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The malady of the century

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Title: The malady of the century

Author: Max Simon Nordau


        
Release date: July 1, 2003 [eBook #4231]
                Most recently updated: December 27, 2020

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MALADY OF THE CENTURY ***




Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al Haines.










THE MALADY OF THE CENTURY


BY

MAX NORDAU



Author of "THE COMEDY OF SENTIMENT," "HOW WOMEN LOVE," Etc., Etc.





CONTENTS.

    I.  Mountain and Forest
   II.  Vanity of Vanities
  III.  Heroes
   IV.  It was not to be
    V.  A Lay Sermon
   VI.  An Idyll
  VII.  Symposium
 VIII.  Dark Days
   IX.  Results
    X.  A Seaside Romance
   XI.  In the Horselberg
  XII.  Tannhauser's Plight
 XIII.  Consummation
  XIV.  Uden Horizo




THE MALADY OF THE CENTURY


CHAPTER I.

MOUNTAIN AND FOREST.


"Come, you fellows, that's enough joking. This defection of yours,
melancholy Eynhardt, combines obstinacy with wisdom, like Balaam's ass!
Well! may you rest in peace. And now let us be off."

The glasses, filled with clear Affenthaler, rang merrily together, the
smiling landlord took up his money, and the company rose noisily from
the wooden bench, overturning it with a bang. The round table was only
proof against a similar accident on account of its structure, which
some one with wise forethought had so designed that only the most
tremendous shaking could upset its equilibrium. The boisterous group
consisted of five or six young men, easily recognized as students by
their caps with colored bands, the scars on their faces, and their
rather swaggering manner. They slung their knapsacks on, stepped
through the open door of the little arbor where they had been sitting,
on to the highroad, and gathered round the previous speaker. He was a
tall, good-looking young man, with fair hair, laughing blue eyes, and a
budding mustache.

"Then you are determined, Eynhardt, that you won't go any further?"
asked he, with an accent which betrayed him as a Rhinelander.

"Yes, I am determined," Eynhardt answered.

"A groan for the worthless fellow; but more in sorrow than in anger,"
said the tall one to the others. They groaned three times loudly, all
together, while the Rhinelander gravely beat time. An unpracticed ear
would very likely have failed to note the shade of feeling implied in
the noise; but he appeared satisfied.

"Well, just as you like. No compulsion. Freedom is the best thing in
life--including the freedom to do stupid things."

"Perhaps he knows of some cave where he is going to turn hermit," said
one of the group.

"Or he has a little business appointment, and we should be in the way,"
said another.

They laughed, and the Rhinelander went on:

"Well! moon away here, and we will travel on. But before all things be
true to yourself. Don't forget that the whole world is as much a
phantom as the brown Black Forest maiden. And now farewell; and think a
great deal about us phantom people, who will always keep up the ghost
of a friendship for you."

The young man whom he addressed shook him and the others by the hand,
and they all lifted their caps with a loud "hurrah," and struck out
vigorously on the road. The sentiment of the farewell, and the tender
speeches, had been disposed of in the inn, so they now parted gayly, in
youth's happy fullness of life and hope for the future, and without any
of that secret melancholy which Time the immeasurable distils into
every parting. Hardly had they turned their backs on the friend they
left behind them when they began to sing, "Im Schwarzen Walfisch zu
Askalon," exaggerating the melancholy of the first half of the tune,
and the gayety of the second, passing riotously away behind a turn of
the road, their song becoming fainter and fainter in the distance.

This little scene, which took place on an August afternoon in the year
1869, had for its theater the highroad leading from Hausach to Triberg,
just at the place where a footpath descends into the valley to the
little town of Hornberg. The persons represented were young men who had
lately graduated at Heidelberg, and who were taking a holiday together
in the Black Forest, recovering from the recent terrors of examination
in the fragrant air of the pine woods. As far off as Offenburg they had
traveled by the railway in the prosaic fashion of commercial travelers,
from there they had tramped like Canadian backwoodsmen, and reached
Hasslach--twelve miles as the crow flies. After resting for a day they
set out at the first cockcrow, and before the noontide heat reached the
lovely Kinzigthal, which lies all along the way from Hausach to
Hornberg. Over the door of a wayside inn a signboard, festooned with
freshly-cut carpenter's shavings, beckoned invitingly to them, and here
the young men halted. The view from this place was particularly
beautiful. The road made a kind of terrace halfway up the mountain, on
one side rising sheer up for a hundred feet to its summit, thickly
wooded all the way, on the other side sloping to the wide valley, where
the Gutach flowed, at times tumbling over rough stones, or again
spreading itself softly like oil, through flat meadow land. Below lay
the little town of Hornberg, with its crooked streets and alleys, its
stately square, framing an old church, several inns, and
prosperous-looking houses and shops. Beyond the valley rose a high,
steep hill, with a white path climbing in zigzags through its wooded
sides. On the summit a white house with many windows was perched,
seeming to hang perpendicularly a thousand feet above the valley. Its
whitewashed walls stood out sharply against the background of green
pine trees, clearly visible for many miles round. A conspicuous
inscription in large black letters showed that this audacious and
picturesque house was the Schloss hotel, and a glance at the gray
ruined tower which rose behind it gave at once a meaning to the name.
Behind the hill, with its outline softened by trees and encircled by
the blue sky, were ridges of other hills in parallel lines meeting the
horizon, alternately sharp-edged and rounded, stretching from north to
south. They seemed like some great sea, with majestic wave-hills and
wave-valleys; behind the first appeared a second, then a third, then a
fourth, as far as one's eye could see; each one of a distinct tone of
color, and of all the shades from the deepest green through blue and
violet to vaporous pale gray.

The sight of this picture had decided Wilhelm Eynhardt not to go any
further. The others had resolved to push on to Triberg the same day,
and above all, not to turn back till they had bathed in the Boden-see.
As every persuasion was powerless to alter Eynhardt's decision, they
separated, and the travelers started on their walk to Triberg.
Eynhardt, however, stayed at Hornberg, meaning to climb to the Schloss
hotel again from the other side.

Wilhelm Eynhardt was a young man of twenty-four, tall and slim of
figure, with a strikingly handsome face. His eyes were almond-shaped,
not large but very dark, with much charm of expression. The
finely-marked eyebrows served by their raven blackness to emphasize the
whiteness of the forehead, which was crowned by an abundant mass of
curling black hair. His fresh complexion had still the bloom of early
youth, and would hardly have betrayed his age, if it had not been
shaded by a dark brown silky beard, which had never known a razor. It
was an entirely uncommon type, recalling in profile, Antinous, and the
full face reminding one of the St. Sebastian of Guido Roni in the
museum of the Capitol; a face of the noblest manhood, without a single
coarse feature. His manner, although quiet, gave the impression of keen
enthusiasm, or, more rightly speaking, of unworldly inspiration. All
who saw him were powerfully attracted, but half-unconsciously felt a
slight doubt whether even so fine a specimen of manhood was quite fitly
organized and equipped for the strife of existence. At the university
he had been given the nickname of Wilhelmina, on account of a certain
gentleness and delicacy of manner, and because he neither drank nor
smoked. Such jokes, not ill-natured, were directed against his outward
appearance, but had a shade of meaning as regards his character.

As Wilhelm walked into the courtyard of the Schloss hotel he stopped a
moment to regain his breath. Before him was the stately new house,
whose white-painted walls and many windows had looked down on the
high-road; to the left stood the round tower inclosed within a ruined
wall, shading an airy lattice-work building, in which on a raised
wooden floor stood a table and some benches. Several people, evidently
guests at the hotel, sat there drinking wine and beer, and eying the
newcomer curiously. The burly landlord, in village dress, emerged from
the open door of the cellar in the tower, and wished him "good-day." He
had a thick beard and a sunburned face, with good-natured blue eyes.
With a searching glance at the young man's cap and knapsack, he waited
for Wilhelm to speak.

"Can I have a room looking on to the valley?" asked the latter.

"Not at this moment," the landlord answered, clearing his throat
loudly; "there is hardly a room free here, and that only in the top
story. But to-morrow, or the day after, many people are leaving, and
then I can give you what you want."

Wilhelm's face clouded with disappointment, but only for a moment, then
he said: "Very well, I will stay."

"Luggage?" said the landlord, in his short, unceremonious way. "My
luggage is at Haslach. It can come up to-morrow."

"Bertha," called the landlord, in such a strident tone that the
mountains echoed the sound. The visitors drinking in the kiosk smiled;
they were well accustomed to the man. A neat red-cheeked girl appeared
in the doorway. "Number 47," shouted the landlord, and went off to his
other duties.

Bertha led the new guest up three flights of uncarpeted wooden
staircase, down a long passage to a light, clean, but sparely-furnished
room. The girl told him the hours of meals, brought some water, and
left him alone. He hung his knapsack on a hook on the wall, opened the
little window, and gazed long at the view. Underneath was the open
space where he had been standing, to the left the tower, and behind,
over the ruined walls, he could see the old, neglected castle yard full
of weeds and heaps of rubbish--a picture of decay and desolation.

"I have chosen well," thought Wilhelm, for he loved solitude, and
promised himself enjoyable hours of wandering in the ruins in company
with luxuriant flowers and singing birds.

He barely gave himself time to freshen his face with cold water, and to
change his thick walking shoes for lighter ones; immediately hurrying
out to make acquaintance with the castle. Before he could get there he
had first to find in the tumbledown wall a hole large enough to enable
him to get through. He shortly found himself in a fairly large square
space, the uneven ground being formed of a mass of rubbish, mounds of
earth, and deep holes. Woods protected the greater part of it, most of
the trees stunted and choked by undergrowth and shrubs, with
occasionally a high, solitary pine tree, and near to the west and south
walls half-withered oaks and mighty beeches stood thickly. Here and
there from the bushes peeped up bare pieces of crumbling stone and
broken pieces of mortar, in whose crevices hung long grasses, and where
yellow, white, and red flowers nestled. Climbing, stumbling, and
slipping, he worked his way through this wilderness, the length and
breath of which he wished to inspect so as to discover a place where he
could rest quietly, when he suddenly came to a precipitous fall of the
ground, concealed from him by a thick curtain of leaves. Startled and
taken by surprise, the ground seemed to him to sink under his feet. He
instinctively caught hold of some branches to keep himself from
falling, pricking his hands with the thorns, and breaking a slender
bough, finally rolling in company with dust and earth, torn-out bushes
and stone, down a steep declivity of several feet to a little grass
plot at the bottom. He heard a slight scream near him, and a girlish
form sprang up and cried in an anxious voice:

"Have you hurt yourself?"

Wilhelm picked himself up as quickly as he could, brushed the earth
from his clothes, and taking off his cap said, "Thanks, not much. Only
a piece of awkwardness. But I am afraid I have frightened you?" he
added.

"A little bit; but that is all right."

They looked at each other for the first time, and the lady laughed,
while Wilhelm blushed deeply. She stopped again directly, blushed also,
and dropped her eyes. She was a girl in the first bloom of youth, of
particularly fine and well-made figure, with a beautiful face; two
dimples in her cheeks giving her a roguish expression, and a pair of
lively brown eyes. A healthy color was in her cheeks, and in the
well-cut, seductive little mouth. Her luxuriant, golden-brown hair, in
the fashion of the day, was brushed back in long curls. She had as her
only ornament a pale gold band in her hair, and wore a simple dress of
light-flowered material, the high waistband fitting close to the
girlish figure. Conventionality began to assert its rights over nature,
and the girl too felt confused at finding herself in the middle of a
conversation with a strange man, suddenly shot down at her very feet.
Wilhelm understood and shared her embarrassment, and bowing, he said:

"As no doubt we are at the same house, allow me to introduce myself. My
name is Wilhelm Eynhardt. I come from Berlin, and took up my abode an
hour ago at the Schloss hotel."

"From Berlin," said the girl quickly; "then we are neighbors. That is
very nice. And where do you live in Berlin, if I may ask?"

"In Dorotheenstrasse."

"Of course you do," and a clear laugh deepened the shadow of her
dimples.

"Why 'of course?'" asked Wilhelm, rather surprised.

"Why, because that is our Latin quarter, and as a student--you are a
student, I suppose?"

"Yes, and no. In the German sense I am no longer a student, for I took
my degree a year ago; but the word in English is better and truer, as
there 'student' is used where we should say scholar (gelehrter).
Scholars we are, not only learners. In the English sense then I am a
student, and hope to remain so all my life."

"Ah, you speak English," she said, quickly catching at the word; "that
is charming. I am tremendously fond of English, and am quite accustomed
to it, as I spent a great part of my time in England when I was very
young. I have been told that I have a slight English accent in speaking
German. Do you think so?"

"My ear is not expert enough for that," said Wilhelm apologetically.

"My friends," she chattered on, "nearly all speak French; but I think
English is much more uncommon. Fluent English in a German is always
proof of good education. Don't you think so?"

"Not always," said Wilhem frankly; "it might happen that one had worked
as a journeyman in America."

The girl turned up her nose a little at this rather unkind observation,
but Wilhelm went on:

"With your leave I would rather keep to our mother-tongue. To speak in
a foreign language with a fellow-country-woman without any necessity
would be like acting a charade, and a very uncomfortable thing."

"I think a charade is very amusing," she answered; "but just as you
like. Opportunities of speaking English are not far to seek. Most of
the visitors at the hotel are English. I dare say you have noticed it
already. But they are not the best sort. They are common city people,
who even drop their h's, but who play at being lords on the Continent.
Of course I have learned already to tell a 'gentleman' from a 'snob.'"

Wilhelm smiled at the self-conscious importance with which she spoke.
His eyes wandered over her beautiful hair, to the tender curve of her
slender neck and beautiful shoulders, while she, feeling perfectly
secure again, settled herself comfortably. Her seat was a projecting
piece of stone, which had been converted by a soft covering of moss
into a delightful resting-place. An overhanging bush shaded it
pleasantly. In front lay a corner of the castle; across a smooth piece
of turf and through a wide gap in the wall they caught a view of the
mountains, as if painted by some artist's brush--a perfect composition
which would have put the crowning touch to his fame. The girl had been
trying to make a sketch of the view in a well-worn sketchbook which lay
near.

"You have given a sufficient excuse for your sketches by your feeling
for natural beauty," remarked Wilhelm. "May I look at the page?"

"Oh," she said, somewhat confused, "my will is of the best, but I can
do so little," and she hesitatingly gave him her album. He took it and
also the pencil, looked alternately at the mountains and on the page of
the book, and without asking leave began to improve upon it,
strengthening a line here, lightening a shadow and giving greater
breadth, and then growing deeply interested in his work, he sat down
without ceremony on the mossy bank, took a piece of india-rubber, and
erasing here, adding lines there, sometimes laying in a shadow, giving
strength to the foreground and lightness to the background, he ended by
making a really pretty and artistic sketch.

The girl had watched him wonderingly, and said as he returned the
album, "But you are a great artist," and without letting him speak she
went on, "and by your appearance I had taken you for a student! But you
are not in the least like a student, nor in fact like a German either.
I have often met Indian princes in society in London, and I think you
are very much like them."

Wilhelm smiled. "There is a grain of truth in what you say, although
you overrate it a little. A great artist I certainly am not, nor even a
little one, but I have always observed much and painted a good deal
myself, and originally I thought of devoting myself to an artist's
career; and if I have nothing in common with Indian princes, and am
merely a plebeian German, I very likely have a drop of Indian blood in
my veins."

"Really," she said, with curiosity.

"Yes, my mother was a Russian German living in Moscow, and whose
father, a Thuringian, had married a Russian girl of gypsy descent.
Through this grandmother, whom I never knew, I am related by remote
genealogical descent to Indians. But you do not look like a German
either, with your beautiful dark hair and eyebrows."

She took this personal compliment in good part as she answered quickly:

"There is some reason for that too. Just as you have Indian, I have
French blood in my veins. My father's mother was a Colonial, her maiden
name was Du Binache."

So they gossiped on like old acquaintances. Young and beautiful as they
were, they found the deepest pleasure in one another, and the cold
feeling of strangeness melted as by a charm. They were awakened to the
consciousness that half an hour earlier neither of them had an idea of
the other's existence, by the appearance of a girl in the gap in the
wall, who seemed very much surprised at the sight of their evident
intimacy. The young lady stood up rather hastily and went a few steps
toward the newcomer, a servant-maid, who had brought a cloak for her
mistress, and took charge of her album, sunshade, and large straw hat.

"Is it so late already?" she said, with a naive surprise, which left no
room for doubt even to Wilhelm's modesty.

"Certainly, fraulein," said the maid, pointing with her hand to the
distant mountain, whose peaks were already clothed with the orange hue
of twilight; then she looked alternately at her young mistress and the
strange gentleman, whose handsome face she inwardly noted.

"Do you think of making any stay here?" asked the young lady of
Wilhelm, who followed slowly.

"Yes, certainly," he answered at once.

"Then we may become good friends. My parents will be glad to make your
acquaintance. I did not tell you before that my father is Herr Ellrich."

As Wilhelm merely bowed, without seeming to recognize the name, she
said rather sharply, and slightly raising her voice:

"I thought as you came from Berlin you would be sure to know my
father's name--Councilor Ellrich, Vice-President of the 'Seehandlung.'"

The name and title made very little impression on Wilhelm, but his
politeness brought forth an "Ah!" which satisfied Fraulein Ellrich.
They left the ruins by an easy path which Wilhelm had not noticed
before, and walked together to the entrance of the hotel, where she
took leave of him by an inclination of her head. He betook himself to
his room in a dream, and while he recalled to his mind the picture of
her beautiful face, and the clear ring of her voice, he thought how
grateful he was to this chance, that not only had he become acquainted
with the girl, but that he had avoided in such a glorious fashion the
discomfort of a formal introduction. Also Wilhelm knew himself well,
and felt sure that, badly endowed as he was for forming new
acquaintances, he could never have become friends with Fraulein Ellrich
apart from the accident of his fall in the castle yard.

Dinner was served at separate tables where single guests might take it
as they pleased, and Wilhelm was absentminded and dreamy when he sat
down. He scarcely glanced at the large, cool dining-room, ornamented
with engravings of portraits of the Grand Dukes of Baden and their
wives. Six large windows looked into the valley of the Gutach with its
little town of Hornberg, and the mountains lying beyond. He hardly
noticed the rather silent people at the other tables, in which the
English element predominated. He had come in purposely late in the hope
of finding Fraulein Ellrich already there. She was not present; but he
was not kept long in suspense before a waiter opened the door, and the
lovely girl appeared accompanied by a stately gentleman and a stout
lady. They seemed to be known to the servants, for as soon as they
appeared the headwaiter and his subordinates rushed toward them, and
with many bows and scrapes took their wraps from them and ushered them
to their places.

Wilhelm, who possessed very little knowledge of society, was somewhat
at a loss. Ought he to recognize the young lady? If he followed his
inclination, he certainly would do so. But her parents! They seemed to
be cold and reserved-looking. Happily all fell out for the best. The
Ellrichs walked straight to the table where he was sitting, and in a
moment Wilhelm was greeting his lovely acquaintance with a low bow. Her
quick eyes had already recognized him from the doorway. She returned
his greeting smiling and blushing, and as her father nodded kindly, the
ice was broken. Wilhelm introduced himself, and the councilor gave him
the tips of his fingers and said: "If you have no objection we will sit
at your table." His wife, who gazed at Wilhelm through a gold
"pince-nez" with hardly concealed surprise, took her place next to him;
on the other side sat her husband, and opposite the daughter's face
smiled at him.

The councilor was a well-preserved man of about fifty, of good height,
dressed in a well-made gray traveling suit, with a light gray silk tie
adorned with a pin of black pearl. His closely-cut hair was very thin,
and had almost disappeared from the top of his head. His chin was
clean-shaven, but his well-brushed whiskers and closely-cut mustache
showed signs of gray. His light blue eyes were cold and rather
tired-looking, at the corners of the mouth were evident signs of
indolence, and his whole appearance gave an impression of
self-consciousness mixed with indifference toward the rest of mankind;
his wife, stout, blooming, and tranquil, appeared to be a kindly soul.

The conversation opened trivially on the circumstances of Wilhelm
meeting with Fraulein Ellrich, and on the beauty of the neighborhood,
which Herr Ellrich glorified as not being overrun.

"I would much rather recommend it for quiet than Switzerland with its
crowds," he said.

Wilhelm agreed with him, and related how he was induced by the romantic
aspect of the place to give up his original plans, and to anchor
himself here. When they questioned him, he gave them some information
about Heidelberg and his journey to Hornberg. Frau Ellrich complimented
him on his sketch, and while he modestly disclaimed the praise, she
asked him why he had not devoted himself to art.

"That is a peculiar result of my development," answered Wilhelm
thoughtfully. "While I was still at the gymnasium I sketched and
painted hard, and after the final examination I went to the Art Academy
for two years; but the further I went into the study of art, and the
more attentively I followed in the beaten track of art-studies, the
clearer it was to me that he who would secure an abiding success in art
must be a blind copyist of nature. Certainly the personal peculiarities
of an artist often please his contemporaries. It is the fashion to do
him honor if he flatters the prevailing direction of taste. But those
of the race who follow after, scorn what those before them have
admired, and exactly what those of one time have prized as progressive
innovations, they who come after reject as mere aberration. What the
artist has himself accomplished, I mean his so-called personal
comprehension or his capricious interpretation of nature, passes away;
but what he simply and honorably reproduces, as he has truly seen it,
lives forever, and the remotest age will gladly recognize in such
art-work its old acquaintance, unchanging nature."

Fraulein Ellrich hung on his words in astonishment, while her parents
calmly went on eating their fish.

"So," went on Wilhelm, speaking chiefly to his opposite neighbor, "so,
I tried when I drew or painted to reproduce nature with the greatest
truth; but at a certain point I became conscious of a perception that a
hidden meaning in an unintelligible language lay written there. The
form of things, and also every so-called accident of form, appeared to
me to be the necessary expression of something within, which was hidden
from me. The wish arose in me to penetrate behind the visible face of
nature, to know why she appears in such a way, and not in another. I
wanted to learn the language, the words of which, with no understanding
of their sense, I had been slavishly copying; and so I turned to the
study of physical science."

"So your two years at the Art School were not wasted," remarked Herr
Ellrich.

"Certainly not, for to an observer of natural objects it is most
valuable to have a trained eye for form and color."

"Yes, and beside, drawing and painting are such charming
accomplishments, and so useful to a young man in society."

"Playing the piano and singing are still more so," put in Frau Ellrich.

"But dancing most of all," cried Fraulein Ellrich. "Do you dance?"

"No," answered Wilhelm shortly.

The words jarred upon him, and a silence ensued.

The councilor broke this with the question:

"Then you are a doctor of physical science?"

"Yes, sir."

"What is your particular department? Zoology, botany?"

"I have principally studied chemistry and physics, and I think of
devoting myself to the latter."

"Physics, oh yes. A wide and beautiful sphere. So much is included in
it. Electricity, galvanism, magnetism--those are all new faculties very
little known; and as regards submarine telegraph the knowledge cannot
be too useful."

"These sides of the question have not hitherto interested me. I ask of
physics the unlocking of the nature of things. It has not yet given me
the key, but it is something to know on what insecure, weak, and
limited experiments our vaunted knowledge of the existence of the world
of energy, of matter and their properties, depend."

Frau Ellrich looked at him approvingly.

"You speak beautifully, Herr Eynhardt, and it must be a great enjoyment
to hear you lecture."

"You will soon have a professorship, I suppose?" remarked Herr Ellrich,
turning around to the blushing Wilhelm.

"Oh, no!" said he quickly, "I do not aspire to that; I believe in
Faust's verse: 'Ich ziehe... meine Schuler an der Nase herum--Und sehe
dass wir nichts wissen konnen;' and I also bilde mir nicht ein, Ich
konnte was lehren.' I wonder at and envy the men who teach such things
with so much influence and conviction, and I am very grateful to them
for initiating me into their methods and power of working properly. But
there has never been a likelihood of my venturing to approach young men
and saying to them, 'You must work with me for three years earnestly
and diligently, and I will lead you to knowledge, so that at last,
through the contents of a book, you may get a flying glimpse of the
phantom which has so often eluded you.'"

"Your opinions are very interesting," said Herr Ellrich; "but a
professorship is still the one practical goal for a man who studies
physics. Forgive me if I express my meaning bluntly; there is money to
be made in physics through a professorship."

"Happily I am in a position which makes it unnecessary for me to work
for my bread."

"That is quite another thing," said the councilor in a friendly way,
while his wife cast a quick glance over Wilhelm's clothes,
unfashionable and rather worn, but scrupulously clean.

"One can see that this idealist neglects his outward appearance," her
good-natured glance, half-apologetic, half-compassionate, seemed to say.

Herr Ellrich changed the conversation to the management of the hotel;
discussing for a time the Margrave's wines, the south German cookery,
the Black Forest tourists, and a variety of other minor topics. He then
asked his daughter:

"Now, Loulou, have you made a programme for tomorrow yet? She is our
maitre de plaisir," he explained to Wilhelm.

"A frightfully difficult post," exclaimed Loulou. "Papa and mamma love
quiet; I like moving about, and I endeavor to harmonize the two."

Wilhelm thought that the opposing tasks would very soon be harmonized
if Loulou subordinated her inclinations to her parents' comfort; but he
kept his thoughts to himself.

"I vote that to-morrow morning we go for a little drive. As to the
afternoon, we can arrange that later. Perhaps Dr.---" She stopped
short, and her mother came to her help and completed the invitation.

"It would be very kind of you to join us."

"I am only afraid that I might be in the way."

"Oh, no; certainly not," said the mother and daughter together, and
Herr Ellrich nodded encouragingly.

Wilhelm felt that the invitation was meant cordially, and his fear of
obtruding himself overcome, he accepted.

Circumstances at the castle very greatly favored Wilhelm's intercourse
with the Ellrich's, or rather with Loulou. In this house on the summit
of the hill they met constantly in close companionship. Frau Ellrich
enjoyed nothing better than walking on the arm of this handsome young
man up and down the wooded slopes, as till now she had been obliged to
go without such escort. Herr Ellrich liked to take his holiday in a
different way from the ladies. If he felt obliged to take exercise he
would borrow the landlord's gun and dogs and shoot. At other times he
would lie down anywhere on a plaid on the grass, smoke a cigar, and
read foreign papers like the Times from beginning to end. The afternoon
was taken up by a nap, and in the evening he would be ready to hear an
account of how his family had spent the day--perhaps in a long carriage
excursion through the neighboring valleys.

Frau Ellrich was in the habit of appearing at the first table d'hote,
and then doing homage to the peaceful custom of afternoon sleep. In the
first cool hours of the morning she walked a little in the perfumed air
of the pine woods, and the rest of the time she devoted to a voluminous
correspondence, which seemed to be her one passion. Thus Loulou was
alone nearly always in the morning, and frequently in the afternoon as
well, and quite contented to ramble with Wilhelm through the woods, or
to sit with him in the ruins, where they learned to know each other,
and chattered without ceasing.

The subject of conversation mattered not. They had the story of their
short lives to relate to one another. Loulou's was soon told. Her
narrative was like the merry warbling of birds, and was from beginning
to end the story of a serene dream of spring. She was the only child of
her parents, who in spite of outward indifference and apparent coldness
adored her, and had never denied her anything. The first fifteen years
of her life were spent in her charming nest, in the beautiful house in
the Lennestrasse, where she was born. "When we return to Berlin you
shall see how pleasant my home is. I will show you my little blue
sitting-room, my winter garden, my aviary, my parrots and blackbirds."
A heavy trial had befallen her--the only trial that she had yet
experienced. She had been sent to England for the completion of her
education, and had to suddenly part from all her home surroundings. She
stayed there for three years with an aunt who had married an English
banker. The visit proved delightful, and she grew to love England
enthusiastically. She drove and rode, and even followed the hounds. In
winter there was the pantomime at Drury Lane, the flights to St.
Leonards, Hastings, Leamington, the mad rides across country through
frosted trees behind the hounds in full cry; in summer during the
season there were parties, balls, the opera, the park; then in the
holidays splendid travels with papa and mamma, once to Belgium, France,
and the Rhine, another time to Switzerland and Italy, then to
Heligoland and Norway. No, she could never have such good times again.
In the following year she went back to Berlin, and had spent a very
agreeable winter, a subscription ball, several other balls, innumerable
soirees, a box at the opera, lovely acquaintances, with naturally many
successes--the envy of false friends, but she did not allow herself to
be much disturbed by them.

Wilhelm listened to this chatter with mixed feelings. If she seemed
superficial, he reconciled himself by a glance at her beautiful silken
hair, at her laughing brown eyes, at her roguish dimples, and instantly
he pleaded with his cooler reason for pardon for the lovely girl--he
for nineteen years had had other things beside pleasure to think of!
These charms seemed enough to work the taming magic of Orpheus over the
wild animals of the woods.

"And you were never," he asked timidly as she paused, "a little bit in
love?"

"I can look after myself," she answered, with a silvery laugh, and
Wilhelm felt as if an iron band had been lifted from his heart, like
the trusty Henry's in the story.

"That points to marvelous wisdom in a child of society--seeing so many
people--so attractive! You are indifferent then to admiration?"

"I did not say that. My fancy has been often enough touched, but--"

"But your heart has not?"

"No."

"Really not?" continued he, in a tone of voice in which, he himself
detected the anxiety.

She shook her head, and looked down thoughtfully. But after a short
pause she raised her rosy face and said, "No--better die than speak
untruths--I was rather in love with our pastor who confirmed me. He was
thin and pale with long hair, much longer than yours. And he spoke very
beautifully and powerfully--I felt sentimental when I thought of him.
But I soon got to know his wife, who was as pointed and hard as a
knitting needle, and his children, whose number I never could count
exactly, and my youthful feelings received a severe chill." She
laughed, and Wilhelm joined her heartily.

It was now his turn to relate his story. He was as to his birthplace
hardly a German, but a Russian, as he first saw the light in Moscow, in
the year 1845.

"So you are now twenty-four?"

"Last May. Are you frightened at such an age, fraulein?"

"That is not so old, twenty-four--particularly for a man," she
protested with great earnestness.

His father, he went on, was from Konigsberg, had studied philology, and
when he left the university had become a tutor in a distinguished
Russian family. He was the child of poor parents, and had to take the
first opportunity which presented itself of earning his living. So he
went to Russia, where he lived for twenty years as a tutor in private
families, and then as a teacher in a Moscow gymnasium. He married late
in life, an only child of German descent, who helped her middle-aged
husband by a calm observance of duty and a mother's love for his
children. "My mother was a remarkable woman. She had dark eyes and
hair, and an enthusiastic and devoted expression in her face, which
made me feel sad, as a child, if I looked at her for long. She spoke
little, and then in a curious mixture of German and Russian. Strangely
enough, she always called herself a German, and spoke Russian like a
foreigner; but later, when we went to Berlin, she discovered that she
was really a Russia, and always wished she were back in Moscow, never
feeling at home amid her new surroundings. She was a Protestant like
her father, but had inherited from her Russian mother a lingering
affection for the orthodox faith, and she often used to go to the
Golden Church of the Kremlin, whose brown, holy images had a mystical
effect on her. She loved to sing gypsy songs in a low voice. She would
not teach them to us. She was always very quiet, and preferred being
alone with us to any society or entertainment."

When Wilhelm was four years old there came a little sister, a bright,
light-haired, blue-eyed creature after her father's heart. She was
named Luise, but she was always called Blondchen. She was his only
playfellow, as the irritable father in Moscow cared for no
acquaintances. His father's one wish was to return to his home, but for
a long time the mother would not have it so. At last, in the year 1858,
he accomplished his wish. He was then sixty-three years old, and he
represented to his wife that after his life of unremitting work, now in
its undoubted decline, he had a right to spend the last few years in
peace in his native land. He possessed enough for his family to live
on; the children would grow and get a better education than in Russia,
and above all he wished to keep his Prussian nationality. The mother
yielded, and so they came to Berlin, where the father bought a modest
house near the Friedrich-Wilhelm gymnasium. This house was now
Wilhelm's property. "We children liked Berlin very much. I soon became
independent and self-reliant, after school hours wandering in the
streets as much as I pleased, and used to make eager explorations in
all directions, coming home enraptured when I had found a beautiful
neighborhood, a stately house, a statue of some general in bronze or
marble. I used to take Blondchen by the hand, and show her my
discovery. The Friedrichstadt with its straight streets interested us
very much; I had a fancy that the houses were marshaled in battalions,
as if by an officer on parade, and that when he gave the word 'March,'
they would suddenly walk away in step, like the soldiers on the parade
ground. I explained this to my sister, and often when we were in our
own street she would call out 'March!' to see if the long row of houses
would not begin to move. However, we liked the old part of Berlin
better, where the streets, with their capricious and serpent-like
windings, reminded us of the crooked alleys of Moscow. The streamlets
of the Spree exercised a powerful attraction over us. Blondchen thought
they played hide-and-seek with children, who would run through the
streets to search for them. They came suddenly into sight where one
would least expect to see them, in the yard of a house in the
Werderschen Market, behind an apparently innocent archway on the
Hausvogtei Platz, at the backs of houses whose fronts betrayed no
existence of any water near. My sister so often longed to catch sight
of the oily satiny sheen of the river's light in unsuspected places
that she would drag me off to note her discoveries. She wanted all the
varying sights of the Spree, which showed itself at the ends of alleys,
or in courtyards or behind houses, suddenly to appear to her, so that
she might have the right to first name her discovery."

He was silent awhile, deep in memories of the past. Then he said: "If I
have lingered over these childish reminiscences it is because I have
not my Blondchen any longer. On one of our wandering excursions we were
caught in a heavy shower of rain, and became wet through. My sister was
taken ill with rheumatism, and eight days afterward we buried her in
the churchyard."

The mother soon followed Blondchen. Sorrow over the child, and
homesickness, combined with weak health, proved too great a strain.
Wilhelm remained alone with the dispirited and sorrowful old father,
whom he never left except for his three years' military service in the
field. Then the father, to shorten the time of separation, accompanied
the army (in spite of his seventy years) as an ambulance assistant. The
following year he died, and Wilhelm was left alone in the world.

Loulou was not wanting in heart, and she had as much feeling as it is
proper for an educated German girl to show. By an involuntary movement,
she held out her hand, which Wilhelm caught and kissed. They both grew
very red, and she looked wistfully at him with her eyes wet. Had he
understood the look, and been of a bold nature, he would have clasped
the girl to his breast and kissed her. Her red lips would have made
scarcely any resistance. But the confusion of mind passed quickly, the
light afternoon sunshine and the sight of the people passing through
the breach in the castle wall brought him to full consciousness, and
the dangerous step was not taken. Loulou recovered her sprightliness,
and going back to his story asked him, "So you have been in a campaign?"

"Certainly."

"Did you become an officer?"

"No, fraulein, only a 'vize-Feldwebel.'"

"Have you fought in a battle?"

"Oh, yes, at Burkersdork, Skalitz, Koniginhof, and Koniggratz."

"That must have been frightfully interesting. And have you ever killed
one of the enemy?"

"Happily not. It does not fall to the lot of every soldier to kill a
man. He does his duty if he stands up in his place ready to be killed."

"Have you any photographs of yourself in uniform?"

He looked at her surprised and said:

"No, why?"

A roguish smile, which at the last question had curled at the corners
of her mouth, broke into a merry laugh.

"I wanted to know whether you marched into battle with your curls, or
whether you sacrificed them to the fatherland?"

Wilhelm was not offended, but said simply:

"Dear young lady, appearances give you the right to make fun--"

"Ah, don't be angry, I am ill-mannered."

"No, no, you are quite right; but, believe me, I only wear my hair long
so as to save myself the trouble of going to the hairdresser's. If I
dared imagine that I should be less insupportable with a tonsure--"

"For heaven's sake, don't think of it, the curls suit you very well."
She said this with a frivolity of manner which she immediately
perceived to be unsuitable, and to get over her embarrassment, she
jumped at another subject of conversation. "So you live quite alone?
That strikes me as being very dreary. Still you must have many friends?"

"Yes, so-called friends--comrades from the gymnasium, from the academy,
and the university. But I do not count much on these superficial
acquaintances--I have really only one friend."

"Who is she"

"He is called Paul Haber, and is Assistant of Chemistry at the
Agricultural College."

"A nice man?"

"Oh, yes."

"How old is he?"

"About a year older than I am."

"What is he like?"

Wilhelm smiled.

"I believe he is very good-looking, strong, not very tall, with a fair
mustache, otherwise closely shaved, and with short hair, not like me!
He thinks a good deal of appearance, and always knows what sort of ties
are worn. He dances well, and is very pleased if people take him for an
officer in civilian's clothes. But he is a true soul, and has a heart
of gold. He is clever too, practical, and would do for me as much as I
would do for him with all my heart."

"Hardly one unpleasant word for an absent friend. That is scarcely as
my friends speak of me," and she quietly added: "Nor as I speak of my
friends. You make me curious about Herr--"

"Haber."

"You must introduce him to us."

"He would be most happy."

Loulou now knew more about Wilhelm than she had hitherto known of any
man in the world. Only on one point was she unenlightened, and this she
hastened to clear up on the following day, when they were looking for
berries in the wood.

"You asked me if my heart had been touched yet. Would it be right if I
were to ask you the same question?"

"The question seems very natural to me--I can truthfully assure you I
have never been in love, not even with a pastor with long hair."

"And has no one been in love with you?"

Wilhelm looked at the distance, and said dreamily:

"No; yet once--"

She felt a little stab at her heart, and said:

"Quick, tell me about it."

"It is a wonderful story--it happened in Moscow."

"But you were only a child then?"

"Yes, and she who loved me was a child too. She was four years old."

"Ah," said Loulou, with an involuntary sigh of relief.

"When I was about ten years old I was sitting one sunny autumn
afternoon in the yard of our house on a little stool, and was deep in a
story of pirates. Suddenly a shadow fell on my book. I looked up, and
saw a wonderfully beautiful child before me, a long-haired,
rosy-cheeked little girl, who looked at me with deep shining eyes,
half-timidly, and shyly held her hand before her mouth. I smiled in a
friendly way, and called to her to come nearer. She sprang close to me,
at once threw her arms joyfully round my neck, kissed me, sat down on
my knee, and said, 'Now tell me what your name is. I am a little girl,
and my name is Sonia. I am not going away from you. Let me go to sleep
for a little.' An old servant who had followed her came up and said in
astonishment, 'Well, young sir, you may be proud of yourself, the child
is generally so wild and rough, and with you she is as tame as a
kitten.' I learned from her that little Sonia lived in the
neighborhood, and that her aunt had come to look for her in our house.
She would not go away from me, and the old servant had to call her
mother, who only persuaded her to return home with great difficulty.
She wanted to take me with her, and she was miserable when they told
her that my mamma would not allow me. The next morning early she was
there again, and called to me from the threshold, 'I am going to stay
with you all day, Wilhelm, the whole day.' I had to go to school,
however, and I told her so. She wanted to go with me, and cried and
sobbed when they prevented her. Then her relations took her home, and I
did not see her again. Later I heard that the same afternoon she was
taken ill with diphtheria, and in her illness she cried so much for me
that her mother came to mine to beg her to send me to her. My mother
said nothing to me about it, fearing I might catch the disease. Sonia
died the second day, and my name was the last word on her lips. I cried
very much when they told me, and since then I have never forgotten my
little Sonia."

"A strange story," said Loulou softly; "such a little girl to fall in
love so suddenly. Yes," she went on, "if she had grown up--"

She could not say more, as Wilhelm, who had come near her, looked at
her with wide-open, far-seeing eyes, and suddenly threw his arms round
her. She cried out softly, and sank on his breast. "Loulou," "Wilhelm,"
was all they said. It had happened so quickly, so unconsciously, that
they both felt as if they were awaking from a dream, as Loulou a minute
later freed herself from his burning lips and encircling arms, and
Wilhelm, confused and hardly master of his senses, stood before her.
They turned silently homeward. She trembled all over and did not dare
to take his arm. He inwardly reproached himself, yet he felt very happy
in spite of it. Then, before they had reached the summit of the castle
hill, he gathered all his courage together and said anxiously:

"Can you forgive me, Loulou? I love you so much."

"I love you too, Wilhelm," she answered, and stretched out her hand to
him.

"Dare I speak to your mother, my own Loulou?" whispered he into her ear.

"Not here, Wilhelm," she said quickly, "not here. You do not know my
parents well enough yet. Wait till we are in Berlin."

"I will do as you like," sighed he, and took leave of her with an
eloquent glance, as they reached the hotel.

On this evening a quantity of curious things happened, which Wilhelm so
far had not observed in spite of his studies in natural science. He
could not touch his dinner, and Herr and Frau Ellrich's voices, against
all the laws of acoustics, seemed to come from the far distance, and
several minutes elapsed before the sounds reached his ears, although he
sat close to the speakers. The waiters and hotel guests looked odd, and
seemed to swim in a kind of rosy twilight. In the sky there seemed to
be three times as many stars as usual. When the Ellrichs had withdrawn
he went toward midnight alone into the fir woods, and heard unknown
birds sing, caught strange and magic harmonies in the rustling of the
branches, and felt as if he walked on air. He went to bed in the gray
of early dawn, after writing from his overflowing heart the following
letter to his friend Haber in Berlin:


"MY DEAREST PAUL: I am happy as I never thought of being happy. I love
an unspeakably beautiful sweet brown maiden, and I really think she
loves me too. Do not ask me to describe her. No words or brush could do
it. You will see her and worship her. Oh, Paul, I could shout and jump
or cry like a child. It is too foolish, and yet so unspeakably
splendid, I can hardly understand how the dull, stupid people in this
house can sleep so indifferently while she is under the same roof. If
only you were here! I can hardly bear my happiness alone. I write this
in great haste. Always your

"WlLHELM."


Four days later the post brought this answer from his friend:


"Well, you are done for, that is certain, my dear Wilhelm. Confound it,
you have gone in for it with a vengeance! I always thought that when
you did catch fire, you would give no end of a blaze. So all your
philosophy of abnegation, all your contempt for appearance go for
nothing. What is your sweet brown maiden but a charming appearance!
Nevertheless you have fallen completely in love with her, for which I
wish you happiness with all my heart. I do not doubt that she loves
you, because I should have been in love with you long ago if I had been
a sweet brown maiden, you shockingly beautiful man. One thing is very
like you, you say no word on what would most interest a Philistine like
myself, viz., the worldly circumstances of the adored one. I must know
her name, her relations, her descent. For all this you have naturally
no curiosity. A name is smoke and empty sound. Now don't let your love
go too far--sleep, and take care of your appetite, and keep a corner in
your perilously full heart for your true

"PAUL"


Wilhelm smiled as he read these lines in the strong symmetrical
handwriting of his friend, and hastened to send him the news he
desired. In the meanwhile his happiness was continual and increasing,
and nothing troubled it but the thought of the coming separation. These
two innocent children could hide their love as little as the sun his
light. They were always together, their eyes always fixed on one
another, their hands as often as possible clasped in each other's. All
the people in the hotel noticed it, and were pleased about it, so
natural did it seem that this handsome couple should be united by love.
The chambermaid, rosy Bertha, saw what was going on with her sly
peasant's eye, and by way of making herself agreeable used to whisper
to him where he could find the young lady when she happened to meet him
on the staircase. Wilhelm good-naturedly forgave the girl her
obtrusiveness. Only Herr Ellrich saw nothing. In his foreign
newspapers, in the blue smoke from his cigars, in the clouds of powder
from his gun, he found nothing which could enlighten him as to the two
young people's beautiful secret.

Frau Ellrich certainly had more knowledge than that. In spite of her
correspondence and her long afternoon naps, she retained enough
observation to see the condition of things pretty clearly. She waited
for a confession from Loulou, and as this did not come soon enough for
the impatience of her mother's heart, she tried a loving question.
After a warm embrace from the girl, a few tears, a great many kisses,
the mother and daughter understood each other. Wilhelm had pleased Frau
Ellrich very much, and she had no objection to raise, but she could
make no answer on her own responsibility, as she knew the views of her
husband on the marriage of his only child, and after a few days she
made him a cautious communication. Herr Ellrich did not take it badly,
but as a practical man of the world he wished to give the feelings of
the young people opportunity to bear the trials of separation, and for
the present thought a decision useless. The projected visit to Ostend
was hastened by some ten days. At dinner he made his decision known,
adding, "You have pleased yourselves for three weeks, and now I want
you to wait so long to please me." Wilhelm felt bitterly grieved that
no one invited him to go to the fashionable watering-place, and Loulou
even did not seem particularly miserable. The fact was, that at the
bottom of her not very sentimental nature, she did not take the leaving
of the Schloss hotel as a matter of great importance, and Ostend with
its balls and concerts, its casino and lively society, was not in the
least alarming to her. She found the opportunity that evening of
consoling Wilhelm, and promised him always to think about him, and to
write to him very often, and said she could not be very miserable about
their separation, as she felt so happy at the thought of meeting him
again in Berlin. The following morning they made a pilgrimage to the
castle, the woods, the neighboring valley, to all the places where they
had been so happy during the last fortnight. The sky was blue, the pine
woods quiet, the air balmy, and the beautiful outline of the mountains
unfolded itself far away in the depth of the horizon. Wilhelm drank in
the quiet, lovely picture, and felt that a piece of his life was woven
into this harmony of nature, and that these surroundings had become
part of his innermost "ego," and would be mingled with his dearest
feelings now and ever. His love, and these mountains and valleys, and
Loulou, the mist and perfume of the pine trees, were forever one, and
the pantheistic devotion which he felt in these changing flights of his
mind with the soul of nature grew to an almost unspeakable emotion, as
he said in a trembling voice to Loulou:

"It is all so wonderful, the mountains and the woods, and the
summer-time and our love. And in a moment it will be gone. Shall we
ever be so happy again? If we could only stay here always, the same
people in the midst of the same nature!"

She said nothing, but let him take her answer from her fresh lips.

They left by the Offenberg railway station in the afternoon. Loulou's
eyes were wet. Frau Ellrich smiled in a motherly way at Wilhelm, and
Herr Ellrich took his hand in a friendly manner and said:

"We shall see you in Berlin at the end of September."

As the train disappeared down the Gutach valley, it seemed to Wilhelm
as if all the light of heaven had gone out, and the world had become
empty. He stayed a few days longer at the Schloss hotel, and cherished
the remembrance of his time there with Loulou, dreaming for hours in
the dearly-loved spots. In this tender frame of mind he received
another letter from Paul Haber, who wrote thus:


"DEAREST WILHELM: Your letter of the 13th astonished me so much that it
took me several days to recover. Fraulein Loulou Ellrich, and you write
so lightly! Don't you know--that Fraulein Ellrich is one of the first
'parties' in Berlin? That the little god of love will make you a
present of two million thalers? You have shot your bird, and I am most
happy that for once fortune should bring it to the hand of a fellow
like yourself. In the hope that as a millionaire you will still be the
same to me, I am your heartily congratulatory

"PAUL."


Wilhelm was painfully surprised. What a mercy that the letter had not
come sooner. It might have influenced his manner so much as to spoil
his relations with Loulou. Now that the Ellrichs were gone, it could
for the moment do no harm.




CHAPTER II.

VANITIES OF VANITIES.


A brilliant company filled the Ellrichs' drawing-rooms. These lofty
rooms, thrown open to the guests, were more like the reception-rooms in
a great castle than those of a bourgeois townhouse in Berlin.

The councilor's drawing-rooms occupied the first floor of the largest
house in the Lannestrasse. The carpeted staircase was decorated with
plants and candelabra, and the guests were shown into a well-lighted
anteroom, and on through folding doors into the large square
drawing-room. The walls were covered with gold-framed mirrors
reflecting the great marble stove, with its Chinese bronze ornaments;
the Venetian glass chandelier, the painting on the ceiling representing
Apollo in his sun chariot, while the rows of pretty gilt chairs in red
silk, the palm trees in the corner, and the wax candles in the brass
sconces on the walls were repeated in endless perspective. On the right
was a little room not intended for dancing, thickly carpeted, with old
Gobelin tapestry on all the walls and doors; inlaid tables, ebony
tables, and silk, satin, and tapestry in every conceivable form. A
glass door, half-covered by a portiere, gave a glimpse into a
well-lighted winter garden, full of fantastic plants in beds, bushes
and pots. On the left of the large drawing-room was the dining-room,
with white varnished walls divided into squares by gold beading, and
decorated by a number of bright pictures of symbolic female figures
representing various kinds of wine. A gigantic porcelain stove filled
one end of the room, and a sideboard the other. Through the dining-room
was a smoking-room furnished with Smyrna carpets, low divans, chairs in
mother-of-pearl, and from the ceiling hung a number of colored glass
lanterns. This was intended for old gentlemen who wished to enjoy the
latest scandal, and a card table was arranged for them with an open box
of cigars.

The decoration of these rooms was handsome without being overloaded,
and tasteful without being odd or obtrusive, qualities which one does
not often find in Germany, even in princes' palaces. A fine perception
would perhaps have felt the want of similarity in style in the numerous
rooms, giving them the character of a museum or curiosity shop, rather
than that of the harmonious dwelling of educated people of a particular
period, and in a certain country. Herr Ellrich was, however, quite
innocent of this imperfection. He had not chosen anything himself.
Everything had come from Paris, and was the selection of a Parisian
decorator, and one of the proudest moments in the councilor's life was
on the occasion of the ball he gave on his daughter's return from
England, when Count Benedetti, the French ambassador, said to him: "One
would imagine oneself in an historical house in the Faubourg St.
Germain, c'est tout a fait Parisien, Monsieur, tout a fait Parisien."

The Ellrichs' party was to celebrate the New Tear. Even the richest of
the members of the German bourgeoisie is obliged to be educated
gradually to the cultured usages of society, and are still far from
accomplished in the art of easy familiarity. It finds in its homely
culture no hard-and-fast traditions by which it can regulate its
conduct, and by a deficiency of observation, or by the want of
development of the finer feelings, is only imperfectly helped by
foreign or aristocratic manners. Herr Ellrich, who loved splendor and
expense, felt that the New Year must be celebrated by rejoicings, and
he had therefore invited his whole circle of acquaintances to this New
Year's party to rejoice with him.

In the third room the councilor's wife sat near the fireplace in a
claret-colored silk dress, ostrich feathers in her hair, and
resplendent with diamonds. Nevertheless there was nothing stiff in her
demeanor, and she was friendly and good-natured as ever. Grouped around
her in armchairs were several ladies, who in their own judgment had
passed the age of dancing. Among them were the wives of civil officers,
in whose dresses a practiced and capable eye might detect a simplicity
and old-fashioned taste, while the wives of certain financiers were
gorgeous in then fashionable costumes and the brilliancy of their
ornaments. The former felt compensated by the consciousness of their
rank and worth for any deficiency in mere outward signs of grandeur,
the latter tried by the glitter of their pearls, diamonds, silks, and
laces to appear easy and fearlessly familiar. Among the men, the
soldiers had everything in their favor. The orders which the civilians
wore fastened on the lapels of their dress coats were hopelessly thrown
in the shade by the epaulettes of the officers, and the medals
decorating their colored uniforms.

Herr Ellrich made a good host, passing quickly but quietly from one
group to another. His blight blue eves were cold and tired-looking as
ever, and took no part in the rather banal smile which played over his
lips, as if the accustomed expression of indifference could never be
obliterated. The indolent lines about his mouth were not those of
temperament, because if he spoke to a Finance Minister or other
notability, although there was no arrogance in his manner, it might be
noticed that the instinctive consciousness of his own millions never
left him. He had a naturally honorable disposition, which showed itself
in every line, and made any cringing an impossibility. The guests
praised everything, especially the costly refreshments handed by the
servants in faultless liveries.

The dancing-room was a cheerful sight. Girls and young married women
flew round over the polished floor on the arms of well-dressed men,
mostly officers, spinning and whirling round to Offenbach's dance
music, led with bacchanalian fire by a small but distinguished
conductor from a red covered platform. It was exciting to watch the
rows of couples as they waltzed wildly round, and to the dazzled sight
it seemed like a glimpse in a dream into Mohammed's Paradise; as if in
his wonderful mirror he had reflected the slim figures of the dancers,
with their flashing blue or black eyes, their burning cheeks, their
parted lips, their bosoms rising and falling, the scene moving in
ever-changing perspective; a sight gay and wonderful as the freakish
games of a crowd of elves.

The untiring energy of the dancers was wonderful. During the pauses a
girl could hardly sit for a moment to rest, but a strong arm would
whirl her away again in the vortex of the dance. A few old gentlemen
stood in the recesses of the windows and in the doorways, with the
quiet enjoyment of those who look on, and among them was Wilhelm
Eynhardt. He stood with his back against a window-frame, almost
enveloped in the flowing red silk curtain, so that scarcely any one
noticed him. His curls had been shorn, and his thick dark hair only
just waved, otherwise nothing was changed in his appearance since the
Hornberg days. His black eyes wandered thoughtfully over the changing
picture before him. The expression on his face, now slightly
melancholy, bore more resemblance to that of a young Christian devotee
than to that of the beautiful Antinous, and the intoxication of the
gayety around him appealed so little to him, that not once did he beat
his foot, nod his head, or move a muscle in time to the satanic music
of the Parisian enchanter.

For the first time in his life Wilhelm found himself in fashionable
society, and for the first time he wore evening dress. Certainly to
look at him no one would have guessed it, for there was no awkwardness
in his manner, not a trace of the anxiety and inability to do the right
thing, which in most men placed amid new surroundings and in
unaccustomed dress would have been so apparent. He wore his evening
dress with the same natural self-possession as one of the gray-haired
diplomats. The secret of this demeanor was the sense of equality he
felt toward the others. It never occurred to him to think, "How do I
look? Am I like everyone else?" and so he was as free from constraint
in his dress coat as in his student's jacket. He had even the
gracefulness which every man has in the flower of his age, if he allows
the unconscious impulses of his limbs to assert themselves, and does
not spoil the freedom of their play by confusing efforts to improve
them. The company did not disconcert him either, in spite of their
epaulettes and orders, and titles thick as falling snowflakes. An
impression received in his boyhood came back to him, in which he, among
strange people in a foreign land, had been accustomed by his father to
consider himself as an onlooker. In Moscow he had often met
aristocratic people, with as thick epaulettes, and more orders than
these, but at the sight of them he had always thought, "They are only
barbarous Russians, and I am a German, although I have no gold lace on
my coat." From that time he had always in his mind connected the use of
uniforms, as outward signs of bravery, with the conception of an
ostentatious and showy barbarism which a civilized European might
afford to laugh at. He had gone further; he regarded rank and titles as
only a kind of clothing of circumstances, which the State lends to
certain persons for useful purposes, just as the wardrobe-keeper at a
theater gives out costumes to the supers. He was so convinced on this
point that he felt sure it was only the stupid yokel at the back of the
gallery who could look with any admiration on a human being merely
because he struts about the stage in purple and gold tinsel.

Wilhelm did not give the impression of a man who was enjoying himself.
His discontented gaze persistently followed one dark head adorned with
a yellow rose.

Loulou, for of course it was she, wore a cream-colored silk crepon
dress. Her little feet in pale yellow satin shoes played at
hide-and-seek under her skirt. She looked charming, and seemed very
happy. She danced with a magic lightness and gracefulness, and she
showed an endurance which had elicited applause and acknowledgments
from her partners. People were delighted with her, and she hardly
allowed herself time to breathe, for as the privileged daughter of the
house, she wandered from one partner to another, trying hard to offend
as few of her admirers as possible by a refusal. But Wilhelm had no
cause for jealousy, as her sparkling eyes continually sought his, and
as often as she danced near him she gave him an electrifying glance and
a sweet smile, telling him that he might now hold his head high like a
conqueror, or humble himself with languishing sentiment, that for her
there was only one man in the room, one man in all the mirrors, the
handsome youth in the window recess between the red silk curtains. In
the short pauses she came over to him and spoke a word or two, always
the same sort of thing: "Ah! how So-and-so worries me. What a pity that
you don't dance, it would be so lovely. Oh! if only you knew how
Fraulein S----admires you, and how angry all the ladies are that you
won't be introduced to them." And Wilhelm thanked her with the same
quiet smile, took her fingers when he could and pressed them, and
stayed in his window corner.

Presently Loulou went toward someone in the room, who looked back at
the same time toward Wilhelm. It was his friend Paul Haber, for whom he
had obtained an invitation. Paul looked at him proudly and gayly. His
short hair was beautifully cut and brushed, his thick blonde mustache
curled in the most approved fashion. In his buttonhole he wore the
decoration of the 1866 war medal, and when he saw himself in the glass
he could say with perfect self-satisfaction, that he looked just as
much like an officer as the men in uniform, not even excepting those of
the Guard. Since the campaign of 1866, in which Paul had served in the
same company as Wilhelm, they had been firm friends, and on this
evening he wished to offer his respects before the manifest possessor
of her heart, to one of the greatest heiresses in Berlin, also his
gratitude for his introduction to this splendid house, and his tender
feelings for his comrade. In spite of being occupied with his partners
he had time to observe Wilhelm, and the sight of him standing alone in
the window recess immediately cooled the nervous excitement wrought by
the crowd of strangers. These society gatherings were what he delighted
in, and he thought it his duty to try to model his friend in the same
way. It was not without a struggle with himself that he let a dance go
by and went over to where Wilhelm stood.

"What a great pity it is that you don't dance."

"Fraulein Ellrich has just said the same thing," answered Wilhelm,
smiling a little.

"And she is quite right. You are like a thirsty man beside a delicious
spring, and are not able to drink. It is pure Tantalus."

"Your analogy does not hold good. What I am looking at does not give me
the sensation of a delicious spring, and does not make me thirsty."

Paul looked at him surprised. "Still you are a man of flesh and blood,
and the sight of all these charming girls must give you pleasure."

"You know I am engaged to only one girl here, and her I have seen under
more favorable circumstances."

"Well! She probably does not always wear such beautiful dresses, and if
she were not excited by the music and dancing her eyes might possibly
not sparkle so much; that is what I mean about its being a pity that
you don't dance."

"That is not it. I have seen this beautiful girl on other occasions
engaged in the highest intellectual occupation, and I am sorry to see
her sink to this sort of thing."

"Now the difference is defined. I was silly enough till now to think
that even in a drawing-room one saw something of the highest form of
humanity, and that aristocratic society is the flower of civilization."

"Those are opinions which are spread by clever men of the world to
excuse their shallow behavior in their own eyes and in the eyes of
others. What these people come here for is to satisfy their lower
inclinations--you must see this for yourself; if you do not allow
yourself to be influenced by these pretentious, ceremonious forms, at
least try to discover the reality that lies beneath them. What you call
the height of civilization seems to me the lowest. Do you understand? I
feel that cultured people in their drawing-room society are in the
condition of savages, and even allied to animals."

"Bravo, Wilhelm! go on; this is most edifying."

"You may jeer, but in spite of you I believe that this is so. Try to
discover what is going on in the brains of all these people at this
moment. Their highest power of activity of mind, which makes men of
them, slumbers. They do not think, they only feel. The old gentlemen
enjoy themselves with cigars, ices, the prospect of supper; the young
men seek pleasant sensations in dancing with beautiful girls. The
ladies seek in their partners and admirers to kindle feelings and
desires--vanity, self-seeking, pleasure of the senses, gratification of
the palate, in short, all the grosser tastes. All that is not only like
savages, but like animals. They are merry and contented at the prospect
of a savory meal, and they are fond of playing tricks on each
other--both sexes chaff and tease constantly. I believe that the
development of our larger brain is the intellectual work of man during
hundreds and thousands of years, and it would gratify me to see it
raised to a still greater state of activity."

"I am listening to you so quietly that I don't interrupt you--even when
you talk absurd nonsense. How can one look doleful and disagreeable if
honest, highly constituted men indulge in conversation with each other
for a few hours after hard work? I delight in this harmless enjoyment,
in which people forget all the cares of the day. Here people shake off
the burdens of their vocation and the accidents of their lot. Here am
I, a poor devil enjoying the society of the minister's friends, and
admiring the same beautiful eyes as he does."

"The harmless enjoyments of which you speak are exactly the signs by
which one may recognize the vegetative lives of the savage and the
animal. A serene enjoyment is what naturally appertains to the lower
forms of life when they are satiated, and in no danger of being tracked
for their lives. The oldest drawings on the subject always represent
men with a foolish serene smile. So the privilege of development is to
rejoice in a satisfied stomach and untroubled security, and all through
his life to know no other care or want but comfort of body."

"At last I understand you. The artist's ideal is the 'Penseroso,' and
in order to recognize the highly developed man he must be furnished
with a proof of his identity, so that the meaning of the creature may
not be lost to sight for a moment."

"You may put it in the joking way, but I really mean it. I don't forget
how much of the animal is still in us. Of course one wants relaxation.
But I don't want to look on while animals feed. Recovery after hard
intellectual work means, in your sense, the return for some hours to
animal life. Now I prefer the painful ascent of mankind to the
comfortable, backward slide into animal nature. If I wished to pose as
a statue for you it would have to be 'Penseroso' while eating or
drinking, or with a foolish, smiling mask indicating animal
contentment."

"Very well. Let us also abolish the public announcement of eating,
drinking, dancing and other performances, as the remnants of barbarism
or of original animal nature, and let us introduce the universal duty
of philosophy. A soiree of Berlin bankers--sub specie
oeiernitatis--that would do very well, and you must take out a patent
for it."

"Students' jokes, my friend, are not arguments. I am quite in earnest
in what I say, and I feel melancholy when I see Loulou and the others
playing about like thoughtless animals."

"I am going to speak seriously about the joke now, and show you another
side to the question. Is it not in the highest degree foolish of a
young man without position, to set against him men who carry the sign
of recognition from their king, and the esteem of their
fellow-citizens? Cannot the example of the consideration they enjoy
spur us to endeavors to attain the same? Cannot your acquaintance with
them be made useful?"

Wilhelm shook his head. "No, I prefer all these distinguished men when
they are doing their own work. They do not interest me here, because
they have laid aside all the characteristics which make distinguished
people of them. I think they lower their dignity when I see these
statesmen, heroes of campaign, representatives of the people, laughing,
joking, and playing together like any little shopkeeper after closing
hours."

Paul could not give an immediate answer, and he had not time to think
of one; as the music stopped the dance ended, and many people moved
toward them, making further conversation impossible. The gentlemen came
out of the drawing-room and smoking-rooms and mingled with the dancers.
Paul made his way neatly through the crowd toward a fresh, pretty, but
otherwise insignificant-looking girl, to whom he had paid a great deal
of attention, and with whom he wished to dance again. Wilhelm looked
for Loulou, whom he found near her mother. Frau Ellrich spoke to him in
a friendly way. "Are you enjoying yourself?" she asked, with a kind,
almost tender expression on her melancholy face. Wilhelm would not have
grieved her for worlds, so for all answer he took her soft hand and
kissed it. To keep himself from speaking the truth he was silent. From
the four doors of the room servants now appeared bearing large silver
trays covered with glasses of champagne. Loulou stood by the
chimney-piece and gave several forced and absent-minded answers to the
young man. She followed with her eyes the minute-hand on the clock, and
at a slight sign from her little hand a servant came up to her. She
took the glass in which the wine sparkled, and at the same moment, the
hands of the clock pointing to twelve, she cried loudly like a child,
"Health to the New Year! Health to the New Year!" Every guest took a
glass, crying joyfully, "Health to the New Year!" and clinked his glass
against his neighbor's. Loulou went in search of her father to drink
with him; after he had given her a friendly kiss on her rosy cheek, he
regarded her with fatherly pride. She went to her mother, taking her in
her arms and kissing her on both cheeks. The third person whom she
sought was Wilhelm. They could not exchange words, but her eyes sought
his and they both flashed a mutual and joyous recognition. Her brown
eyes had said to his black ones, "May this be a year of happiness for
us," and the black eyes had understood the brown ones in their flight
and thanked them. The gay tumult lasted for several minutes, the buzz
of talking, the clatter of glasses, and the coming and going of
servants. Then suddenly an invisible hand seemed to lay hold of the
general disorder, ruling and directing it, dissolving groups who had
chanced together, here driving them forward, there arranging them
backward. According to some fixed law, without delaying or waiting, an
orderly procession was formed into the dining-room. The invisible
spirit hand which possessed all this power was thrice-holy etiquette;
the law which brought order out of confusion, and gave to everyone his
place, was that of precedence. Paul and Wilhelm, these strangers to
drawing-room customs, were new to the performance. A smile flitted over
Wilhelm's face, over Paul's came a reverent expression. What he saw
made a distinct impression of wonderment on him. The constraint ceased
immediately the guests had taken their places at the table. The scent
of the flowers vied with the perfumes worn by the women and could not
overcome them. The crystal glasses sparkled in the light of the wax
candles, the jewels, and the bright eyes round the table. The servants
poured out the noble Rhine wine, the celebrated Burgundy, the elegant
Bordeaux, and the mischievous Champagne, whose colored embodiment was
reflected on the white hands of the guests, and carried their
imaginations away in its flight from gray reality to the immortal land
of rosy dreams.

The meal lasted a long time, then a few of the guests rose; the older
ones, who had principally chatted, played, and smoked before midnight,
now withdrew, if they had no daughters to chaperon; the young people,
however, went back to the dancing-room, the musicians fiddled anew as
if they were possessed, and an hour's cotillion was begun, the pretty
quick-moving figures being led by a lieutenant of the Guards, who
seemed as proud of the honor as if he were commanding on a battlefield.
Loulou, who had gone back to the dance, had begged Wilhelm in vain to
take part at least in the cotillion, where he need not dance much. She
had assured him that he would be more decorated than any other man in
the room, and would have more orders, ribbons, and wreaths given him
than all the lieutenants put together; but even the prospect of such a
triumph could not make him ambitious, and for the first time this
evening the beautiful excited girl left him looking out of humor, and
glanced at him in a way which was not merely sorrowful but reproachful.
Paul, on the other hand, was happy. He kept more than ever near the
pretty insignificant girl with whom he had danced so much, and the
good-hearted fellow did not feel in the least jealous when, in the long
pause of the cotillion, his partner went to speak to his friend who had
stood lonely for so long, and had hardly enjoyed himself at all. Paul
was sufficiently decorated; he got a sufficient number of glances from
girls' bright eyes to be quite contented, he paid a sufficient number
of compliments, great and small, for which he was thanked by sweet
smiles, and perhaps with tiny sighs, and he had the feeling that he had
lived in every fiber of his being, and that his time had been
marvelously well employed. He could have stayed for several hours
longer, and was quite astonished when toward four o'clock the tireless
young people's parents put an end to the evening by their departure.

As Wilhelm came up to Loulou she had ceased to look cross. Near her
stood the hero of the cotillion, the lieutenant of the Guards, covered
with the little favors the ladies had given him. But that did not
prevent her saying in quite a tender voice, "I shall see you soon
again, shall I not?" and Wilhelm pressed her little hand warmly.

In the hall Wilhelm and Paul had to distribute gratuities to the
waiting servants, a custom (unknown in France and England) which
dishonors German hospitality, and a minute later they found themselves
outside in the starlit night. It blew icy cold over the Thiergarten;
across the darkness the snow-laden trees and the closely-cropped grass
looked feebly white. Wilhelm, shivering, wrapped himself in his fur
coat. Paul, on the other hand, did not seem to mind the cold; he was
still too hot with the excitement of the evening. The waltz rang so
clearly in his ears that he could have danced over the snow-covered
pavement, and the lights and mirrors of the ballroom shone so clearly
before his eyes, and enveloped the dancers with such reality that the
desert of the silent, faintly-lit Koniggratzer Strasse was alive as if
by ghosts. He recalled to his mind the whole evening, and in the
fullness of his heart exclaimed, "Wilhelm, I hope never to forget this
New Year's Eve." Wilhelm looked at him astonished. "I do not share in
your feelings. How can a glance at such vanity in thinking men give one
any feeling except that of pity?"

"I am not hurt at the hardness of your judgment, because you don't
understand what I am saying. You know very well I am not frivolous, and
that I have learned long ago the seriousness of life. But at the same
time I value the entree into the best society of Berlin for what it is
worth. Now the opportunity has come, and I shall make it useful."

"Paul, you grieve me. A tuft-hunter talks like that."

"What do you call a tuft-hunter?--if you mean a man who does not want
to hide his light under a bushel, I say yes, I am one, and I think that
is entirely honorable. I don't want to get on by means of any false
pretenses, but by honest work. What is the use of capability if no one
notices it? If I can inspire the right people with this conviction, I
am in luck. There is no injustice in that."

"I thought you had more pride."

"Dear Wilhelm, don't speak to me of pride. That is all right for you.
If my father had left me a house in the Kochstrasse, I would snap my
fingers at everyone, and go my own way, as it pleased me best. Or put
it the other way round, if you were the middle son in a Brandenburg
family of nine, I tell you that you would attribute a certain
importance to seeking the favor of influential people. You would become
as frivolous as I," added he after a little pause, in which he gave a
gentle clap on Wilhelm's shoulder.

"You ought not to throw my father's house in my teeth; you know how I
live."

Paul tried to interrupt him.

"Let me finish. A man of your capability can nowadays allow himself the
luxury of independence and manly self-reliance, even if he is one of
the nine children of a poor farmer; if one has few wants, one is rich
whatever one's fortune."

"That is all very well. I know your philosophy of abnegation, and it is
a matter of temperament. I am not in favor of starving myself when
there is a steaming dish before me. The world is full of good things,
and I have a taste for them; why should I not reach out my hand?"

"And so you would dance in the present for what it would win you in the
future."

"Why not? It is a very usual way to gain a usual end."

"And the modern society household is the result."

"What would become of a poor fellow without these merciful arrangements
for introductions to nice girls? Is one to advertise?"

"So you thought of this in the midst of your poetical soiree?"

"Certainly. You are provided for. Don't think ill of me if I follow
your example."

Wilhelm felt the blood flow to his cheeks. He perceived his friend's
evident meaning.

"Paul! A fortune-hunter!"

"You may talk. Luck flew to you without your lifting a finger to
attract it. Other people must help themselves. Fortune-hunter! That
name was invented by hysterical girls whose heads are turned by silly
novels. These absurd creatures wish in their childish vanity to be
married merely for their beautiful eyes. I should like to ask such a
girl whether she would marry a man merely for his beautiful eyes! I
have no patience with such nonsense. Suppose a poor man, who is capable
and clever, acknowledges in a straightforward way that he is trying to
win the hand of a rich woman. He need not upbraid himself about
anything, for he gives as much as he receives. What do people want from
the world? Happiness. That is the aim of my life, just as it is the aim
of the rich woman's. She has money, and for happiness she lacks love; I
have love, and for happiness I lack money. We make an equal exchange of
what we own. It is the most beautiful supplement to a dual
incompleteness."

"It is in this way then that you would offer what you call love to a
rich girl! A love cleverly conducted, carefully mapped out--a love
which one could control, and on no account offer to a poor girl."

"Rubbish! The love of every man who is in his right mind is carefully
planned. Would you be in love with a king's daughter? It is to be hoped
not. You could keep out of the way of the king's daughter. Why can I
not keep out of the way of the poor girl?"

"That means that the princess' rank is as much a hindrance to love as
the poverty of the work-girl."

"I swear to you, Wilhelm, that if I were as rich, or as independent as
you, I would not think of a dowry. But I am a poor devil. If I were so
unfortunate as to fall in love with a poor girl, I would try to get the
better of the feeling. I would say to myself, better endure a short
time of unhappiness and disappointment than that she and I should be
condemned through life to the keenest want, which, with prosaic
certainty, would smother love."

While Paul argued with such ardor and earnestness, he was thinking all
the time of Fraulein Malvine Marker, the pretty girl with whom he had
danced so often, and he fondled tenderly with his right hand the ribbon
and cotillion order hidden under his waistcoat. He did not notice that
Wilhelm's expression of face was painfully distorted, nor that his
words wounded him deeply. They had come to the Brandenburger Thor, and
were walking over the Pariser Platz. Under the lindens they were
surrounded at once by noise and bustle. The streets were full of rowdy
bands of men who sang and shouted all together, now pushing one another
in violent rudeness, now shouting "Health to the New Year," here
knocking off an angry Philistine's hat, there surrounding and embracing
some honest man who was wearily making his way homeward; insulting the
police by imitating their military ways, laying hold of their sticks,
talking pompously to the night-watchman, and otherwise playing the
fool. After the silence of the Koniggratzer Strasse, the drunken
turmoil of this noisy mob was doubly unpleasant, and the two friends
hastened to escape into the Schadowstrasse. At Wilhelm's doorstep they
took leave of each other; Paul went off humming a snatch of Offenbach
up the Friedrichstrasse to his home near the Weidendamme.

Wilhelm was tired, but much too excited to sleep. He lived over again
in thought the last few months, and, as often happened lately, he
lapsed into painful meditation on his relations to Loulou. After her
departure from Hornberg she had not written to him for eight days. Then
came a letter from Ostend, in which she called Wilhelm "Sie." She said
she was very sorry for this, that it would be painful if she called him
"Du" and he did not return it, but it would be safer not to do so, as
his answer would certainly be read by her mother, and perhaps by her
father also, and they would not wish them to say "Du" to each other.
Already this change of tone between them cut Wilhelm to the heart, but
almost more still the contents of Loulou's letter. She spoke a little
of the sea, whose breakers continually sounded in her soul, and her
thoughts, which accompanied them like an orchestra; she seldom
mentioned the delightful time in the mountains of the Black Forest,
which remembrance he carried always with him; but a great deal about
the Promenade, the concerts, the Casino balls, her own charming bathing
and society toilettes, and those of extravagant Parisians, who tried by
incredible mixtures of colors and style to outstrip each other. She
wrote particularly about her acquaintances with celebrated people, and
her personal following, and for the rest she hardly missed expressing
in any of her letters her regret that he was not with her, and enjoying
her varied life. Often in the letter there was a flower, or a piece of
wild thyme, which betrayed an undercurrent of feeling beneath the
shallowness of the words, and once she sent him her photograph with the
words "Loulou to her dearest Wilhelm." So he gathered from her
frivolous letters much that was unspoken, and through signs and
indications believed that her feeling for him was there and gained
strength. His answers were short and rather compressed. The knowledge
that they would be seen by her prosaic parents, and that Loulou herself
would hardly trouble to read anything in the midst of her whirl of
gayety, deprived him of words, stopped the flow of his feelings, and
turned his expressions into mere Philistinisms. But, on the other Land,
Loulou's mother was delighted to have another correspondent, and so she
wrote to him often. These perfumed letters from Ostend refreshed him by
the remembrance of the lovable face with the dimples, bringing back
again the whole charm of the Hornberg days.

At the end of September came the announcement that the Ellrichs had
left Ostend, and were going to pay a visit for a fortnight to friends
in England, and toward the middle of October a letter, bearing the
Berlin postmark, arrived in Loulou's handwriting. It said:

"DEAREST WILHEM: We came home to-day. I cannot sleep until I have
written to you. Come to see me quite soon. Will you not? How glad I am!
Are you glad too? A thousand greetings. LOULOU."

He would like to have gone directly to the Lennestrasse, but etiquette
stood between him and his fiancee, and showed him in its cold fashion
that they were now in the city and not in the forest, that nature had
nothing to do with them here, and had handed them over to the laws of
society. However, as soon as he dared venture, he went and rang at the
door-bell. This first visit was a combination of painful feelings for
Wilhelm, for while his heart beat, that now he was near the dearest one
on earth, he was conscious that here he was a stranger. A servant
dressed in black who opened the door did not seem to expect him, and
asked him whom he wanted. When Wilhelm asked for Frau Ellrich, he said
shortly that she was not at home. In spite of this Wilhelm took out his
card, and holding it out said, "Will you kindly announce me, as I am
expected." The man left him in an anteroom, and after a short pause
took him into the drawing-room. He soon returned, with a manner
entirely changed, and submissively asked Wilhelm to follow him to a
little blue boudoir, where Loulou received him with a joyful
exclamation, but the first greetings, owing to the servant's presence,
were exchanged without an embrace, and when they were alone Wilhelm
only found sufficient courage to kiss her hand.

It was quite different now from the old times at the Scloss hotel, and
in the woodland paths at Hornberg. Wilhelm had to keep to visiting
hours, and was seldom alone with Loulou. He took courage then to say
"Du," but it was forbidden before other people. To kiss her in those
drawing rooms with their betraying mirrors, and their portieres, and
carpets was hardly possible. He was frequently asked to lunch or
dinner, and he often went with Frau Ellrich and Loulou to the opera or
theater, but all these opportunities were not favorable for young
lovers. Loulou wore beautiful frocks, which made her much admired; the
people were formal, and tolerated nothing that was not ultra polite and
polished, in short, it was impossible to be true and natural as things
had been in the forest, where the birds and the happy little squirrels
served for playfellows.

Loulou was the first to have pity on Wilhelm's discomfort, and to find
means to give their intercourse in Berlin at least a little of the
beautiful unconstraint of the old times. Under the pretext that she
wished to improve herself in drawing, she obtained many precious hours
spent in the blue-room or in the winter garden, where their hands often
found opportunities to clasp, and their lips to seek each other's. On
the strength of Loulou's English education, which had made her
independent and self-reliant, and had freed her from any affectation of
shyness, she often walked with Wilhelm to parts of the town which she
did not know, or which she had only seen from the windows of a
carriage. On one of these voyages of discovery, as she called them, she
saw Paul for the first time. He met them in the Konigstrasse, as they
stood on the Konigsmauer, Loulou looking half-fearfully down the narrow
street. Paul looked very much astonished, and seemed as if he were not
going to notice the pair of lovers, but Wilhelm nodded and asked him to
join them. So he went home with them, and as soon as he was alone with
his friend he fell into rapturous admiration of the lovely girl, as
Wilhelm had predicted in his letter from Hornberg. One thing Paul could
not understand, and he said so: why had not Wilhelm formally asked for
Loulou's hand, why he was not properly engaged to her, and how could an
impulsive man bear such a constrained position, which would cease the
instant that he was Fraulein Ellrich's declared fiance?

Wilhelm had at first no explanation to give his friend, but he knew
very well that he delayed, and that he put off from day to day going to
Loulou's parents. His was a sensitive, dreamy nature, and much too
thoughtful to allow himself to act from passion. He was accustomed to
make his impulses subordinate to his reason, and to ask himself severe
questions as to the where, how, and why of things. He was not clear
himself as to the condition of things between him and Loulou. Did she
love him? There were many answers to that. She seemed pleased when she
saw him, and displeased if he appeared to forget her for a day. But
what he could not understand was that her head seemed as full as ever
of her usual acquaintances, and that she was capable of spending some
time in theaters, concerts, and society without looking for him. Full
too of talk of her frocks and neighbors, without wishing to interrupt
the empty gossip with a look or a kiss to let him know that she was
conscious of his presence, and in the middle of her idle talk to say
nevertheless that her heart was with him. On the other hand, she showed
the tenderest sympathy for him. She longed for a picture of his rooms
in the Dorotheenstrasse, where he lived and thought of her. She had
been to see his house in the Kochstrasse from the outside. She was
apparently proud of him, and repeated to him all the flattering remarks
which people made on his appearance and cleverness, with as much
satisfaction, as if she spoke of one of her own people. Still all this
was only on the surface, and he often had the impression that her
feeling for him was weakened at its foundation both by her cold
intelligence, and by her pleasure in worldly things.

And he? Did he love her as he should, before he had the right to bind
her to him for life? His earnestness and exalted morality looked upon
marriage as a rash adventure full of alarming secrets. Was it possible
that their two lives should be so blended together that they should
withstand every accident of fate? He meant to give himself entirely, to
keep nothing back, and to be true in body and soul. Was he sure that he
could keep the vow, and that no sinful wishes should come to break it?
Already he was thinking that he might not be always happy with her.
Certainly her beauty, her wit, the attraction of her fresh, healthy
youth charmed him, and when she spoke to him with her sweet voice, he
had to shut his eyes and hold himself together, not to fall at her feet
and bury his head in her dress. But he feared for himself, for his
honor, that a sensual attraction should hardly outlast possession. His
innermost being was painfully troubled. Never an elevated word from
her! Never a deep and serious thought! Often he reflected that the
faults of her upbringing were the inevitable results of her life in the
midst of idle people, and that it would be possible to deepen and widen
her mind and sensations. If he could only go with her to a desert
island, alone with the loneliness of nature, and could live between the
heavens and the sea! How soon then could he inspire her thoughts and
bring her to his own standpoint. Then the fear would take hold of him
that she could not do without theaters, frocks, soirees, and balls, and
under the recent impression of the New-Year's party he became
despondent, and said to himself, "No. The life of show and appearance
has too great a hold on her, and I shall never be able to give her what
she wants, and what seems necessary to her happiness." Paul's opinion,
which he gave on the way home, struck him sorrowfully. One of the
richest "parties" in Berlin! Would not people say he was marrying her
for her money? What people said was really nothing to him, and he
considered himself free to act as his innermost judgment counseled. But
might not Loulou herself believe that her father's money added
something to her attractions? He recognized that this feeling indicated
a weakness, a want of self-reliance, but the idea that she might be
capable of such a thought made him angry. Her money did not attract
him! On the contrary, it was an obstacle between them. Why was she not
a Moscow gypsy girl? Just as young, and pretty, and charming, but
uncultivated, and therefore ready for cultivation and capable of it;
poor as a beggar, and therefore free from pretensions, but without
knowledge of the world, and therefore without desire for it. How happy
they might both be then! Such thoughts ran riot in his brain, and he
fell asleep only when the late winter sun shone through the curtains on
his tired white face.

The winter went quickly by under amusements of all kinds. Loulou had
never known it so pleasant. The theater season was brilliant, the
weather for skating lasted longer than usual, and balls succeeded each
other in her father's and friends' houses in rapid succession. Wilhelm
only went once or twice, and then he firmly declined any more, to the
great astonishment of Frau Ellrich, and the vexation of Loulou, whose
pretty face always lit up with pleasure when she saw his dark eyes
watching her from the doorways or window recesses while she danced. He
said that the sight of social frivolity bored him, and she thought in
her naive way, "It is always like that. Men must have some fad." Paul
was just the other way. He accepted every invitation, and he had a
great many. He had always some new acquaintances to tell Wilhelm of,
and often spoke of Fraulein Malvine Marker, who appeared to be Loulou's
dearest friend, and no feeling of jealousy prevented him from repeating
to Wilhelm that the pretty girl had often inquired about him, always
regretting his absence from the Ellrichs' dances.

The beautiful time of the year drew near. Outside the gates of the
city, where open places were free to her, the spring triumphed in the
budding trees of the Thiergarten. Arrangement of plans for the summer
was the chief occupation with most people. The Ellrichs talked of
Switzerland, and Wilhelm thought timidly of the charms of the Black
Forest. He longed to be back at Hornberg, and he spoke often of being
there together in the near future. He did not mention marriage,
however, and his formal offer had not yet been made. Loulou thought
this very odd, and one day she spoke to her mother about it. Frau
Ellrich, however, caressed her pretty child, and kissing her on the
forehead said:

"It is nothing but modesty. I think it is very nice of him to leave you
in freedom for the whole season."

"I am not free, however."

"I mean before the world, dear child. You are both so young that it
would not matter if you did not take the cares of marriage upon you for
another year."

And to Loulou that was evident.




CHAPTER III.

HEROES.


All over Germany the corn stood high in the fields, ripe for the
sickle. Then suddenly the threatening shadow of war rose in the west
like a black thundercloud in the blue summer sky, filling the harvest
gatherers with anxious forebodings. For fourteen days the people waited
in painful suspense, not knowing whether to take up the sword or the
scythe. Then the cry of destiny came crashing through the country,
terrifying and relieving at the same time: "The French have declared
War!"

That was on July 15, 1870, on a Friday. Late in the afternoon the
dismal news was spread in Berlin that the French ambassador at Ems had
insulted the king, who had retired to the capital, and that a combat
with the arrogant neighbors on the Rhine was inevitable. Before night
the street Unter den Linden, from the Brandenburger Thor to the
Schlossbrucke, was packed with men overflowing with intense excitement.
Without any preconceived arrangement, all the inhabitants decorated
their windows with banners and lights, and the streets assumed the
festal appearance of rejoicings over a victory. The crowd looked upon
this spectacle not as an undecided beginning, but a glorious
conclusion. There was no fear in any face, no question as to the future
in any eye, but the certainty of triumph in all; as if they had seen
the last page turned in the book of fate, with victory and its glorious
results written thereon.

Toward nine o'clock a thunderbolt broke over the Brandenburger Thor,
and rolled like the breaking of a wave to the other end of the street.
The king had left the Potsdam railway station a quarter of an hour ago,
and the crowd greeted him with a tremendous shout as his carriage
appeared. The people wished by this acclamation, springing from the
depths of their hearts, to show their ruler that they were prepared to
follow him even to death. But the king was so much absorbed in thought
that he scarcely seemed to hear or notice the enthusiasm of the crowd.
He saluted and bowed to right and left as a prince is accustomed to do
from his childhood, but it was a mechanical action of the body, and his
mind had little part in it. His eyes were not looking at the sea of
uncovered heads, but seemed fixed, under knitted brows, on the
distance, as if they endeavored to decipher there some indistinct,
shadowy form. Did the king perceive in this moment the responsibility
of one human being to carry such a load? Did he wish in his innermost
heart that he might share the weight of the decision with others--the
representatives of the people--and not alone be forced to throw the
dice deciding the life or death of hundreds and thousands? Who can say?
At all events the powerful features of the king's face betrayed no such
uneasy doubt--only a deep earnestness and an immovable steadiness of
expression. Belief in the divine right of his kingship gave him power
over the minds of men, and he took his duties on him in this hour
without weakness or failing, grasping with his human hand the obscure
spiritual web of man's destiny, and with his limited intelligence
trying to unravel the dark threads here and there, on which hung the
healing and destruction of millions. In such moments a whole people
will become united into one being, swayed by the mastery of a single
mind, and await the commands of a single will. It comes, no one knows
from whom--all blindly follow. In spite of the superficial differences
which men find in one another under similar conditions, the powerful
effect of unconscious imitation is surprisingly apparent, and under its
operation personal peculiarities disappear.

Wilhelm and Paul that same evening sat at one of the windows of
Spargnapani's, looking on the Lindens. The small rooms were filled to
overflowing, and the guests were crammed together in the open doorways,
or on the stone staircase, where their loud talking mingled with the
noise of the people in the street. The king's carriage had hardly
passed, when several young men sprang shouting into the room, threw a
quantity of printed leaflets, still damp from the press, on the nearest
table, and rushed out again. These were the proofs of an address on the
war to the king. No one knew who had written it, who had had it
printed, who the people were who had distributed it, but everyone
crowded excitedly round it, and begged for pens from the counter to add
their signatures to it. A few specially enthusiastic souls even put a
table with inkstands and pens out on the pavement, and called to the
passers-by to sign the paper. Paul was among the first to fulfill this
duty of citizenship, and then handed the pen to his friend. But Wilhelm
laid it down on the table, took Paul's arm, and drew him out of the
crowd into the quiet of the Friedrichstrasse.

"Are you a Prussian?" cried Paul angrily.

"I am as good a Prussian as you are," said Wilhelm quietly, "and ready
to do my duty again, as I have done it before, but these silly
effusions don't affect me at all."

"Such a manifesto gives the government the moral force for the sternest
fulfillment of duty."

"I hope you are not in earnest when you say that, my dear Paul. The
government does what it has to do without troubling itself about our
manifestoes. It is repugnant to me to have my approval of the war
dragged from me without being asked for it. I may not appear to say
'yes' willingly, but at the same time may not have the right to say
'no.'"

Paul followed silently, and Wilhelm went on:

"You deceive yourself as to your duty like all these people, who
imagine that they are still separate individuals, and that they can
sanction or forbid as they will the declaration of war. I, however,
know and feel that I have no longer a voice in the matter. I have only
to obey. I am no longer an individual. I am only an evanescent
subordinate unit in the organism of the State. A power over which I
have no control has taken possession of me, and has made my will of no
avail. Is there still a part of your destiny which you have the power
to guide as you will? Is there such for me? We shall be forced to join
simply in the united destiny of one people. And who decides this? The
king, no doubt, thinks that he does; the Emperor Napoleon thinks he
does. I say that these two have no more influence over the capabilities
of their people than we two have over the capabilities around us. The
State commands us, the whole evolution of mankind from its beginning
commands them. All of the race which has gone before holds them fast,
and compels them as the wheels of the State compel us. The dead sternly
point out the way to them, as the living do to us. We all of us know
nothing, kings and ministers as little as we, of the real forces at
work. What these forces will do, and what they strive to attain to, is
hidden from us, and we only see what is nearest to us, without any
connection with its causes and final operation. That is why it seems to
me better to do what one sees as one's duty at the moment, rather than
to give ourselves the absurd appearance of being free in our movements,
and certain as to our goal." Paul pressed his hand at parting, and
murmured:

"Theoretically you are right, but practically I do not see why the
tyrant at the Tuileries need begin with us. He could at least leave us
in peace."

The order for mobilization was issued. Wilhelm was surprised to receive
his appointment again as second lieutenant, and was nominated to the
61st Pomeranian Regiment. His duties during the next few days took up
the whole of his time, and left him hardly a moment to himself. He was
free only for a few hours before the march to the frontier, and then he
made all the haste he could to say good-by at the Lennestrasse. His
heart beat quickly as he hurried along, and now that the time of
separation was near, he reproached himself for the irresolution of the
last few weeks. He was going to the front without leaving a clear
understanding behind him. He tried to convince himself that perhaps it
was better so--if he fell she would be free before the world. But at
the bottom of his heart this reasoning did not satisfy him, and he
lingered over the idea of taking his weeping betrothed to his heart
before all the world, and kissing the tears off her cheeks, instead of
bidding farewell to her at the station, and holding her to him from a
distance by an acknowledged tie. Was not their love alone enough? No,
he knew that it was not, and he felt with painful surprise that his
contempt for outward appearances, his impulse after reality, were
vigorous in him as long as he followed his inmost life alone; but when
he came out of himself, and wished to unite another human destiny with
his own, these things had become a painful weakness. Through this other
life, the world's customs and frivolities began to influence him, and
his proud independence must be humbled to the dust, or he must
painfully tolerate his own weakness. These reflections brought another
with them--it was quite possible that an opportunity might occur at the
last moment. He painted the scene in his own imagination; he found
Loulou alone, embraced her fervently, asked her if she would be his for
life; she said "Yes;" then her mother came in, Loulou threw herself on
her neck; he took her hand and asked her in due form if she would
accept him as a son-in-law, as he had already gained Loulou's consent.
If the councilor was at home, his consent was also given, if not they
must wait until he came, and the time could not seem long, even if it
lasted an hour. He did not doubt that they would all consent. Things
might very likely have happened just as he dreamed of, if he had only
come to his determination at the right time, and had not hazarded
success on the decision of the last moment, when there was hardly time
for a weighty decision.

As he approached the red sandstone house, with its sculptured
balconies, and its pretty front garden, he had a disagreeable surprise.
At the iron gate two cabs were standing, evidently waiting for visitors
at the house. He was shown, not into the little blue-room, but into the
large drawing-room near the winter garden, and found several people
there in lively conversation. Beside Loulou and Frau Ellrich there were
Fraulein Malvine Marker, with her mother, and also Herr von Pechlar,
the lieutenant of hussars of cotillion fame.

"Have you come too to say good-by?" cried Loulou, going to meet Wilhelm.

Her face looked troubled, and her voice trembled, and yet Wilhelm felt
as if a shower of cold water had drenched his head. The insincerity of
their relations, her distant manner before the others, but above all
the unfortunate word "too," including him with the lieutenant, put him
so much out of tune that all his previous intentions vanished, and he
sank at once to the position of an ordinary visitor.

Herr von Pechlar led the conversation, and took no notice of the new
guest's presence. He oppressed Wilhelm, and made him feel small by the
smartness of his uniform, his rank as first lieutenant, and his
eyeglasses. Wilhelm tried hard to fight against the feeling. After all,
he was the better man of the two, and if human nature alone had been
put in the scale--that is to say, the value both of body and mind--Herr
von Pechlar would have flown up light as a feather. But just now they
did not stand together as man to man, but as the bourgeois second
lieutenant in his plain infantry uniform, against the aristocratic
first lieutenant--the smart hussar, and the first place was not to be
contested.

In Fraulein Malvine's kind heart there lurked a vague feeling that she
must come to Wilhelm's help, and overcoming her natural shyness, she
said to him:

"It must be very hard for you to tear yourself away under the
circumstances."

She was thinking of his attachment to Loulou, which in her innocence
she quite envied.

Oppressed and distracted as his mind was, he found nothing to say but
the banal response:

"When duty calls, fraulein." But while he spoke he was conscious of the
kindness of her manner, and to show her that he was grateful he went
on, "My friend Haber wishes to say good-by to you before he leaves
Berlin. He thinks a great deal of you, and is very happy in having made
your acquaintance."

Malvine threw him a quick glance from her blue eyes and looked down
again.

"What a good thing that I was here when you came," he said softly; "I
might certainly not have seen you but for this chance."

"The fact is, gnadiges Fraulein," he stammered, "our duties demand so
much of our time."

"Is Herr Haber in your regiment?" she asked.

"No; he has remained with our old Fusilier Guards."

"Ah, what a pity! It would have been so nice for you to be side by side
again, as in 1866."

"How much she knows about us," thought Wilhelm, wondering.

"I often think of Uhland's comrades. It must be a great comfort in war
to have a friend by one."

"Happily one makes friends quickly there."

"On that point we are better off than the poor reserve forces,"
remarked Herr von Pechlar, not addressing himself to the speaker, but
to Frau and Fraulein Ellrich. "We regular officers pull together like
old friends in danger and in death, while the others come among us
unknown. I imagine that must be very uncomfortable."

Wilhelm felt that he had no answer to make, and a silence ensued.
Loulou broke it by moving her chair near Wilhelm, and began to chatter
in a cheerful way over the occurrences of the last few days. How
dreadfully sudden all this was! Just in the midst of their preparations
to go away. That was put aside now. They must stay behind and do their
duty. Mamma had presided at a committee for providing the troops with
refreshment at the railway station; she herself and Malvine were also
members. There were meetings every day, and then there was running
about here, there, and everywhere, to collect money, enlist sympathy,
make purchases, and finally to see to the arrangements at the departure
of the troops.

"It is hard work," sighed Frau Ellrich; "I have dozens of letters to
write every day, and can hardly keep up with the correspondence."

Herr von Pechlar said he regretted that he was obliged to take to the
sword; he would much rather have helped the ladies with the pen.

Wilhelm felt that the moral atmosphere was intolerable. He had nothing
to say, and yet it was painful to him to be silent. Nobody made any
sign of leaving, so at last he rose. Herr von Pechlar did not follow
his example, merely giving him a distant bow. Malvine put out her hand
quickly, which Wilhelm grasped, feeling it tremble a little in his.
Frau Ellrich went with him to the door. She seemed touched, and said
with motherly tenderness, while he kissed her hand:

"We shall anxiously expect letters from you, and I promise you that we
will write as often as possible."

Loulou went outside the door with Wilhelm, in spite of a glance from
her mother. She thought they could bid each other good-by with a kiss,
but two servants stood outside, and they had to content themselves with
a prolonged clasp of the hand, and a look from Wilhelm's troubled eyes
into hers, which were wet. She was the first to speak:

"Farewell, and come back safely, my Wilhelm. I must go back to the
drawing-room."

Yes, if she must! and without looking back, he descended the marble
staircase, feeling chilled to the bone, in spite of the hot sunlight in
the street. He had the feeling that he was leaving nothing belonging to
him in Berlin, except his own people's graves.

In the evening he left by one of the numberless roads which at short
distances traverse Germany toward the west like the straight lines of a
railway. The quiet of the landscape was disturbed by the fifes, rattle
of wheels, and clanking of chains, and to all the villages along the
road they brought back the consciousness, forgotten till now, that
Germany's best blood was to be shed in a stream flowing westward. A
time was beginning for Wilhelm of powerful but very painful
impressions, not, it is true, to be compared with those which the
battlefields of 1866 had made on him when an unformed youth. The war
unveiled to him the foundations of human nature ordinarily buried under
a covering of culture, and his reason, marveled over the reconciliation
of such antitheses. On the one hand one saw the wildest struggle for
gain, and love of destruction; on the other hand were the daily
examples of the kindest human nature, self-sacrifice for
fellow-creatures, and an almost unearthly devotion to heroic
conceptions of duty. Now it appeared as if the primitive animal nature
in man were let loose, and bellowing for joy that the chains in which
he had lain were burst, and now again as if the noblest virtues were
proudly blossoming, only wanting favorable circumstances in which to
develop themselves. Life was worth nothing, the laws of property very
little; whatever the eyes saw which the body desired, the hand was at
once stretched out to obtain, and the point of the bayonet decided if
anything came between desire and satisfaction. But these same men, who
were as indifferent to their own lives, and as keen to destroy the
lives of others as savages, performed heroic deeds, helping their
comrades in want or danger, sharing their last mouthful with wounded or
imprisoned enemies, who returned them no thanks; and after the battle,
in the peasant's hut, cradling in their arms the little child, whose
roof they had perhaps destroyed, and possibly whose father they might
have slain. These impulses, as far apart as the poles, occurred hour
after hour before Wilhelm's eyes. He was not a born soldier, and his
nature was not given to fighting. But when it was necessary to endure
the wearisome fulfillment of duty, to bear privation silently, and to
look at menacing danger indifferently, then few were his equals, and
none before him. This quiet, passive heroism was noticed by his
comrades. The officers of his company found out that he did not smoke,
and never drank anything stronger than spring water. They noticed also
that dirt was painful to him, even the ordinary dust of the country
roads, and that he was dissatisfied if his boots and trousers bore the
marks of muddy fields. They thought him a spoiled mother's darling, a
"molly-coddle," and their instructive knowledge of human nature found a
name for him, the same name his schoolfellows had already given him.
They called him the "Fraulein."

But in the day of battle, when Wilhelm with his company stood for the
first time in the line of fire, the "Fraulein" was perhaps the firmest
of them all. The hissing balls made apparently no more impression on
him than a crowd of swarming gnats, and the only moment his courage
left him was when he thought he might be thrown into a ditch, which the
rains had turned into a complete puddle. He remained standing when all
the others lay down, and the captain at last called out to him, "In the
devil's name, do you want to be a target for the French?" making him
seek shelter behind a little mound, which left him nearly as uncovered
as he was before. And after hours of solid exertion, straining nerves
and muscles to the utmost, when peace came with night, Wilhelm began a
tiring piece of work with sticks and brushwood, out of pity for a weary
comrade.

On the strength of these first days before the enemy his position as a
soldier was established. A few harmless jokes were made on the march
and in the camp on Wilhelm's anxiety as to the removal of mud on his
clothes, and on the example he set in going out at night to save the
dead and wounded enemy from plunder, but the whole company loved and
admired the "Fraulein."

The officers, however, did not entirely share this feeling. This
lieutenant was not smart enough. They did full justice to his courage,
but thought that he was wanting in alertness and initiative. He lacked
the proper campaigning spirit, and they found it chilling that he
should be so distant in his manners after so long a time together.
Another said that Lieutenant Eynhardt went into action like a
sleep-walker, and his calmness had something uncanny about it. The
captain was not pleased with him, because he had no knowledge of
business; as far as example went he was the worst forager in the whole
regiment. If a peasant's wife complained to him, he would leave
empty-handed a house whose cellars were stocked with wine, and larders
with hams one could smell a hundred yards off. It was all the more
provoking as he could speak French perfectly, an accomplishment which
no one else in the regiment could, to the same extent, boast of. It
came even to a scene between him and the captain, who said angrily to
him after a fruitless search in a new and well-to-do village in
Champagne: "A good heart is a fine thing to have, but you are an
officer now, and not a Sister of Mercy. Our men have a right to eat,
and if you want to be compassionate, our poor fellows want food just as
much as those French peasants. Deny yourself if you like, but take care
that the soldiers have what they need. If ever you get back to Berlin,
then in God's name you can please yourself by distributing alms, and
buy a place for yourself in heaven."

Wilhelm was obliged to admit that the captain was right, but he could
not change his nature. Capturing, destroying, giving pain, were not to
his taste. From that time he left other people's property alone, and
let the French run if they fell into his hands. He was excellent on
outpost and patrol duties, for then his brains and not his hands were
at work--then he could think and endure. He could go for twenty-four
hours on a bit of bread and a draught of water better than any one, and
without a minute's sleep, stand for hours at a stretch holding a
position; he was always the first to explore dangerous roads, signing
to his companions if he could answer for their safety, and all this
with a natural, quiet self-possession as if he were taking a walk in
town, or reading a newspaper at Spargnapani's.

Weeks and months went by like a dream, in constant excitement, and the
exhausting strain of strength. Christmas passed at the outposts without
gifts and with few good wishes, and the thunder of the guns took the
place of church bells. January came in with a hard frost, trying the
field troops bitterly, and bringing with it hard work for Wilhelm's
regiment. The 61st belonged to General Kettler's brigade, which
strategically kept the Garibaldi and Pelissier divisions in check. By
the middle of January the brigade was in full touch with the enemy. On
the 21st the troops broke out from the St. Seine, dashed into the Val
Suzon, and after an hour's conflict with the Garibaldians, drove them
out and established themselves on the heights of Daix toward two
o'clock. Before them were the rugged summits of Talant and Fontaine,
the last spurs of the Jura Mountains seen in the blue distances both of
them crowned, by old villages, whose outer walls looked down a thousand
feet below. The gray walls, the rhomboid towers of the mediaeval
churches, brought to one's mind the vision of robber knights rather
than the modest homes of peasants. Between these two mountains was a
narrow valley, through which one caught a glimpse of Dijon, with its
red roofs and numbers of towers, and its high Gothic church above all,
St. Benigne, well known later to the German soldiers.

There lay before them the great wealthy town, looking as if one could
throw a pebble through one of its windows, so near did it seem in the
clear winter air. The smoke went straight up out of its thousand
chimneys, exciting appetizing thoughts of warm rooms and boiling pots
on kitchen fires. There were the sheltered streets full of shops,
friendly cafes, houses with beds and lamps and well-covered tables--but
the soldiers stood outside on the cold hillside, chilled to the bone by
the north wind, so tired that they could hardly stand, and often
sinking down in the snow, where they lay benumbed, without energy to
rouse themselves. They had gone for twenty-four hours without food, and
had only some black bread remaining for the evening, worth a kingdom in
price. Between their misery and the abundance before their eyes lay the
enemy's army, and this army they must conquer, if they would sit at
those tables and lie in the soft beds. The general wanted to take Dijon
in order to remove a danger menacing to South Germany, and to secure
the advance of the German army toward Paris and Belfort--the soldiers
had the same desire, but their longing for Dijon was for comfort,
satisfaction of hunger, and rest.

The German battalion kept on pressing forward. This mistake was hardly
the fault of the officers, who on this occasion strove to keep the men
back rather than encourage them to advance. The Garibaldian troops had
the advantages of superior forces, a greater range of artillery, and
sheltered position in the hills, and they pressed with increased
courage to the attack. The Germans did not await them quietly but threw
themselves on them, so that in many cases it came to a hand-to-hand
fight, and serious work was done with bayonets and the butt-ends of
rifles. At length the French began to retreat, and the Germans with
loud "Hurrahs!" flung themselves after them. But the pursuit was soon
abandoned, as they had to withdraw under the fire from the Talant and
Fontaine positions, and then, after a short rest, the French again
advanced. So the fight lasted for three hours, the snowflakes dispersed
by the balls, the men stamping their half-frozen feet on the ground,
stained in so many places with blood, but the distance between the
German battalion and beckoning, mocking Dijon never diminished. The
right wing of the brigade made a strenuous attempt, pressed hard toward
Plombieres, forced the Garibaldians back at the point of the bayonet,
and took possession of the village, which already had been stormed from
house to house. The sight of the slopes before Plombieres covered with
the enemy running, sliding, or rolling, acted like strong drink; the
whole German line threw itself on the yielding enemy before it had time
to regain breath, and amid the thunder of artillery, with the balls
from the French reserves on the heights rattling like hailstones, it
gained at last a footing on the hill. Some of the troops sank down
exhausted in the shelter of the little huts which were strewed over the
vineyard, while others followed the division of the enemy which had
forced itself between the mountain and the narrow valley behind the
French line of defense.

It was now night, and very dark, and to follow up the hard-won victory
was not to be thought of, so the German troops halted to rest if
possible for an hour. It was a terrible night, and the cold was
intense. Campfires were almost useless. The men's clothes were
insufficient and nearly worn out. During the last few days, on the
march and in the camp, every one had huddled together whatever seemed
warmest, and in the pale moon or starlight, figures in strange
disguises might be seen. One wore the thick wadded cloak of a peasant
woman over woefully torn trousers, another whose toes till now had
always been seen out of noisy boots, stalked in enormous wooden shoes,
the extra room being filled up with hay and straw. Overcoats from the
French and German dead had been taken, and were useful for replenishing
outfits--particularly when a German soldier wore red trousers, and the
braided fur coat of the fantastic Garbaldian uniform. Many others had
bed-clothing and horse-coverings, carpets and curtains, one even went
so far as to wear an altar-cloth from some poor village church over his
shoulders, and those who still had pocket-handkerchiefs in their
possession wore them tied over their ears. Many, however, had nothing
but their own torn uniforms, and these tried hard to get warm by
rolling themselves close against one another like dogs. The dark masses
lay there all among the trodden and half-frozen snow stained with
blood, sand, and clay, huddled together one on the top of the other,
and if their labored breathing had not been heard, one could hardly
have told whether one stood by living men or dead--the dead indeed lay
near, many hundreds of them, singly and in groups, scarcely more
cramped and huddled together than the sleepers, nor more quiet than
they. When the cold, even to the most warmly dressed, became
intolerable, they would spring up and stagger about, stumbling over
heaps of dead and living men, the latter cursing them loudly.

The dreadful night passed, and at most a third only of the German
troops had rested. The gray dawn began to appear in the sky, bugles
sounded, and cries of command were heard, but it was hard for the poor
soldiers to rouse themselves, to stir their benumbed limbs, which at
last were beginning to get a little warm. One after another the ridges
of the Jura Mountains became suffused with pink as the sun rose, but
the fissures in the hills and the valleys were still dark and filled
with thick mist, behind which the enemy's position and the town of
Dijon were still invisible. The soldiers soon forced their stiffened
limbs into position, the last remaining rations were quickly
distributed, and a picked number of the freshest of the men, i.e. those
who had had no night duty, went out doggedly against the enemy, with
trailing steps and gray, tired-out faces. The crackle of their lively
firing aroused the French from sleep, and perhaps from dreams of
conquest and fame, put them to confusion, and drove them back toward
Dijon. The Germans followed, this time without shouting, and as the fog
gradually dispersed, they saw the first skirmishers of the batteries on
Talant and Fontaine, apparently far distant against the Porte Guillaume
(the old town gate of Dijon, built to imitate a Roman arch of victory),
were really quite near them. One more tug and strain and the goal was
near. A fresh swing was put into the attack, but the French had found
time with the advancing day to gather themselves together, and to be
aware of the inferior numbers of the attacking party, and they threw
themselves in column formation down the hill, which the German division
threatened to attack in the rear. Fresh troops came marching out of
Dijon, and the Germans, to avoid being between two fires, drew back
again through the valley behind the mountain. The French pressed after
them, but were received by the German reserves with such a firm front,
that they paused and slowly retreated.

General von Kettler knew that in spite of his momentary success, he
could expect no further advance from his half-starved, cold, and weary
brigade, and therefore he ordered them half a mile to the rear. The
Garibaldian troops, who thought victory could be gained by one
strenuous effort, tried to arrest the departing troops, endeavoring to
bring them back to another advance. When they were at last distributed
in the villages, the exhausted Germans found rest and refreshment for
the first time for forty-eight hours. They had lost a tenth part of
their powers of endurance in those dreadful two days spent on the hills
in sight of Dijon.

The brigade had retreated, as one who jumps goes a step or two backward
to obtain more impetus. The next morning, January 23, they ware again
on the march to Dijon. This time, however, they chose another way to
avoid the batteries of Talant and Fontaine, and approached the town
from the north instead of from the west. Following the road and the
railway embankment from Langres to Dijon, the German troops pressed
forward without halting. The French outposts and breastworks soon fell
before the advancing Germans, and made no stand till they got to the
Faubourg St. Nicholas, the northeast suburb of Dijon. The greater
number of the Germans stationed themselves on the embankment, but the
walls of the vineyard, plentifully loopholed, pressed them hard with
shot. Toward evening the second battalion of the 61st, to which Wilhelm
belonged, received the order to advance. Over pleasure-gardens and
vineyards they went, through poor people's deserted houses the four
companies of skirmishers worked their way to the entrance of the Rue
St. Catherine, a long, narrow street. Just at the end stood a large
three-storied factory, whose front, filled with large high windows,
looked like a framework of stone and iron. At every window there was a
crowd of soldiers; the whole front bristled with death-dealing weapons.
Sixteen windows were on each floor, and at every window at least three
rows of four soldiers stood. It was therefore easy to reckon the total
number at six hundred at the very least.

As the points of the German bayonets came round the corner in sight of
this fortress a terrible change took place: in the twinkling of an eye
all the openings blazed out at once, and the building seemed to shake
from its foundations; forty-eight red tongues of flame blazed out
suddenly to right and left, as if so many throats of Vulcan or abysses
into hell had been opened, and soon the whole building was wrapped in a
thick white smoke, through which the men were invisible. Then a fresh
roar and fresh bursts of flame, and fresh puffing out of white smoke,
and so it went on, flash after flash, roar after roar came from that
awful wall, whose windows were every now and then visible between the
volleys of smoke. Hardly one of the soldiers within the line of fire
was left standing, numbers were crushed, many more lying dead or
wounded-and the furious firing took on a fresh impetus. If the whole
battalion was not to be destroyed, it must speedily get under cover.
So, running some hundred and fifty yards to the right, they threw
themselves into an apparently deep sandpit, and there they lay directly
opposite to the factory. During these few minutes the facade, still
vomiting fire, bellowed and poured out bullets like hailstones against
the sixty men in the sandpit, doing murderous work.

Hardly giving themselves time to take breath, the brave men began to
fire steadily at the factory, which up till now appeared, in spite of
its nearness, to be very little damaged. The enemy were there
completely enveloped from sight, and a lurid red flame through the
cloud of smoke was the only guide for the German shot. So the fighting
lasted for some time, till an adjutant sprang from over the field
behind, which he had reached by a circuitous way, bringing from the
commander-in-chief the questions as to what was going on, and why were
they there. The major pointed with his sword at the factory, and said

"We must have artillery against this."

"There is none here to have," answered the adjutant.

The major shrugged his shoulders, and gave the command for the Fifth
company to storm the factory. While they prepared themselves to leave
the sandpit the German firing stopped, and almost at the same time, the
French. The enemy could now see what was going on outside, for at this
moment the cloud of smoke became less dense. The company broke out of
the sandpit, and with the flag of the battalion gallantly waving over
them rushed madly toward the door of the factory, while the men who
were left behind tried by a furious fire to support their comrades and
to confuse the enemy. The strange silence had lasted forty or fifty
seconds, probably till the Germans had given some idea of their
intentions. This bit of time allowed the storming party to gain,
without loss, the middle of the space which separated them from their
object, the intoxication of victory began to possess them, and they
gave a cheer which rang with the exultant sound of triumph. Again the
crashing din began, as terribly as before, it was an uninterrupted
sound like the howling of a hurricane, in which no single report or
salvo could be distinguished; the whole building seemed to flame at
once from the top to the bottom in one red glow, and the bullets flew
and whistled in such a confusing mass, that it seemed as if the heavens
were opened and it rained balls, a dozen for every four square foot of
earth, and the men felt that they must be prepared for repeated attacks
of the same description, one after the other without stopping. In but a
few seconds half of the company lay on the ground, and the colors had
disappeared among the fallen. Those who remained standing seemed for a
short time as if stunned. A few, acting on the instinct of
self-preservation, fled almost unconsciously. Among the greater part,
however, the fighting Prussian instinct prevailed, impelling the
soldiers forward and never back, and so with renewed shouts they
pressed on. But only for a few minutes. The colors flew upward again,
raised by hands wearied to death, only to fall again at once. Three
times--four times the flag emerged, sinking again and again, and each
flutter meant a new sacrifice, and each fall the death of a hero. Soon
there was no one left standing, no man and no standard, nothing but a
gray heap of bodies, whose limbs palpitated and moved like some
fabulous sea creature, making groaning, ghostly sounds. Ten or twelve
poor fellows wounded by stray shots sheltered themselves in the sandpit
without weapons, with staring eyes and distorted features. That was all
there was left of the Fifth company.

There was deathly silence in the sandpit; the firing had ceased for
some minutes. The soldiers looked at one another, and at the mountain
of human bodies before them in the evening twilight, and threw doubtful
glances at the handful of men just returned, lying exhausted on the
ground. Suddenly the major called out:

"The colors!"

"The colors!" murmured several men, while others remained silent.

"We must search for them under the wounded," said the major sadly.

His glance strayed right and left, and seemed to invite volunteers
among the twenty or thirty who were nearest to him. The little band
cautiously left their shelter, and set diligently to work on the hill
of dead bodies. But in spite of the growing darkness they were observed
by the French, who began their fire anew, and a few minutes later no
living soul was left on the field.

The captain and Wilhelm were now the only remaining officers of the
battalion. The former cried: "Who--will volunteer?" and was surrounded
by a dozen brave fellows. Wilhelm was not among them. He stood leaning
on his sword against the half-frozen side of the pit, observing with
sorrowful expression what was going on around him. The captain threw
him a strange look, in which contempt and reproach were mingled, then
he drew out his watch, as if to note the last moment of his life, and
with the cry "Forward!" disappeared in the evening light. He did not
reach the spot where the corpses lay thickest. The factory went on
spitting fire, and crashing everything down over the heap. The shots,
however, came more slowly, and pauses came between them. A shriek was
heard, not far distant. Evidently it was one of the wounded who lay on
the ground. At the same time a form could be distinguished raising
itself up and then sinking again. Heedless of the balls which whistled
round his ears, Wilhelm raised his head out of the sandpit and looked
over the field. Then he worked himself out on his hands and knees, and
to the astonishment of the soldiers in the pit moved away toward the
wounded, alone and without hurry or excitement. Over there on the other
side they saw him, and although the artillery did not fire on him, he
received a brisk volley of single shots without, however, being hit,
and he reached the first group of wounded. A hasty glance showed him
only stiffened limbs and stony faces. He went on searching, and then he
heard close by him a feeble voice saying: "Here!" and a hand was
stretched out to him. With one bound he was near the wounded man, and
recognized the captain.

"Are you seriously hurt?" he asked, while as quickly as possible he
raised the wounded man on his shoulder, who answered almost inaudibly:

"A ball through the chest, and one in my foot. I am in awful pain."

As Wilhelm went slowly back with his burden, he looked so fantastic in
the growing darkness, that the French did not know what to make of the
strange apparition, and began to fire afresh. "Wilhelm, however,
reached the sandpit safely, where friendly arms were stretched out to
help him, and relieve him of the captain. He stayed to breathe a
moment, and then said:

"If any one will come with me, we might bring in one or two more poor
devils who have still life in them."

He was soon surrounded by five or six figures, and he was going with
them to search for wounded in the rain of balls which was falling, when
with a sudden cry of pain he sank backward. A ball had struck his right
leg. His volunteers put him back into the sandpit, and no one thought
any more either of the colors or the wounded who lay out there under
the fire from the factory. At this moment too an adjutant brought the
command to retreat, which the remains of the wearied battalion slowly
began, to obey under the command of a sub-officer.

The captain, who could not be moved, was left in a peasant's hut in the
village of Messigny, but as Wilhelm's injury was only a flesh wound,
and he was merely exhausted from loss of blood, he was sent with the
others to Tonnerre, where he arrived the next day, after a journey of
great suffering.

The schoolhouse was turned into an infirmary, many of the rooms holding
nearly a hundred and twenty beds. Wilhelm was put into a little room,
which he shared with one French and two German officers. A Sister of
Mercy and a male volunteer nurse attended to the patients in this as
well as in the four neighboring rooms. Wilhelm exercised the same
influence here as he did everywhere, by the power of his pale thin
face, which had not lost all its beauty; by the sympathetic tones of
his voice, and above all by the nobility of his quiet, patient nature.
His fellow-sufferers were attracted to him as if he were a magnet. Some
occupants of the room gave up their cigars when they noticed that he
did not smoke. The Frenchman declared immediately that he was le
Prussien le plus charmant he had ever seen. The Sister took him to her
motherly heart, and the doctor was constantly at his bedside. He was
able to give him a great deal of attention without neglecting his duty,
as there were few very severe cases under his care, and no new ones
came in--Paris had surrendered and a truce was declared.

At first Wilhelm's wound was very bad. It had been carelessly bound up
at first, and in the long journey to the infirmary had been neglected,
but owing to antiseptic treatment the fever soon abated and then left
him entirely. He took such a particular fancy to the doctor that after
a few days they were like old friends, and knew everything about each
other.

Dr. Schrotter was an unusual type, both in appearance and character. Of
middle height, extraordinarily broad-shouldered, and with large strong
hands and feet, he gave the impression of having been intended for a
giant, whose growth had stopped before reaching its fulfillment. The
powerful, nobly-formed he ad was rather bent, as if it bore some heavy
burden. His light hair, not very thick, and slightly gray on the
temples, grew together in a tuft over the high forehead. The
closely-cropped beard left his chin free, and the fine mustache showed
a mouth with a rather satirical curve and closely compressed lips A
strong aquiline nose and narrow bright blue eyes completed a
physiognomy indicating great reserve and a remarkable degree of
melancholy. It is no advantage to a man to possess a Sphinx-like head.
The pretty faces apparently full of secrets offer easy deceptions, and
one expects that the mouth when open will reveal all that the eyes seem
to mean. One is half-angry and half-inclined to laugh when one
discovers that the face of the Sphinx has quite an everyday meaning,
and utters only commonplaces. But with Dr. Schrotter one had no such
deception. He spoke quite simply, and when he closed his lips he left
in the minds of his listeners a hundred thoughts which his words had
conveyed, He was born in Breslau, had studied in Berlin, and had
started a practice there when his student day's were over. The
Revolution of '48 came, and he at once threw himself head over ears
into it. He fought at the barricades, took part in the storming of the
Arsenal, became a celebrated platform orator, and relieved a great deal
of distress during the reactionary policy which followed, leaving soon
afterward, however, to travel abroad. He went to London almost
penniless, and at first, through his ignorance of the language, he was
barely able to maintain himself, but he soon had the good fortune to
obtain an appointment in the East India Company. In the spring of 1850
he went to Calcutta, where he helped to manage the School of Medicine,
and some years later was sent to Lahore, where he also established a
medical school. After twenty years' service he was discharged with a
considerable pension. His return to Europe falling in with the outbreak
of the war, he hastened to offer his voluntary services to the army as
surgeon. Owing to temperate habits and a strong physique, he had kept
in good health, and no one would have dreamed that this strong,
fifty-year-old man had passed so many years in an enervating tropical
climate. The only signs it had left on his face were the dark,
yellowish color of his skin, and the habit of keeping the eyes
half-closed. The long years in India had also made a deep impression on
his character, and many things about him would have appeared strange
and odd in a European. They amounted to sheer contradictions, but their
explanation was to be looked for in the environment of his life.
Physically he was still young, but his mind seemed very old, and had
that appearance of dwelling quietly apart which is the privilege of
wise minds who have done with life, and who look on at the close of the
comedy free from illusions. His eyes often flashed with enthusiasm, but
his speech was always gentle and quiet. In his relations with other men
he had the decided manner of one who was accustomed to command, and at
the same time the kindness of a patriarch for his children. He was a
moderate sceptic, nevertheless he combined with it a mysticism which a
superficial judge might have denounced as superstition. He believed,
for instance, that many persons had power over wild animals; that they
could raise themselves into the air; that they could interrupt the
duration of their lives for months, or even for years, and then resume
it again; that they could read the thoughts of others, and communicate
without help the speech of others over unlimited distances. All these
things he averred he had himself seen, and if people asked him how they
were possible, he answered simply, "I can no more explain these
phenomena than I can explain the law of gravitation, or the
transformation of a caterpillar into a moth. The first principles of
everything are inexplicable. The difference in our surroundings is only
that some things are frequently observed, and others only seldom."

His philosophy, which he had learned from the Brahmins, attracted
Wilhelm greatly; it made many things clear to him which he himself had
vaguely felt possible ever since he had learned to think. "The
phenomenon of things on this earth," said Dr. Schrotter, "is a riddle
which we try to read in vain. We are borne away by a flood, whose
source and whose mouth are equally hidden from us. It is of no avail
when we anxiously cry, 'Whence have we come, and whither are we going?'
The wisest course for us is to lie quietly by the banks and let
ourselves drift--the blue sky above us, and the breaking of the waves
beneath us. From time to time we come to some fragrant lotus-flower,
which we may gather." And when Wilhelm complained that the philosophy
of the world is so egoistic, Dr. Schrotter answered, "Egoism is a word.
It depends on what meaning is attached to it. Every living being
strives after something he calls happiness, and all happiness is only a
spur goading us on to the search. It belongs to the peculiar organism
of a healthy being that he should be moved by sympathy. He cannot be
happy if he sees others suffering. The more highly developed a human
being is the deeper is this feeling, and the mere idea of the suffering
of others precludes happiness. The egoism of mankind is seen in this;
he searches for the suffering of others, and tries to alleviate it, and
in the combat with pain he insures his own happiness. A Catholic would
say of St. Vincent de Paul or St. Charles Borromeo, 'He was a great
saint.' I would say, 'He was a great egoist.' Let us render love to
those who are swimming with us down the stream of life, and without
pricking of conscience take joy in being egoists."

Wilhelm was never tired of talking about the wonderland of the rising
sun, of its gentle people and their wisdom, and Dr. Schrotter willingly
told him about his manner of life and experience there. So the peaceful
days went by in the quiet schoolhouse at Tonnerre, the monotony being
pleasantly relieved by visits from comrades, and letters from Paul
Haber and the Ellrichs. Paul was going on very well. He was at
Versailles, making acquaintances with celebrated people, and had
nothing to complain of except that, in spite of the truce, he had no
leave of absence to come and see his friend. Frau Ellrich complained of
the irregularity of their correspondence during the war. Loulou wrote
lively letters full of spirit and feeling. She had been frightened to
hear of his wound, but his convalescence had made her happy again. She
hoped that it would not leave him with a stiff leg, but even if it did
it would not matter so much, as he neither danced nor skated. What a
dreary winter they were having in Berlin! No balls, no parties, nothing
but lint-picking, and their only dissipation the arrival of the wounded
and the prisoners at the railway station. And that was quite spoiled by
the abominable newspaper articles on the subject--presuming to
criticize ladies because they were rather friendly to the French
officers! The French, whom one had known so well in Switzerland, must
be of some worth, and it was the woman's part to be kind to the wounded
enemy, and to intercede for human beings even in war, while the men
defended them by their courage and strength. Some of these Frenchmen
were charming, so witty, polite, and chivalrous, that one could almost
forgive them had they conquered us. One's friends were suffering so
much--one heard such dreadful things. Herr von Pechlar had escaped
without a hair being injured, and he already had an Iron Cross of the
first class! She hoped that Wilhelm would soon get one too.

Up till now Wilhelm had not been able to answer this question
decidedly. One morning, toward the end of February, as he was limping
about the room on a stick, the adjutant came in and said:

"I have brought you good news. You have won the Iron Cross." As Wilhelm
did not immediately answer he went on: "Your captain has the first
class. He is now out of danger. He has naturally surpassed you. I may
tell you between ourselves that it did not seem quite the thing, your
being so cool about the colors; but the way in which you fetched the
captain out was ripping. Don't be offended if I ask you why you exposed
yourself for the captain when you refused for the flag?"

"I don't mind telling you at all. The captain is a living man, and the
flag only a symbol. A symbol does not seem to me to be worth as much as
a man."

The adjutant stared at him, and he repeated confusedly:

"A symbol!"

Wilhelm said nothing in explanation, but went on:

"I regret very much that I was not asked before I was proposed for the
Iron Cross. I cannot accept it."

"Not take it? You can't really mean that!"

"Yes, I do. In trying to fulfill my duties as a man and a citizen, I
cannot hang a sign of my bravery on me for all passers-by to see."

"You speak like a tragedy, my dear Herr Eynhardt," said the adjutant.
"But just as you like. You can have the satisfaction of having done
something unique. It is hardly a usual thing to refuse the Iron Cross."

As he went out with a distant bow, Dr. Schrotter came in, and said,
smiling:

"What the adjutant said about the tragedy is very true. Decoration
appears very theatrical to me, but you might take it quietly and put it
in your pocket. I have got quite a collection of such things which I
never wear."

"But do you blame the men who despise these outward forms in order to
give an example to others?"

"My friend, when one is young one hopes to guide others, as one grows
older one grows more modest."

This objection struck Wilhelm, and he grew confused. Dr. Schrotter laid
his hand quietly on his shoulder, and said:

"That does not matter. We really mean the same thing. The difference is
only that you are twenty-five and I am fifty."

As Wilhelm was silent and thoughtful, Schrotter went on:

"There is a great deal to be said about symbols. Theoretically you are
right, but life practically does not permit of your views. Everything
which you see and do is a symbol, and where are you to draw the line?
The flag is one, but without doubt the battle is one too. I believe, in
spite of the historian who is wise after the event, that the so-called
decisive battles do not decide anything, and that it is the accidental
events which have the permanent influence on the destiny of peoples.
Neither Marathon nor Cannae kept the Greeks or Carthaginians from
destruction; all the Roman conquests did not prevent the Teutonic race
from overrunning the world; all the Crusader conquests of Jerusalem did
not maintain Christianity, or Napoleon's victories the first French
Empire; nor did the defeats sustained by the Russians in the Crimea
influence their development. And finally, I am convinced that Europe
to-day would not be materially different, even if all the decisive
victories of her people could be changed into defeats, and their
defeats into victories. So you see that a battle is a symbol of the
momentary capabilities of a people, and a very useless symbol, because
it tells nothing of the immediate future, and yet you will sacrifice
your life for this symbol, and not for another! It is not logical."

"You are right," said Wilhelm, "and our actions in cases like this are
not guided by logic. But one thing I am sure of, if everything else is
a symbol, a man's life is not. It is what it appears to be; it
signifies just itself."

"Do you think so?" said Schrotter thoughtfully.

"Yes, although I understand the doubt implied in your question. A
living man is to me a secret, which I respect with timidity and
reverence--who can tell his previous history, what things he does, what
truths he believes in, what happiness he is giving to others? Therefore
when I see him in danger I willingly risk my life to save his. I know
myself, and I estimate my value as a trifling thing."

Schrotter shook his head.

"If that were right, an adult must in all cases give his life to save a
child, because he might grow to be a Newton, or a Goethe, and above
all, because the child is the future, and that must always taken
precedence of the past and the present. But to a mature man that is not
practicable. There are no more secrets. Mankind knows that the probable
is planted within his own being. Do not seek to find additional reasons
for a fact which has already sprung up from unknown forces. It was
sympathy which impelled you, the natural feeling for a fellow-creature.
And that is right and natural."

Wilhelm looked at Schrotter gratefully as he affectionately grasped his
hand.




CHAPTER IV.

IT WAS NOT TO BE.


The sun streamed down on Berlin from a cloudless sky, and all the life
of the town gathered in a confused, restless throng in Unter den
Linden; but the bustle on this hot summer day, June 16, 1871, had quite
a different character from that of eleven months before. And if any one
could have listened to it all with closed eyes, he might have
distinguished a joyful excitement in the air, in the laughing of
children and girls, in the lively gossip of the men; and from all these
sounds of joy and chatter he might have detected the signs that
overstrained nerves were now relaxed after long hours of weary
suspense. What hundreds of thousands had wished and hoped for on that
Friday in July had now come to its glorious fulfillment, and Berlin, as
the proud capital of a newly-established empire, was giving a welcome
home to the army. They had at last found the answer to Arndt's
ill-natured question about the German Fatherland, and had set the great
Charles' imperial crown on the head of their bold Hohenzollern king.

On one of the raised platforms near the Brandenburger Thor were Wilhelm
and Dr. Schrotter. The former had renounced the privilege which
belonged to him, as officer in the Reserves, and moreover, as an
example, had not claimed his position among those who were wounded in
the war, still however wearing his uniform. Had he consulted his own
inclinations, he would not have come to see this triumphant entrance,
as he took very little pleasure in the noisy enthusiasm of crowds. A
great deal of actual vulgarity is always exhibited on these occasions,
mingled with some real nobility of feeling. Counter-jumpers and
work-girls secure comfortable positions from which to see the
processions, groups of calculating shopkeepers with advertisements of
pictures and medals of hateful ugliness speculate on the generosity of
the crowd, and others push with all the force of their bodily weight to
obtain and keep the front places for themselves. Frau Ellrich had sent
Wilhelm two tickets, hoping that he would make use of them. Dr.
Schrotter wished to see the spectacle, so Wilhelm asked his new friend
to go with him.

Near where they sat was the platform for the ladies who were to crown
the victors with wreaths. Among them was Loulou. All the emotions and
force of character of which she was capable had been brought out by her
position. Through the influence of her father, who, in all the
difficult and responsible business of the French indemnity had found
time to intercede for his little daughter with the burgomasters and
magistrates, Loulou's dream was realized; a dream which all the
prettiest girls in the best society in Berlin had also shared during
the last week. Her enrollment in this troop of beauties was regarded by
her less successful friends with envy, but the vexation of disappointed
rivals was naturally the sweetest part of her triumph.

The young girls were dressed all alike in mediaeval dresses like the
well known pictures of Gretchen in "Faust," with long plaits of hair,
puffed and slashed sleeves, and senseless and theatrical-looking little
hanging pockets. All were nevertheless conscious of the propriety of
their appearance, and felt quite heroic. It really was heroic to sit
there hour after hour in the burning sun bareheaded, until all were
gathered into one great picture, and a documentary proof could be
handed down to their grandchildren in the shape of a large-sized
photograph, showing that their grandmothers had been chosen as the
official beauties of Berlin in the year 1871. The satisfaction of
vanity, involving such a sacrifice, almost deserves admiration.

It was nearly midday when a sudden stir took place in the crowd. Every
one on the platforms sprang up and began to wave hats and
handkerchiefs. In the windows, on the roofs, in the spaces between the
platforms, wherever men could be packed, suddenly all the heads turned
to one side, just as a field of corn bends before a breeze. Then uprose
a roar of shouts and cheers, deafening and almost stunning in
intensity. It was impossible any longer to distinguish tone, but only a
tumult, such as a diver in deep water might hear of the surface waves
above him. The senses were bemused by the continual succession, of
heads set close together like a mosaic, and covering the whole surface
of the great street, and by the roar which went up, cheering everything
which made its appearance; whether it were the struggling activity of
the crowd moving in the center of the street, the sudden fall of
foolhardy boys who had climbed into trees or up lampposts, or the short
and sharp fights which went on between spectators for the best places,
nothing escaped recognition.

Now between the firing of cannons was heard a more distant sound of a
warlike fanfare of trumpets, and between the pillars of the central
Brandenburg Gateway came the Field-Marshal Wrangel, recognizing all the
arrangements with a pleasant smile, and with a radiantly happy
expression on his withered face, as the first enthusiasm of the people
burst upon him, though he had demanded no part of the triumph for
himself. A group of generals followed him in gorgeous uniforms,
decorated with shining medals and stars, all bore famous names,
attracting the keenest interest and centering the enthusiasm of the
crowd. Endless and numberless seemed the ever-changing and
richly-colored procession--Moltke, Bismarck, and Roon side by side, all
statuesque figures, their eyes with stately indifference glancing at
the rejoicing people. They seemed in the midst of this stormy wave of
excitement like stern, immovable rocks, standing firm and high above
the breaking surf at their feet. Many people had at the sight of them
an intuitive feeling that they were not mortal men, but rather mystical
embodiments of the power of nature, just as the gods of the sun, the
sea, and the storm were the conceptions of the old religions. They
passed on, and at a short interval behind them came the Emperor
Wilhelm. His supreme importance was emphasized by the space left before
and after him. Wreaths covered his purple saddle, flowers drooped over
the glossy skin of his high-stepping charger, his helmeted head and his
gloved hand saluted and bowed, and on his face shone a mingled
expression of gratitude and emotion, which, after the hard, cold
bearing of his fellow-workers, was doubly impressive and affecting.
Manifestly this conqueror was not like his Roman prototype who had the
words, "Think of death," whispered in his ear, while he tolerated the
idolization of the people.

The monarch had to hear long speeches from the officials and verses
from the trembling lips of the young girls who surrounded him before he
could ride further. The train of individual heroes ended with him. The
principle of massing together was now the order, in which individuality
is no longer recognized.

Battalion after battalion and squadron after squadron in endless lines
passed by, until the tired eyes of the spectators could hardly after a
time distinguish whether the lines were still moving, or had come to a
standstill. The helmets and weapons of the soldiers were garlanded with
flowers and foliage, the horses' legs were twined with wreaths, and
their feet trod on a mass of trampled flowers and leaves. The strength
of the German army seemed to be decked and curled out of it; the lines
of marching soldiers had women's faces: here and there a man had a
patriotic admirer on his arm, who let it be seen that she had taken
possession of his weapon and carried it for him. The officers, as much
bedecked as their men, managed nevertheless to preserve their dignity.

The crowd was gradually becoming stupefied by the spectacle, throats
were sore with shouting and cheering, and the oppressive heat took the
freshness out of the people's enthusiasm. Once more, however, they
broke out again, just as when the emperor and his paladins appeared,
and this was when the French field-trophies were carried past.
Eighty-one standards and flags were there, from the battlefields of
Russia, Italy, and Mexico, soaked through with men's blood, gloriously
decomposed, torn, blackened with powder, and riddled with bullets. Now
the strong arms of German non-commissioned officers carried them in the
sultry heat of the midsummer afternoon, these miserable remnants
hanging heavy and limp without a flutter, without a spark of trembling
life in the silken folds; they looked like imprisoned kings, who with
heads bowed down, and despair in their eyes, walked in chains behind
the triumphant Roman chariots.

"Look," sad Dr. Schrotter to Wilhelm, when a short pause came in the
shouting, and in the rain of wreaths and flowers--"Look what makes the
deepest impression on the people, next to the great representative
figures. There is the symbol which you despised."

"What does that prove?" answered Wilhelm. "I never doubted that the
crowd was roused by appearances, and not by the reason of things. The
ideal results of victory one cannot see with one's eyes or applaud with
one's hands, but a dismantled banner one can."

"That does not explain everything. Atavism comes into it. The
inhabitants of towns in ancient times need to rejoice and cheer in the
same way when their victorious troops brought home the tutelary gods of
their enemies. It is the same idea, the same superstition, after an
interval of three thousand years."

"Yes, it is curious. I was thinking the whole time that one had a
picture of ancient civilization before one. The wreaths of flowers,
these swaggering figures with their trophies of war, this gay crowd,
distributing food and drink, these young girls with their crowns, is it
not all exactly the manner in which the people of the Stone Age or the
savages of to-day would feast their heroes? Cannot one understand in
this that at the beginning of civilization war was the highest object
in state and society, an opportunity of enrichment by booty, and a
festival for youth? Nowadays we ought to have got far enough to see in
war only a weary fulfilling of duty, a barbarous waste of labor, of
which we are inwardly ashamed; and we should keep away from this noisy
festival as from the execution of a criminal, which may be necessary,
but is painful to witness. The progress from barbarism to civilization
is frightfully slow."

"It is true; we are still carrying ancient barbarism round our necks,
and without a great deal of rubbing you will easily find the primitive
savage under the skin of our dear contemporaries who are able to
construe Latin beautifully. And these are not the only gloomy thoughts
which this spectacle gives me. Look there! over yonder at the other end
of the street they are unveiling a monument to Friedrich Wilhelm III.,
and the festival of victory is spoiled by homage paid to a despot who
during twenty-seven years never redeemed his pledge to give the people
a constitution. I am forty-eight years old, and yet I have not
forgotten my youthful ideas. My generation looked forward to a united
as well as to a free Germany, and hoped that unity would not come out
of a war, but rather from the freewill of the German people. It is now
with us through other means, but I fear not better ones. The
aristocracy and the Church will assert themselves again, and the
military system will lay its iron hand over the life of the whole
nation. People say already that it is the officer and not the
schoolmaster who has made Germany great. These changes put my thoughts
in a ferment. One has yet to see whether such a society of officers can
produce a people, and if its thinkers and teachers could not lead it to
a richer cultivation, and its poets to a higher ideal of duty. I am
afraid, my friend, that the higher souls in our new empire will not
find this an easy time."

"And yet you left your dreaming in India to come home to discomfort,"
said Wilhelm.

"My longing for Germany never left me all the twenty years I was there.
And then I confess that I secretly reproached myself for going away. It
is comfortable to turn one's back on the Fatherland, and to find more
agreeable conditions in a foreign country. But afterward one tells
oneself that only egoists leave their own people fighting against
darkness and oppression, and that one has no right to play the traitor
to home and belongings, while those left behind are striving bitterly
to better their condition."

The procession of troops was still passing, but the young girls had
already left their posts; the stands were beginning to empty, and
Wilhelm and Dr. Schrotter tried to break through the crowd and go
homeward. After a short silence Schrotter again went on:

"Don't misunderstand me," he said; "in spite of thinking this triumphal
procession barbaric, and my ideal being different from that of most
people, I was deeply moved to-day with sympathy and admiration. This
generation has achieved something colossal. My eyes fill with tears
when I see these men. For six or seven years they have shed their blood
in these wars without a murmur, they have fought in a hundred battles
without taking breath, they have neither counted the cost nor spared
their labor, and one feels astounded at living amid such heroes, who
seem to belong to a fairy tale. This generation has done more than its
duty, and if now it is weary and will rest for thirty years in peace,
surely no one can reproach it."

Schrotter spoke with emotion, and Wilhelm who would not grieve his
friend by a contradiction, repressed a retaliation which rose to his
lips, and silently took leave of him.

The life of the community, as of single individuals, went back
gradually into its old channels, and so it did with Dr. Schrotter. He
had lived hitherto in an old-fashioned quarter of the town, and now, to
be as near as possible to Wilhelm, he rented a house in the
Mittelstrasse. He established a private hospital in the old
Schonhauserstrasse, in the midst of artisans and very poor people, and
there he spent daily many hours, treating for charity all those who
came to him for help. He soon had a larger attendance than was
comfortable, and had to extend the work, without which he could not
have lived. He found endless opportunities of relieving misery and
distress in this poor quarter of the town, and as he was a rich man,
and independent of his own creature comforts, he could put his
philosophy of compassion into practice to his heart's content. Wilhelm
took up his work again at the Laboratory, and also resumed his visits
to the Ellrichs, but it was with an increasing discomfort. The
councilor, who had been distinguished for his services in the financial
transactions with the French Government, had heard the story of the
refusal of the Iron Cross. He thought it very ridiculous, and his early
friendship for Wilhelm became markedly cooler. Even Frau Ellrich's
motherly feeling for him received a check, and modesty and shyness no
longer seemed a sufficient explanation of the unaccountable delay in
his love-making. Only Loulou was apparently the same, whenever he came,
always lively and friendly, but when he left she was affectionate
without any display of emotion, grateful for tender glances, not
withholding quiet kisses, but not offering them--her calm manner almost
mysterious, as if love were simply something superficial and of small
import. Wilhelm could no longer deny that his first love, which had
stirred his being to the depths, was a mistake, but he could not bring
himself to definitely end the existing conditions. Hundreds of times he
was on the point of saying to Loulou that he did not think the tie
between them would secure their happiness, and offering her her
freedom, but as soon as he began his courage would fail him. If people
were present he was confused; if they were alone, her personal
appearance had the same charm for him, or rather it awoke in him the
remembrance of the delight and enthusiasm he had felt in the past, and
prevented him taking a step toward what would do grievous injury to her
girlish vanity, if nothing more.

Would this suspense and these fears, which made him so restless and
unhappy, always last? He might write a letter to Loulou, as he was
unable to say what he wished to in the light of her beautiful brown
eyes. Then he threw this idea aside as unworthy of consideration; he
could not simply dismiss a girl whom he loved by means of the post. The
simple thing to do seemed to wait, until, on the other side, they
should grow disgusted with him, and would tell him to go. This agreed
with his passive character, which was timidly inclined to draw back
before the rushing current of events, and preferred to be carried along
by them, just as a willow leaf is borne along on the surface of a
stream. Wilhelm could not help noticing that Herr von Pechlar was now a
favorite guest at the Ellrichs', that he made himself very fussy about
both mother and daughter, and that he had a very impertinent and
slightly triumphant air when he met him. He would only have to leave
the coast clear for Pechlar and all would be at an end.

Paul Haber, who was in Berlin again, and paying a great deal of
attention to Fraulein Marker, was grieved and really angry at the turn
his friend's romance had taken. He knew through Fraulein Marker how
Herr von Pechlar was trying to supplant Wilhelm, and that he took every
opportunity of making abominably false representations about him. There
ought to be no more foolish loitering about. It was unpardonable to let
the golden bird fly away so easily. Once open the hand, and she might
be off. If Fraulein Ellrich was beginning to flirt with Pechlar, it was
quite excusable, as Wilhelm's coolness might well drive her to it. But
if he stuck to his absurd whim, that she was too superficial for
him!--as if every girl were not superficial, and as if a man cannot
educate her to whatever level he pleases--then in heaven's name let him
make an end of it all, or the affair would become ridiculous and
contemptible. But other considerations had weight with Wilhelm.

Through Paul and the officers of his acquaintance he heard very
unfavorable things of Pechlar. He was only moderately well off, and had
more debts than hairs on his head; perhaps for a son-in-law of Herr
Ellrich's that was a venial offense. He was also a common libertine,
whose excesses were more like those of a pork-butcher than of a
cultivated man. His companions were not disinclined for little amorous
adventures--a joke with a pretty seamstress or restaurant waitress were
their capital offenses. But the manner in which Pechlar carried on his
amours was such as did not commend itself to either the easygoing or
cautious among the officers.

Wilhelm clearly saw that Pechlar did not love Loulou--he was probably
incapable of loving, and only wanted her dowry. Without a thought of
jealousy, and out of compassion for an inexperienced and guileless
creature who was dear to him, he thought it his duty to warn her before
she sullied herself by becoming bound to such a man. To save Loulou he
at last took the step which no respect for his own peace or honor had
allowed him to take before.

He went to the Ellrichs' house the next day at the usually early hour
of eleven o'clock, and asking for the young lady, he was shown into the
little blue boudoir, where he hoped to find Loulou alone. But he was
painfully surprised. Herr von Pechlar sat there, and appeared to be in
the middle of a conversation with Loulou. She smiled at Wilhelm, and
beckoned to him to come and sit near her, without embarrassment.
Wilhelm stayed a moment at the door irresolute, then he went forward,
and bowing to her without looking at the hussar, said earnestly: "I
came in the hope of speaking to you alone, gnadiges Fraulein. Perhaps I
may be so fortunate another time."

At these unexpected words Loulou opened her eyes wide. Herr von
Pechlar, however, who since Wilhelm's arrival had been tugging angrily
at his red mustache, could contain himself no longer, and said in a
harsh voice, which trembled with passion:

"That is the coolest thing I have ever heard. May I ask first of all
why you cut me on entering the room?"

"I only recognize people whom I esteem," said Wilhelm over his shoulder.

"You are a fool," flashed back Pechlar's answer.

Perfectly master of himself, Wilhelm said to Loulou, "I am extremely
sorry that I have been the cause of an outbreak of bad manners in your
presence," then he bowed and left the room, while Loulou sat there
motionless, and Herr von Pechlar gave him a scornful laugh.

With all his retirement from the world, and his indifference to the
usages of society, Wilhelm felt nevertheless a sharp stab of pain, as
if he had been struck across the face with a whip. As he walked down
the Koniggratzer Strasse it seemed to him as if a bright, fiery wound
burned on his face, and the passers-by were staring at this sign of
insult. His powerful imagination formed pictures unceasingly of violent
deeds of revenge. He saw himself standing with a smoking pistol
opposite the offender, who fell to the ground with a wound in his
forehead; or he fought with him, and after a long struggle he suddenly
pierced the hussar through the breast with his sword. By degrees his
blood cooled, and with all the strength of his will he fought against
the feelings which he knew formed the brute element in man, and which
with his philosophy he believed he had tamed, and he said to himself,
"No, no fighting. What good would it do? I should either kill him, or
be killed myself. His insulting words really do me no more harm than
the yelping of this little dog who is running past me. I will not let a
remnant of prejudice be stronger than my judgment."

Although he had come to this resolution, his nerves were still so
unstrung that he could not quiet them alone. He felt he must unburden
himself to some one, so he hastened toward Dr. Schrotter's. The doctor,
however, had not yet returned from his hospital. Wilhelm soon found the
inmates of his friend's household, an old Indian man-servant and a
housekeeper, also an Indian of about thirty-five, with a yellow face
already wrinkled and withered, large dark eyes, and a gold-piece
hanging from her nostrils. The old man maintained a respectful attitude
toward her, which pointed to a great difference of caste between them.
The woman showed by her small hands and feet, and the nobility of her
expression, the modest and yet dignified character of a lady, rather
than of a person in a subordinate position. Both wore Indian dress, and
attracted great attention when they showed themselves in the street.
They hardly ever went out, however, and were always busily employed in
service for Dr. Schrotter, to whom they were very devoted.

The old man, who spoke a little English, opened the door to him, and
told him that Schrotter Sahib would soon be in. The woman also
appeared, and beckoned to him to go and wait in the drawing-room,
opening the door as she did so. As he went in she crossed her arms on
her breast, bowed her head with its golden-colored silk turban, and
vanished noiselessly. She only spoke Hindustani, and always greeted
Wilhelm in this expressive manner.

The drawing-room, in which Wilhelm walked restlessly up and down, was
full of Indian things; oriental carpets on the floor, low divans along
the walls covered with gold embroidery and heaped with cushions,
rocking-chairs in the corners, punkahs hanging from the ceilings--no
heavy European furniture anywhere, but here and there a little toy-like
table or stool made of sandalwood or ebony, inlaid with silver or
mother-o'-pearl. Everything smelled strangely of sandalwood and camphor
and unknown spices, everything seemed to spring and shake under a heavy
European foot, everything had such an unaccustomed look, that one felt
as if one were in a foreign land, where Western prejudices and
standpoints were unknown and inadmissible. These surroundings spoke to
Wilhelm dumbly yet intelligibly, and he felt their persuasive power
almost immediately. He had recovered his equanimity when, a quarter of
an hour later, Schrotter came in.

"What a pleasant surprise!" he cried from the doorway. "Will you stay
to lunch with me?"

Wilhelm accepted gratefully, and then related his morning's
experiences. Schrotter had made him sit on a divan surrounded by
cushions, and listened attentively, while his half-closed eyes, full of
fire, rested on his friend's unhappy face. Wilhelm had never mentioned
his engagement to Fraulein Ellrich to many of his old friends, but Dr.
Schrotter had been told of it in all its circumstances by Paul Haber.
Now, however, Wilhelm could not avoid the subject in his mind, and to
make his last visit to the Ellrichs, and his behavior with regard to
Herr von Pechlar intelligible, he told Dr. Schrotter, in short, concise
language, the beginning and subsequent development of his love-affair,
and by the confession of his consideration of Loulou's nature, gave a
clew to his delay, coolness, and final renunciation.

When Wilhelm had finished, and raised his eyes questioningly to
Schrotter, the latter said, after a short silence:

"I congratulate you on the quiet way in which you have told me all
this. For a young fellow of twenty-six with deep feelings it is little
short of a wonder. But the question is, what do you intend to do?"

"Nothing," answered Wilhelm simply.

"You will not call out Herr von Pechlar?"

"No."

"And if Herr von Pechlar challenges you?"

"He challenge me?"

"Certainly; for although he is the direct offender, we can't overlook
the fact, dear Eynhardt, that you first insulted him, which by a nice
point of honor would justify him in taking the first steps. The man is
evidently bent on a quarrel, so we have to consider the possibility
that he may send his second with a challenge."

"In that case I would make it clear that I do not demand satisfaction,
but neither will I give it."

There was another pause.

"You are undertaking what may involve serious consequences," remarked
Schrotter.

"It appears to me easy enough," said Wilhelm.

"You could not think of an academic career in Germany after it."

"You know I do not aspire to that."

"Beside that, the episode will become an insurmountable barrier in a
hundred circumstances of life."

Wilhelm was silent.

"Don't misunderstand me. I have not a word to say in favor of the
regulation of duels. I abhor them. It is as stupid and brutal as the
offering of human sacrifices to appease angry gods. I myself have never
fought in a duel. But I--I am already on the shadowy side of life. I
want nothing more from the world. But those still on the sunny side
have other things to consider. I think war is a horrible barbarism,
still I would not advise any one to hold back from his duty in time of
war. Men are often compelled to take part in the foolishness of
majorities. I know your heart is in the right place, and that you don't
place any exaggerated value on your life. You are content to stand
alone in the world, and have no mortgage of obligation on your life.
Why will you not fight?"

"Simply because I think as you do about duels. I agree that one must
often take part in the folly of the crowd, but I see a difference
there. I go and fight in battle because the State compels me. I can
struggle against these laws with my feeble forces, and I can exert
myself to bring about their alteration; but so long as they exist I
must submit to them, or else exile myself or commit suicide. If the
duel were a written law, I would fight; but the law as a matter of fact
forbids it, and my opinions are in accordance with the law."

"But there are laws of society as well as laws of the State. There are
customs which prevail over opinion and prejudices."

"That is not the same thing. If the folly of the majority form itself
into laws of the State, the gendarmes see to their enforcement. No
judge or jailer compels obedience to the laws of society."

"Something like it, however. It is unspeakably bitter to live without
the respect of one's fellow-creatures."

"I am coming to that point. But please do not think me overbearing and
conceited. The respect of my fellow-men I hold far more lightly than
self-respect. If I despised myself it would be no compensation if every
one saluted me, and if I respect myself, it does not trouble me if
others hold me lightly. When I am not forcibly compelled I cannot let
my own actions be guided by the caprices and fads of other people. So
long as it is possible my actions shall be guided by my own judgment.
You say you want nothing more of the world--I require nothing more
either. The only thing I demand is the freedom of the soul."

"Yes--yes," murmured Schrotter as if to himself, "I know this direction
of thought better than you think. It has been brought before me a
hundred times by the word and action of Indian fakirs. It seems to me
that false freedom of the soul is a chimera. Our most unfettered
resolves are called forth by unknown, often by outward conditions, by
our own peculiar qualities, by the state of our bodily health, by
unknown nervous sources of energy through what we see, hear, read,
learn. You make your judgment the sole guide of your actions, but your
judgment itself is the result of forces and influences unsuspected by
yourself and depending on them. Well! you want to lead the life of a
fakir, to unloose the ties binding you to other men, that is one of
several ways to secure peace and happiness, which to me also is an
object in life. The principal thing is not to be superficial, but to
consider both what one requires and what one gives up before turning
into a fakir. I respect you in any case."

The drawing-room door opened noiselessly, and the Indian woman
appeared, and with a pleasant inclination of her head spoke a word to
Dr. Schrotter. He got up and said, "Lunch is ready." They went into the
adjoining dining-room, furnished like any ordinary room. On the table
was a beautiful silver bowl of Indian work filled with flowers, the
sole luxury of this bachelor's table, neither wine nor anything else to
drink being visible. Schrotter drank nothing but water, and he knew
that Wilhelm's taste was similar. Bhani, as the Indian housekeeper was
called, stood close behind her master's chair, never taking her eyes
off him. The dishes were brought in by the white-bearded servant, and
handed with a deep reverence to Bhani. She placed the dishes before
Schrotter, changing them for a fresh course, and poured water into his
glass. It was a silent, attentive service, almost giving the impression
of adoration. Bhani appeared not to be waiting on a mortal master, but
taking part in a sacrifice in a temple, so much devotion was expressed
in her noble, warmly-colored face.

A dish of curry spread its oriental scent through the room, and
Schrotter continued:

"Tell me, dear Eynhardt, in what way you mean to accomplish your
fakir's contempt of the world?"

"Pardon me," interrupted Wilhelm, "the expression does not strike me as
quite fair. I don't despise the world, I consider it merely as a
phenomenon, valueless to my way of thinking, and in which I fail to
find any real actuality."

"I understand quite well; we are not debating on a platform, but
chatting over our lunch. I am not troubling either to talk in the
correct jargon of school philosophy, and therefore I am at liberty to
call your longings after the essence of things, contempt of the world.
Now this occurs in two places--either among inexperienced young men of
strong, noble natures, instinctively conscious of their own vitality,
and intoxicated by their own strength, who feel so overcome by the
phenomenon that they undervalue it, and believe that they are able
singly to fight against it. Or there are the weak natures, who think
that they are capable of changing the phenomenon to suit themselves. As
they are not in a position to strive against it they retire sullenly
defeated. The story of the fox and the grapes would just express their
case, and also an excess of the consciousness of their 'ego.' Those
are, I think, the resources from which spring contempt of the world:
neither of these cases coincide with yours; you are not young and
inexperienced enough for the one, and you are too useful for the other.
You are healthy and sound, of average powers and energy, uncommonly
well made in body and mind; of the poetical age, comfortably off, and I
should like to know how you have come to despise the world?"

"I hardly know. The first impulse came perhaps in Russia in early
childhood, where I got into the habit of regarding people around me as
barbarous--neither useful nor valuable."

Schrotter shook his head.

"I have lived for twenty years among a subdued and so-called inferior
race, but I have learned to love them instead of despising them."

"Very likely I have inherited the feeling from my mother, who was very
timid of other people, and given to mysticism."

"Is it not rather your reading? The unhappy Schopenhauer?"

Wilhelm smiled a little.

"I am above all things an admirer of Schopenhauer, although his
explanation of the mysteries of the world through the will is a joke.
What he has written about the main teachings of Buddhism has influenced
me very much."

"I see where you have got to--'Maja Nirvana'"

Wilhelm nodded.

"That is all a fraud," Schrotter broke out, so that Bhani, who never
saw him violent, looked up frightened. "I know Indians who have talked
endlessly to learned pandits on these questions, and have explained the
real ideas of Maja Nirvana to me. It is incomprehensible that people
can misuse words on this subject as they do in Europe. Nirvana is not
what European Buddhists appear to believe--an absolute negation--a
cessation of consciousness and desire; but, on the contrary, it is the
highest consciousness, the expansion of individual being into universal
existence. Here is the Indian seer's conception: the most limited
individuality cares only for his own 'ego.' But in the same measure
that he transcends his limitation, the circle of his interest is
widened; more actualities and existing phenomena are admitted, and come
into sympathy with himself. All things mingle with and extend his own
'ego;' and that can be so widened as to embrace the interests of the
whole world, until man can be in as much sympathy with a grain of sand,
or the most distant star, and take as much share in the ant, and in the
dwellers on Saturn, as in his own stomach and toes. In this way the
whole universe becomes a constituent part of his 'ego;' thus his
desires cease individually to exist, and are assimilated with the
entire phenomenal world, and he longs for nothing beyond this. The
'ego' ceases because nothing is left outside the individual 'ego;' but
this Nirvana, this highest step in the perfection of humanity, is, as
you can see, not the negation of everything, but the absorption of
everything; not something immovable, but rather the wonderful,
ceaseless movement of the world's life. Men will not attain to Nirvana
through quiet and indifference, but through strenuous labor, not by
withdrawing into their 'ego,' but by going outside it. The true Nirvana
of the pandits is the exact opposite of your Schopenhauer's Nirvana."

"But how can this conception of the seer's Nirvana coincide with their
inactivity and renunciation of the world?"

"People misunderstand the fakir's belief. The Indian wise men think
that the work of perfection is performed by the spirit alone, and that
the activity of the body disturbs it; therefore the body must rest
while the soul accomplishes its full measure of work, while it widens
the circle of its interest, and absorbs into itself the phenomenal
world. The clumsy understanding of the crowd thereupon comes to the
conclusion that to become holy and attain to Nirvana, one must not stir
a finger, not even to support oneself."

Wilhelm thought over this new point of view, but Schrotter went on:

"Believe me, true wisdom is neither that of the fakir nor of the man of
the world; but as it appears to me, it neither despises the world nor
admires it. One must not depend on oneself too much, neither on others.
One must always be saying to oneself that one has no lasting importance
in the world, but that in this transitory state eternal forces are at
work, the same forces which drive the earth round the sun, and which
operate on all men and things. Do not let us individualize too much; we
are only a piece of the whole, to which we hang by a thousand unknown
threads. Let us not either be too arrogant in our bearing toward our
fellow-men, in whose company we are the involuntary puppets of unknown
laws of development which are leading humanity on to a given epoch."

This conversation had taken Wilhelm's mind off his misfortune, and he
had almost forgotten his adventure with Pechlar. He was reminded of it,
however, on reaching home about three o'clock, by finding Paul, who
always came to see him at that hour.

"What's the news?" cried he, coming cheerfully to meet him.

"I went to-day to see Fraulein Ellrich, to set things right between us."

"Bravo."

"Yes; I went, but I have not done it." And then he related the incident
again.

Paul seemed quite stunned while Wilhelm was speaking, and then sprang
up in great excitement from the sofa, and cried:

"You will fight the scoundrel, of course!"

"No," said Wilhelm quietly.

"What!" shouted Paul, taking hold of Wilhelm's shoulder and shaking
him. "Surely you are not in earnest? You are an officer--you have been
a student--you will never let that fool of a fellow place you in a
false position!" Wilhelm freed himself, and tried to speak reasonably;
but Paul would not listen, and went on, his face red with anger:

"Not only for yourself; you owe it to the girl's honor, if not to your
own, to punish the fellow. You won't appear like a coward in a woman's
eyes."

"That is an odd kind of logic."

"Do be quiet with your logic and your philosophy, and the lot of them.
I am not a logician, but a man, and I feel a mortal offense like a man,
and want to settle with the offender."

"Do stop a minute and let me speak a word. I will break off my
relations with Fraulein Ellrich, and then I shall not be in a position
to fight for her."

"That is very chivalrous!"

"That is silly! Just think of this situation: suppose I wound or kill
the offender--come back from the duel, and find the young girl, who is
the cause of the quarrel, ready to offer me the prize. I answer: 'Many
thanks, fair lady, I do not now wish for it,' and straightway leave
her, like the knight in the old ballad."

That seemed to satisfy Paul.

"Very well; then it must not be on her account. But fight you must,"
and he stopped suddenly, and then burst out: "If you will not fight
him, I will."

"Are you mad?"

Paul began to explain that he had the right to do it; he worked himself
into a fury, he stuck to his ideas, and it took Wilhelm an hour to
bring him to a more reasonable frame of mind. He spared no pains in
explaining to him his views of the world's opinion, and that the real
cowardice would be to fear the foolish prejudices of society; but it
was all in vain, and Paul's angry objections were only silenced when
Wilhelm said with great earnestness:

"If nothing that I say convinces you, I can only act in one way with
the painful knowledge that our friendship is not equal to such
conditions, but only to ordinary occasions."

"Oh! if it comes to giving up our friendship, as far as I am concerned,
I must wink at the whole thing; but what I can't stand is your calling
the opportunity which allows one to silence a fool, a mere disease."

The crisis was not long in coming. The next morning before Wilhelm went
out, a lieutenant of one of the Uhlan regiments stationed at Potsdam
called, and said he had come with a challenge from Herr von Pechlar; he
declined to sit down, giving his message as shortly as possible, with
the least suspicion of contempt in his voice.

Herr von Pechlar had waited the whole afternoon; but as Herr Eynhardt
had sent him no message, he could no longer put off demanding
satisfaction. The questions as to who was the offender, and what
weapons should be used, might now be decided by the seconds. Wilhelm
looked calmly into the officer's eyes, and explained that he had
nothing further to do with Herr von Pechlar.

"You are an officer in the Reserve?" asked the lieutenant haughtily.

"Yes."

"I hope you understand that we shall bring the case before the notice
of the regiment?"

"You are perfectly free to do so."

The lieutenant stuck his eyeglass into his right eye, looked hard at
Wilhelm for several seconds, then, with an expression of deep disgust,
he spat on the floor, noisily turned round, and without a word or sign,
retired, his sword and spurs clanking as he went.

Oh, how hard it was to overcome the instinct of the wild beast! How
furiously it tugged at its chain! How it tried to spring after the
lieutenant, and clutch his throat in its claws!--but Wilhelm conquered
the new cravings of his instinct and stood still. He experienced a
great self-contentment at last, and admitted to himself that he would
not have been nearly so glad if he had wounded a dozen of the enemy in
single combat.

Three days later he received in writing, an order to present himself at
eleven o'clock the morning but one following to the Commandant of the
61st Regiment. He took the journey the following evening, and at the
appointed hour he was shown into the commandant's private room, where
he found also his old captain, raised to the rank of major. He spoke
kindly to Wilhelm and held out his hand, while the commandant contented
himself with a nod, and a sign to be seated.

"I suppose you know that you have been ordered to come here about the
affair with Lieutenant von Pechlar?" he said.

"Certainly, sir."

"Will you relate what occurred?"

Wilhelm answered as he was desired. His recital was followed by a short
silence, during which the commandant and the major exchanged glances.

"And you will not fight?" asked the first.

"No, sir."

"Why not?"

"Because my principles do not 

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