that I like the baron! There can't be a handsomer
or better man in the world, and when he smiles upon you, in his kind
way, you seem to feel it away down in your heart. And yet he isn't
proud at all, nor impudent and bad to a poor girl, like other young
gentlemen; it isn't any disgrace for me to like him better than a rough
fellow like Hiesl. Oh! Fraeulein, I don't know how you feel about love,
or whether you have a sweetheart, but I--before I saw the Herr Baron
one man was just the same to me as another, and now it seems as if
there were only this one man under God's heaven; and whatever he says
and wants, that I must do, as if it were the Lord himself who ordered
me. But he--and you may believe this on my honor and as I hope to be
saved--he never thinks of such a thing. He knows well enough how I feel
toward him, but he never gives me a thought, and though I'm not pretty
I can't be so very ugly either. At all events if I wanted to I could
twist Herr Rossel round my little finger. But many thanks! I would
rather love one who doesn't care a bit about me, than be loved by one
that I don't like!"

Meantime she had gone on tying up her bouquet, and now she held it up
with a bright laugh which showed all her white teeth. "Isn't it
beautiful?" she said. "But you won't even look at it, Fraeulein. Don't
you like flowers?"

Irene started out of a deep reverie. Her cheeks burned, and she
struggled vainly to maintain her reserve toward this girl, whose frank
and perfectly unselfish nature she could not help liking, do what she
would.

"And you think it perfectly proper?" she managed at last to say. "It
never occurred to you that you are doing anything out of the way in
openly following into a strange house, where there are other men, some
one who does not care anything about you? Though, to be sure, what does
it matter to me what you do or don't do?"

The girl let fall the hand that held the flowers, and gazed straight
into the eyes of this young preacher of morality, with an expression
that betrayed much more surprise than anger.

"Run after him?" she repeated. "No, Fraeulein, I should never think of
such a thing; that _would_ be stupid. For Black Theresa, where I used
to live, has often told me that men only like a poor girl so long as
they have to run after _her_. And because I didn't feel sure of myself,
and knew that if I lived in the same city with him I could not live
without seeing him and watching for him at the places where he usually
went--so that I should grow hateful to him at last, while now he is at
least kind to me--I came out here into the country and hired myself out
as a waiter-girl in the inn over yonder. But you see for yourself I was
not to get away from him; and now, when he lies at the point of death,
all along of a silly thing like me, and needs my help--no, Fraeulein, I
didn't blame myself at all for having run after him, and I should
consider myself a very bad and heartless girl indeed, if I thought
anything about myself and what people might say. I would follow him
through a forest of wild beasts just to nurse him, and why not into a
house full of good friends of his, none of whom would bite me, just
because all have seen that I don't do it for love of them, but only for
the sake of him who doesn't care the least bit about me. There, now,
don't be angry with me for having told you this right out. I must go
back into the house and see whether Herr Kohle needs any fresh ice from
the cellar. Shall I give him any message from you; tell him that you
called, and hoped he would soon get well?"

Irene had turned away. She felt herself so put to shame by the nature
of this girl, whom she had thought so far beneath her; her own behavior
looked so mean, narrow, and selfish reflected in the mirror of this
absolute, humble, joyful self-sacrifice, and the thought that she must
relinquish to another the place at his sick-bed so cut her to the heart
that she could not restrain her tears, and did not even think of trying
to hide her overflowing eyes from the astonished girl.

"Go back to him and give him a message from me!--and nurse him--and--I
will come again--to-morrow, at this time--no one need know about it
besides yourself. What is your name?"

"Crescenz. But they only call me Red Zenz."

"Good-by, Crescenz--I did you wrong! You are a good girl--far, far
better than many others. Adieu!"

She held out her hand to the bewildered girl, who was at a loss how to
reconcile the Fraeulein's sudden kindness with her former coldness. Then
she turned hastily, and disappeared among the cedar-trees in the park.

Shaking her head, Zenz stood gazing after her.

"She is in love with him, too, that is certain!" she said to herself;
and then it occurred to her that Felix had immediately asked her about
this Fraeulein, yesterday at the inn. In her thoughts she placed the two
side by side, and was forced to admit, with a quiet sigh, that they
looked as if they were made for one another. She did not trouble
herself particularly as to how far matters had gone between them. For
that matter she never had any thoughts for anything except what was
near at hand; and, as she looked at her bouquet and said to herself
that she should be praised for bringing it, her round face broke into a
smile again and she tripped gayly into the house.

In the studio up-stairs, by the side of a low couch on which Felix was
lying in a feverish sleep, sat Fat Rossel, who seemed to have
completely shaken oft his indolence, now that he had to do with so
serious an affair. He had, it is true, had his American rocking-chair
brought upstairs, but otherwise he vied with his friends in performing
the duties of the sick-room. It is possible, too, that the proximity of
the girl, whose sudden appearance under his roof had made him very
thoughtful, had been instrumental in working this miracle. Not only the
sarcastic Schnetz, but even the innocent and artless Kohle, had been
struck, from the very first, by the respectful and almost chivalrous
manner with which he, usually so hard to move, bore himself toward the
girl, little grateful or susceptible as she showed herself for his
homage. She sought to be nothing in the house but an extra servant, and
conducted herself quietly and modestly toward old Katie; and it was
only when a question arose about the care of the wounded patient that
she expressed her opinion unasked. It was soon evident that, with all
her narrowness and her extremely limited education, she had a natural
preference for everything tasteful, convenient, and pleasant, so that
the little household ran like clockwork, and old Katie found no time to
grumble at the increase in the number of the family, but could give
herself up, just as before, to her quiet vice.

Kohle stood at his easel. In spite of the excitement of an almost
sleepless night, his tireless fancy still kept on working, and he was
engaged at this moment in transferring the little sketch of the second
picture to a sheet of the size of the first completed cartoon.

"You are, and always will be, a confirmed idealist," said Rossel, in a
low tone, without raising his eyes from Felix's sleeping figure.
"Instead of taking advantage of the opportunity and making some
splendid studies from real life here, you quietly work away at your
fables and turn your back on this fine specimen of Nature."

"I merely want to sketch in the outlines of the figures," the artist
responded. "It flashed across me, early this morning, to try whether
they will do on a large scale as well as in the sketch. I think, after
all, I shall have to shift this central group a little more to the
left, so as to give the whole more symmetry."

"Any stranger hearing you talk in this way, Kohle, my boy, would
suppose you were such an unsympathetic art-machine that even in the
midst of murder and violence you could think of nothing but your Venus.
But I know that with you it is merely an unconscious way of keeping up
your heart, just as Schnetz drank a glass of schnapps and I smoked a
chibouque after the first pull was over. Every one has a specific by
which he swears, and yours, moreover, is one of the sort that never
runs dry. But now, just come here and take a look at this model. After
all, these aristocratic families now and then produce some fine
specimens, turned out after the true _noblesse oblige_ principle. What
a neck and shoulders this youngster has! And just see, Kohle, how the
biceps stands out through his tight-fitting shirt-sleeves. A young
Achilles, _corpo di Bacco!_ Upon my word I should just like, now, in
this soft evening light, if I only had colors and canvas--"

"I can help you out with those," interrupted Kohle, also speaking in a
carefully suppressed voice. "I provided myself with a palette only
yesterday--old Katie wants to have her portrait painted for her
grandchild--I think the canvas--"

"Don't bother yourself about it, my good fellow. Perhaps, after all, it
is more sensible of me to study him with my eyes. But look, he tosses
about so often! And now again, it's fine the way the forehead is
rounded out, and then the splendid form of the brows. No wonder he has
good luck with the women; and that even that witch Zenz, who, as a
general thing, is as unapproachable as you please, runs after this fine
fellow like Kaetchen von Heilbronn. I only wish--"

At this moment the door opened, and she of whom he was speaking stole
in on tiptoe with her bouquet. But, light as her step was, it seemed to
have awakened the sleeper. He groaned slightly, threw his right arm
above his head and then slowly opened his eyes.

"Beautiful flowers!" he murmured. "Good-morning! How goes it!--how is
art getting on?"

Then, without waiting for an answer, and as if he were recalling to his
mind a face that had appeared to him in his dreams, he said:

"I only wish I knew--whether it were really she. Has any one--asked
after me?"

Zenz approached softly and held the bouquet before him, so that his
pale face blushed from the reflection of the dark roses, and said, in a
whisper:

"I have a message for you from the beautiful Fraeulein; she was down in
the garden to inquire after you, and she hopes you will soon be well
again. Oh, you know who I mean! The one over yonder, who didn't want to
dance with the rest."

His eyes still rested on the bouquet; the words that he heard overcame
him with such happiness and bliss that he believed he was still
dreaming. By a powerful effort he raised his head a little, so as to
hide his burning face in the flowers. "Zenz," he said, "is that--really
true?"

"As true as I live; and she even began to cry at last, so that I felt
sorry for her myself, although--"

A smile passed over the sick man's lips. He tried to speak, but his
emotion had been too violent. A dizziness overcame him, and, with a
gentle sigh, which did not sound like a sigh of pain, he closed his
eyes and immediately sunk back into a quiet slumber.





                               _BOOK V_.




                               CHAPTER I.


On a pleasant afternoon, a few days later, Jansen, Julie, and Angelica
started from the city for the Starnberg villa.

The drive was silent and sad, for Jansen had been deeply moved by what
had happened, and Julie's heart was full of sympathy for his anxiety.
To the disappointment of all, when they reached Rossel's house, that
worthy met them with a grave face and reported that the doctor had
ordered absolute quiet, and had forbidden all exciting visits. He led
the ladies into the little _salon_ and had some refreshments brought by
Zenz, who opened her eyes wide at Julie in unconcealed admiration. But
they were none of them in a mood to taste anything. They waited with
beating hearts to hear what news Jansen would bring back, for nothing
could dissuade him from going up to the sick man's room.

Felix lay as before in a half-sleeping state, so that Schnetz, whose
watch it happened to be, thought it would do no harm to admit his
friend. But they merely greeted one another with a silent nod. Then the
sculptor stepped up to the sick-bed of his Icarus, and, turning his
head away from the others, stood there motionless for full ten minutes.
Schnetz, who had seated himself again on the stool before the easel and
was cutting out a silhouette, noticed that a trembling, like that of
suppressed sobs, shook Jansen's massive frame. He was surprised at
this, for he did not know in what intimate relations the two had stood
to one another.

"There is no danger," he said, in a low voice; "a few weeks and he will
be able to mount his horse again. How he will get on with his modeling
is not so certain. That cut over the right hand was very heavy. But I
imagine that will be your least sorrow."

The sculptor did not answer.

But the wounded man seemed to have caught a word or two of what Schnetz
had whispered. He slowly opened his heavy, feverish eyes, and, with a
dreamy smile that gave a sweet, arch look to his pale face, he
muttered:

"Sorrow!--why should any one be sorry? The world is so beautiful--even
pain does one good. No, no, we will laugh--laugh--and drink to the
health--"

He made a movement, and the piercing pain it caused him roused him
thoroughly. He recognized the silent figure at his bedside.

"Hans, my old Daedalus!" he cried, making a motion of his hand toward
his friend, "is it you? Good!--this is capital! This gives me more
pleasure--than I can tell you! Have you left your Paradise to come out
here? Oh, if you knew--you see I must not talk much--I could not, even
if I would--else--Heavens! what things--I should have to tell you! And
you me, wouldn't you, old boy? Between ourselves, it wasn't just as it
should have been--we knew almost nothing at all about one another--you
had your head full, and I too. But now, as soon as I am able to talk
again--you know that no human being is what you are to me--except
one--except one--and even she--"

Schnetz rose with considerable noise, stepped up to the bed, and said:
"Fresh ice is of more account just now than warm old friendship. So
stop a bit!"

He made a sign to Jansen to go out without waiting to take leave, and
then busied himself about his nurse's duties, while Felix's looks and
words soon grew confused again.

It was some time before Jansen returned to the ladies, who had been
carrying on a rather monosyllabic conversation with the master of the
house. Julie saw at once from her lover's face how much this meeting
with his sick friend had moved him. She offered to remain out here with
Angelica, in the house, or at least in the neighborhood, so as to
lighten the duties of the men as much as possible. "Let us stay, my
dear Herr Rossel," she entreated; "we shall have no difficulty in
finding a room somewhere in the neighborhood. Angelica will make flower
studies, and I will rip cloth for bandages, and pick lint. A woman
without talents, like myself, is invaluable at such a time."

Rossel declined all these proposals, nor would he hear of such a thing
as Jansen's staying to assist them. They three sufficed to do anything
that men could do. And the female department was also in the best of
hands. Then he began to expatiate with much warmth upon the tireless
energy and willingness of Red Zenz, who had not returned to the
_salon_, saying he thought he owed it to the good child not to hurt her
feelings by accepting any other help than hers and that of his old
house-keeper. In spite of their wish the friends had to yield; but they
made him promise, at parting, that he would send for them at once in
case the duties became more onerous, or he should find they had not
force enough.

In addition to this, Kohle promised to send them news daily.

One other subject came up for discussion during this visit. Even in the
first excitement, Schnetz had urged that they should report the affair,
and have Hiesl, the murderous boatman, handed over to the courts. The
latter had the audacity to go about in Starnberg, and to work at his
calling, as if nothing had happened; indeed, he was reported to have
boasted of the whole affair, and to have said: "I hope I have spoiled
the honorable gentleman's sport for a few weeks, at least." This
cold-blooded, triumphant defiance enraged the lieutenant, and he would
have liked to give the fellow a good lesson. Rossel, however, opposed
this--chiefly in order to spare Zenz, who would undoubtedly be summoned
as a witness, and have to go before a jury. Jansen sided with him,
because he was convinced that it would go against his friend's nature
to see any man--however loath he might be to regard him as a worthy
antagonist--with whom he had fought man to man, accused as a criminal,
and made to suffer punishment through any act of his. As Kohle,
likewise, inclined to this view of the case, it was decided not only to
do nothing about the matter for the present, but also to avoid, if
possible, any independent interference on the part of justice.

The friends soon after took their leave, all deeply impressed by the
gravity of the patient's case and by their visit.




                              CHAPTER II.


But there was one of their traveling-companions who remained behind at
the villa. It is needless to say that Homo accompanied them on their
visit to his sick friend, not traveling, of course, as others of his
race do, in the low compartment reserved for dogs--but in a _coupe_
with his master and the ladies; for everybody knew him, and esteemed
him highly for his superior traits of character. At the last station he
found it too close for him in the narrow compartment. He escaped into
the open air, and bounded along by the side of the train for the rest
of the way. But as he had gotten out of the habit of taking such
youthful runs, and as the way was hot, he made the remaining part
of the journey--from Starnberg to Rossel's villa--at a snail's
pace, and with hanging head and thirsty tongue. Upon reaching the
sick-chamber--after having greeted the wounded Felix with a low,
half-angry, half-mournful howl--he stretched himself out at the foot of
the bed, and nothing could induce him to forsake his resting-place when
Jansen took his leave. He pretended to be asleep, and the friends were
too much accustomed to respect him as an independent, intelligent being
to disturb his rest.

Then, too, he conducted himself; after he had recovered his strength,
with exceeding tact and modesty; demanded no particular care or
attention from anybody, for he evidently saw that they had little time
to spare for him, and accepted with a good grace whatever fell to his
share. He would have been much better provided for down-stairs in the
kitchen, but he evidently thought it would be selfish for him to leave
his place at the sick-bed for the sake of a better meal, and he passed
the greater part of the day at the patient's side; for Felix loved to
pass his heavy hand, half in a dream, over his back, and when he was
awake to address all sorts of caressing speeches to him.

At other times the sick man let his dim, feverish eyes rove about the
studio; examined Kohle's cartoon, which was slowly making progress,
nodded gratefully and contentedly to his silent watchers--to whichever
one happened to be on post at the moment--and then sunk back again into
a refreshing slumber, often with a name on his lips which none of his
attendants understood.

The possessor of this name had not appeared in the garden again since
that first visit. Her uncle, on the other hand, rode by daily, drew up
at the gate whenever there happened to be any one within hail, or else
dismounted and, after tying his horse, went into the house, to inquire
about the invalid. This did not excite remark, for he was an old
acquaintance of the lieutenant, and his niece had made one at the fatal
water-party. Zenz, alone, although as a rule little given to pondering,
had her own thoughts in regard to the interest which uncle and niece
took in an utter stranger, and they only tended to confirm her former
surmises.

The reports from the sick-chamber were not the most favorable that
could have been wished. The healing of the wound in the shoulder went
on, it is true, without interruption--but slowly, on account of the
restlessness and feverishness of the patient. On the following Sunday,
when Jansen came out again with Rosenbusch and the actor, the fever
had, indeed, disappeared; but even now the visits to the sick man were
not allowed to last more than ten minutes, for the physician had
strictly forbidden all conversation until the wound in the lung should
have completely healed. Rosenbusch's offer to relieve Schnetz was
declined--greatly to his sorrow, which was only partially relieved by
Felix begging him to play his flute for a little while in the garden
under the window. Of Elfinger's proposal to read aloud to him, he
promised to take advantage later. He showed constantly how happy the
devoted care of his friends made him, and held the hand of his
"Daedalus" tightly clasped in his own during the whole of the visit,
with a tenderness such as he rarely exhibited before others.

Homo was to have returned with the three visitors, but even now he
could not be induced to do so.

On the day after this second visit Kohle was standing down-stair in the
dining-room at a time which, according to the orders of the day, he
should have devoted to sleep to strengthen himself for his night-watch.
But he could find no rest until he finally put his hand to the work
that burned within his soul. Although the walls had not yet been
prepared for frescoing, but still wore their old stone-gray tint, he
had, by way of experiment, set to work to draw with charcoal an
architectural frame for his cycle of pictures--a row of round-arched
arcades with sturdy Romanesque pillars, resting upon bases connected by
a plain foundation. There were just the same number of arches as the
Venus legend contained separate scenes, and the panels in the spandrils
over the pillars were to contain the portraits of the friends who had
assembled under this roof. This portrait-gallery was begun with the
beautiful head of Jansen's betrothed, who was certainly well fitted to
contest the first rank with Dame Venus (as the latter had been depicted
by Kohle's fancy, at least), while at the end of the row, the round,
good-natured face of Angelica, with its merry, flowing curls, peered
forth in all its plainness. Zenz and old Katie were to be immortalized
among the people in the convents.

Kohle had traced the outlines of the decoration with a bold hand, and
had even allowed himself to be so carried away by his delight as to
begin to fill in the first panel with its whole sketch; for he was
anxious to convince the ever skeptical and critical Rossel how
excellently it would fit into the space allotted to it. But he was
suddenly interrupted by an unexpected visit.

In looking back to that first evening in Paradise, the indulgent reader
may perhaps find some difficulty in recalling a modest figure that took
small part in the bacchanalian excitement of the younger members, and
made no noise himself. But, even if the old man with the calm face and
snow-white hair should be still unforgotten, the figure that now came
tottering into the little hall with unsteady walk, agitated face, and
an old straw hat stuck on the side of his head like a drunken man's,
would find no recognition.

"For God's sake, Herr Schoepf, what's happened to you?" cried the
painter, as he threw aside his crayon. "You look terribly! Do tell
me--"

The old man threw himself on the nearest divan, and gasped as though
compelled to draw his breath from some deep well.

"Is it you, Herr Kohle?" he finally stammered out with much difficulty;
"I sincerely beg your forgiveness for bursting in on you in this way,
without being announced--but don't let me disturb you. Once more I beg
you to excuse me; but there are times when all one's good manners--no,
no, I won't drink anything," he cried, interrupting himself, for he saw
that Kohle had reached out his hand for the bottle of sherry that had
been left from breakfast and still stood on the table--"not a drop,
Herr Kohle--Oh, God! who would have imagined it!"

He sank back on the sofa again after an unsuccessful attempt to rise,
and muttered unintelligibly to himself, as old people so often do.

The painter was greatly shocked. He had always honored this old
gentleman as a very model of cheerful equanimity and clear-headedness;
and in many of his professional or personal troubles he had often felt
disposed to go and ask his advice, which he always gave with great
wisdom and gentleness. And now Kohle saw him sitting there helpless and

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