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German, by J. W. von Goethe and Gottfried Keller and Theodor Fontane and Theodor Storm

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Title: The Harvard Classics Shelf of Fiction - German
       German Fiction Selected by Charles W. Eliot, LL.D.

Author: J. W. von Goethe
        Gottfried Keller
        Theodor Fontane
        Theodor Storm

Editor: William Allan Neilson

Release Date: November 30, 2010 [EBook #34506]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARVARD CLASSICS FICTION--GERMAN ***




Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by Google Books






Transcriber's Note:
    1. Page scan source:
       http://books.google.com/books?id=8FIGAQAAIAAJ&dq
    2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].






[Illustration: VIEW OF POTSDAM, WHERE STORM LIVED]






                          THE HARVARD CLASSICS
                            SHELF OF FICTION
                   SELECTED BY CHARLES W. ELIOT LLD.


                             GERMAN FICTION

      J. W. VON GOETHE                           GOTTFRIED KELLER

            THEODOR FONTANE                    THEODOR STORM





                  EDITED WITH NOTES AND INTRODUCTIONS
                      BY WILLIAM ALLAN NEILSON Ph D




                       P F COLLIER & SON COMPANY
                                NEW YORK






                            Copyright, 1917
                         By P. F. Collier & Son

                        MANUFACTURED IN U. S. A.






                                CONTENTS


      The Novel in Germany


                            J. W. VON GOETHE

      Criticism And Interpretation:
         By Thomas Carlyle

      The Sorrows Of Werther
         Book I
         Book II

      The Editor To The Reader


                            GOTTFRIED KELLER

      Biographical Note

      Criticisms And Interpretations:
          I. By John Firman Coar
         II. By Calvin Thomas

      The Banner Of The Upright Seven


                             THEODOR STORM

      Biographical Note

      Criticism And Interpretation:
         By Adolf Stern

      The Rider On The White Horse


                            THEODOR FONTANE

      Biographical Note

      Criticisms And Interpretations:
          I. By Richard M. Meyer
         II. By S. C. De Soissons

      Trials And Tribulations
         Chapter I
         Chapter II
         Chapter III
         Chapter IV
         Chapter V
         Chapter VI
         Chapter VII
         Chapter VIII
         Chapter IX
         Chapter X
         Chapter XI
         Chapter XII
         Chapter XIII
         Chapter XIV
         Chapter XV
         Chapter XVI
         Chapter XVII
         Chapter XVIII
         Chapter XIX
         Chapter XX
         Chapter XXI
         Chapter XXII
         Chapter XXIII
         Chapter XXIV
         Chapter XXV
         Chapter XXVI





                          THE NOVEL IN GERMANY


The fact that newspaper reporters commonly call their articles
"stories" points to a certain analogy between the novel and the
newspaper. Even when prose fiction aims to be a fine art, it readily
takes on a journalistic character; it is usually designed for immediate
effect--at the concomitant risk of producing no other--and it easily
passes from hand to hand or from country to country. In our day prose
fiction is almost an international phenomenon: novels of a high degree
of popularity are immediately translated and promptly imitated in the
most distant quarters of the globe.

In the universal give and take of literary commodities Germany has
played her part and, from time to time at least, has been in no wise a
debtor nation; but she has more often followed than led along new
paths, making up in thoroughness what she lacked in originality, and a
superficial history of the German novel would be little more than a
record of how successive foreign influences were turned to account in
domestic production. Thus, in the eighteenth century such sorrows as
those of Werther would doubtless have found some form of expression,
but Goethe could not have expressed them as he did without the example
of Rousseau and Richardson. Wieland and Jean Paul Richter are
inconceivable without Fielding and Sterne. In the nineteenth century
the epochs of German novel-writing are marked by the times when Scott,
Dickens, Balzac, Dumas, Sue, George Sand, Tolstoy, Ibsen, Bjoernson,
Turgenev, Zola, or some other foreigner, happened for the moment to be
most conspicuous on the literary horizon. During the century that lies
between Goethe and Hauptmann there is hardly a German novelist who has
invited imitation abroad. It is in the lyric poem that the Germans have
excelled, and in the drama and the opera that they have scored their
international successes.

The history of the German novel would have, however, also to record
that those writers have secured the most permanent distinction who have
most significantly modified in their own way the suggestions which
foreign examples gave them, and that the greatest distinction of all
belongs to writers whom we can, if we will, associate with one or
another of the main currents, but who are by no means carried away by
it. In the work of these men the national character of the German
novel, if it has a national character, ought to be discoverable.

For two reasons it is a fair question whether the German novel has a
national character. In the first place, modern Germany has been a
nation only since 1871; and in the second place, only in times of some
great crisis does there appear to be in Germany a national life, as we
understand the term. At other times life in Germany is urban,
provincial, or private, in those aspects of existence which the Germans
most prize. The imperial capital affects to represent Germany as London
represents England and Paris represents France; but such ascendancy is
stoutly denied Berlin in the capitals of the other states, and Saxons
or Bavarians refuse to submit to Prussian hegemony in any other than
political and military affairs. In literature Prussia is not the
nation; the empire itself is a federation of states, and Berlin is less
specifically a German city than any other in the realm. Germany is
emphatically _e pluribus_. Still, there may be some bond of union
stronger than political alliance, some fundamental quality common to
Prussian, Saxon, and Bavarian. In this we should seek the national
character. We should find the national character depicted in the
historical novel, which has had a great vogue in Germany; but we may
discern it also in the fiction devoted to the problems of contemporary
life.

It was Goethe's opinion that the hero of a novel should be passive, and
so eminently dramatic a genius as Hebbel declared that the important
thing for us to observe in any individual is not how he makes his mark
in the world, but how the world makes its marks upon him. These views,
synonymous in meaning, but uttered by men as different, one from the
other, as two Germans could very well be, may suffice as an indication
of the common quality for which we are seeking: it is the metaphysical
cast of the German mind. When Goethe contemplated the transitoriness of
conditions, and in all his work endeavored to catch and preserve these
fleeting phenomena, or when Hebbel defined man as the resultant of
conflicting forces rather than as an effective force in himself, both
evidently thought of life as a product, not as a producer, and sought
the meaning of life in personal reaction rather than in personal
action. The life of which the German desires abundance is the inner
life. Character is to him a greater good than conduct.

Accordingly, German literature is not rich in tales of adventurous
activity--indeed, it affords few examples of pure narrative, that is,
of stories told chiefly for the sake of chronicling events. When such a
master narrator as Heinrich von Kleist tells a tale, he presents the
facts objectively--no judicial referee could be more circumstantial;
but in the case on which he reports the author sees the impersonation
of a problem, and the data which really concern him are the perturbed
emotions of a man or woman. The same is true of Kleist's contemporary,
Ludwig Tieck, of the amiable Theodor Storm, and of the prolific Paul
Heyse. The character, in its peculiar makeup and its peculiar
circumstances, presents a problem, and the most significant evidence
that its experiences furnish is its reaction upon the outside world. An
author who treats this character will, then, dwell fondly upon
psychological analysis and upon the atmosphere in which the character
lives and moves and has its being.

These facts account for certain peculiarities of form in German fiction
which to us seem like defects. It generally takes a German novelist a
long while to get under way, and he generally appears to move in
spirals. He invites us to tarry and survey the scenery--to which his
hero is wont to be more sensitive than we are--and he tends to
elaborate episodes, which serve indeed to bring out qualities in his
persons, but which, an impatient reader would say, delay the action.
Evidently, it is not the action about which the author primarily cares.
But the German novelist has the merits of his defects: if he does not
touch lightly, he does probe deeply, and if his characters cannot
manage to get things done and over, their impediment is an excess of
those personal endowments which have after all to be reckoned among the
positive values of life. It is better to be sentimental or even
whimsical than to have neither sentiments nor ideas.

Sentimentality and whimsicality are apt to strike one as the most
prominent traits of any art that aims at what is characteristic and
individual, rather than at what is typical and broadly representative.
The Germans are individualists. They can cooperate efficiently with
their fellow Germans, but each insists upon being himself. The German
novelist will surely treat by preference a character of notable
peculiarity, and if he writes many novels, he will try to give a
conspectus of the qualities of the stock to which he belongs. Thus
Reuter presents many characteristic figures taken from Mecklenburg;
Ludwig from Thuringia; Auerbach from the Black Forest; Gotthelf,
Keller, and Zahn from Switzerland; Fontane from Brandenburg; Storm and
Frenssen from Schleswig-Holstein. So strong is this tendency that the
Germans have a special name for this kind of art; they call it
_Heimatkunst_, a word which may be translated "art of the native
heath." If the author is a humorist, like Reuter or Keller, he will
successfully recommend his whimsical creations to our indulgent esteem;
or if he is a discriminating lover of mankind, like Ludwig, he will
reconcile us even to the supersensitiveness of a narrow-minded but
noble-hearted slater. The danger incurred by writers without humor and
without discrimination is that their creations shall seem boorish or
lachrymose.

Probably the most pitiful failures in German fiction have attended
those imitators of foreign models who mistook for "modern" what is
simply shallow and frivolous, and, trying to be smart, proved
themselves merely clumsy. Freytag, call him a Philistine if you will,
is preferable, with his gospel of toil for one's daily bread, to those
who would hold the dissolute idlers of the great cities to be typical
representatives of modern life. Fontane, on the other hand, as "modern"
as any, shows how an intelligent and cultivated man can assimilate
foreign suggestions, remain himself, and treat the actualities of life
with a matter-of-factness as far from cynicism as it is from prudery.

At the beginning of the nineteenth century the German Romanticists
proclaimed the novel (in German _der Roman_) the supremely appropriate
form for Romantic literature, and they regarded this truth as
especially illustrated by Goethe's "Wilhelm Meister." The novel, they
said, is not merely the most elastic, the most inclusive, the freest of
the literary forms, it is the form in which a writer can most perfectly
convey by suggestion and implication the infinitude of relations in
which persons and objects stand to their environment, but which the
necessarily sharper contours of the other forms--notably the drama--do
not permit. By contrast to the drama, which in a certain sense is
similar to statuary, the novel is picturesque; that is, it presents
figures in relation to their background; and it is quite conceivable
that in some compositions the whole, with what corresponds to
perspective and to light and shade--in other words "atmosphere"--is
more significant than the individual figures that are given their
setting in this whole. This, at any rate, is the case with "Wilhelm
Meister." A story first conceived as the fulfilment of a theatrical
mission by a young man whose experience was an education, became the
picture of a world full of influences, many of them mysterious, that
operate to develop personality.

The German novel after Goethe followed his lead. The idea of education
by experience, and the idea of the symbolical presentation of the
inexplicable background of life, give to some of the greatest examples
of prose fiction of the nineteenth century--such as Moerike's "Maler
Nolten," Keller's "Gruener Heinrich," and Spielhagen's "Problematische
Naturen"--this Goethean, Romantic picturesqueness. If the heroes are
seldom great public characters and the background of their lives does
not always suggest relations with illimitable space, these facts find
their explanation in the German proneness to particularism.

To this particularism the short story would seem to be especially
adapted. In fact, the Germans--again following Goethe's lead--have
probably attained to a higher excellence in the short story than in the
novel. It is to their advantage that in the narrow limits of this form
they have no opportunity to philosophize; they must relate how
something happened of which their auditors have not heard, or must
depict a situation as it discloses itself to a passing glance. The
Swiss Keller and Meyer and many Germans, Austrians, and Swiss of our
own time have attained considerable virtuosity in this form; but many
of their products would have to be called little novels rather than
short stories in the technical sense.

There are, then, some national traits in German prose fiction taken by
and large. The Germans cannot vie with the English as writers of
stories long or short. They have, however, much more to offer than has
yet been widely circulated. During the past forty years the world has
marveled at their achievements is the multifarious departments of
active life. Nevertheless, their highest ideal is not doing, but being;
and this being is faithfully reflected in their novels and tales.

                                                    W. G. H.




                        THE SORROWS OF WERTHER


                                   BY
                            J. W. VON GOETHE


                             TRANSLATED BY
                             BAYARD TAYLOR




                      CRITICISM AND INTERPRETATION

                           By Thomas Carlyle


By degrees, however, after not a little suffering in many hard contests
with himself and his circumstances, Goethe began to emerge from these
troubles: light dawned on his course; and his true destination, a life
of literature, became more and more plain to him. His first efforts
were crowned with a success well calculated to confirm him in such
purposes. "Goetz von Berlichingen," an historical drama of the Feudal
Ages, appeared in 1773; by the originality both of its subject and its
execution, attracting the public eye to the young author: and next year
his "Sorrows of Werther" rose like a literary meteor on the world; and
carried his name on its blazing wings, not only over Germany, but into
the remotest corners of Europe. The chief incident of this work had
been suggested by a tragical catastrophe, which had occurred in his
neighbourhood, during a residence at Wetzlar: the emotions and
delineations which give life to it; the vague impassioned longing, the
moody melancholy, the wayward love and indignation, the soft feeling
and the stern philosophy, which characterize the hero, he had drawn
from his own past or actual experience.

The works just mentioned, though noble specimens of youthful talent,
are still not so much distinguished by their intrinsic merits, as by
their splendid fortune. It would be difficult to name two books which
have exercised a deeper influence on the subsequent literature of
Europe than these two performances of a young author; his first fruits,
the produce of his twenty-fourth year. "Werther" appeared to seize the
hearts of men in all quarters of the world, and to utter for them the
word which they had long been waiting to hear. As usually happens, too,
this same word once uttered was soon abundantly repeated; spoken in all
dialects, and chanted through all the notes of the gamut, till at
length the sound of it had grown a weariness rather than a pleasure.
Sceptical sentimentality, view-hunting, love, friendship, suicide, and
desperation, became the staple of literary ware; and though the
epidemic, after a long course of years, subsided in Germany, it
reappeared with t various modifications in other countries; and
everywhere abundant traces of its good and bad effects are still to be
discerned....

But overlooking these spiritual genealogies, which bring little
certainty and little profit, it may be sufficient to observe of
"Berlichingen" and "Werther," that they stand prominent among the
causes, or, at the very least, among the signals, of a great change in
modern Literature. The former directed men's attention with a new force
to the picturesque effects of the Past; and the latter, for the first
time, attempted the more accurate delineation of a class of feelings,
deeply important to modern minds; but for which our elder poetry
offered no exponent, and perhaps could offer none, because they are
feelings that arise from passion incapable of being converted into
action, and belong chiefly to an age as indolent, cultivated, and
unbelieving, as our own. This, notwithstanding the dash of falsehood
which may exist in "Werter" itself, and the boundless delirium of
extravagance which it called forth in others, is a high praise which
cannot justly be denied it.--From "German Romance" (1827).




                         THE SORROWS OF WERTHER



                                 BOOK I


                                                      May 4.

How happy I am that I am gone! My dear friend, what a thing is the
heart of man! To leave you, from whom I have been inseparable, whom I
love so dearly, and yet to feel happy! I know you will forgive me. Have
not other attachments been specially appointed by fate to torment a
head like mine? Poor Leonora! and yet I was not to blame. Was it my
fault, that, whilst the peculiar charms of her sister afforded me an
agreeable entertainment, a passion for me was engendered in her feeble
heart? And yet am I wholly blameless? Did I not encourage her emotions?
Did I not feel charmed at those truly genuine expressions of nature,
which, though but little mirthful in reality, so often amused us? Did I
not--but oh! what is man, that he dares so to accuse himself? My dear
friend, I promise you I will improve; I will no longer, as has ever
been my habit, continue to ruminate on every petty vexation which
fortune may dispense; I will enjoy the present, and the past shall be
for me the past. No doubt you are right, my best of friends, there
would be far less suffering amongst mankind, if men--and God knows why
they are so fashioned--did not employ their imaginations so assiduously
in recalling the memory of past sorrow, instead of bearing their
present lot with equanimity.

Be kind enough to inform my mother that I shall attend to her business
to the best of my ability, and shall give her the earliest information
about it. I have seen my aunt, and find that she is very far from being
the disagreeable person our friends allege her to be. She is a lively,
cheerful woman, with the best of hearts. I explained to her my mother's
wrongs with regard to that part of her portion which has been withheld
from her. She told me the motives and reasons of her own conduct, and
the terms on which she is willing to give up the whole, and to do more
than we have asked. In short, I cannot write further upon this subject
at present; only assure my mother that all will go on well. And I have
again observed, my dear friend, in this trifling affair, that
misunderstandings and neglect occasion more mischief in the world than
even malice and wickedness. At all events, the two latter are of less
frequent occurrence.

In other respects I am very well off here. Solitude in this terrestrial
paradise is a genial balm to my mind, and the young spring cheers with
its bounteous promises my oftentimes misgiving heart. Every tree, every
bush, is full of flowers; and one might wish himself transformed into a
butterfly, to float about in this ocean of perfume, and find his whole
existence in it.

The town itself is disagreeable; but then, all around, you find an
inexpressible beauty of Nature. This induced the late Count M---- to
lay out a garden on one of the sloping hills which here intersect each
other with the most charming variety, and form the most lovely valleys.
The garden is simple; and it is easy to perceive, even upon your first
entrance, that the plan was not designed by a scientific gardener, but
by a man who wished to give himself up here to the enjoyment of his own
sensitive heart. Many a tear have I already shed to the memory of its
departed master in a summer-house which is now reduced to ruins, but
was his favourite resort, and now is mine. I shall soon be master of
the place. The gardener has become attached to me within the last few
days, and he will lose nothing thereby.


                                                     May 10.

A wonderful serenity has taken possession of my entire soul, like these
sweet mornings of spring which I enjoy with my whole heart. I am alone,
and feel the charm of existence in this spot, which was created for the
bliss of souls like mine. I am so happy, my dear friend, so absorbed in
the exquisite sense of mere tranquil existence, that I neglect my
talents. I should be incapable of drawing a single stroke at the
present moment; and yet I feel that I never was a greater artist than
now. When, while the lovely valley teems with vapour around me, and the
meridian sun strikes the upper surface of the impenetrable foliage of
my trees, and but a few stray gleams steal into the inner sanctuary, I
throw myself down among the tall grass by the trickling stream; and as
I lie close to the earth, a thousand unknown plants are noticed by me:
when I hear the buzz of the little world among the stalks, and grow
familiar with the countless indescribable forms of the insects and
flies, then I feel the presence of the Almighty, who formed us in his
own image, and the breath of that universal love which bears and
sustains us, as it floats around us in an eternity of bliss; and then,
my friend, when darkness overspreads my eyes, and heaven and earth seem
to dwell in my soul and absorb its power, like the form of a beloved
mistress,--then I often think with longing, Oh, would I could describe
these conceptions, could impress upon paper all that is living so full
and warm within me, that it might be the mirror of my soul, as my soul
is the mirror of the infinite God! O my friend--but it is too much for
my strength--I sink under the weight of the splendour of these visions!


                                                     May 12.

I know not whether some deceitful spirits haunt this spot, or whether
it be the warm, celestial fancy in my own heart which makes everything
around me seem like paradise. In front of the house is a fountain,--a
fountain to which I am bound by a charm like Melusina and her sisters.
Descending a gentle slope, you come to an arch, where, some twenty
steps lower down, water of the clearest crystal gushes from the marble
rock. The narrow wall which encloses it above, the tall trees which
encircle the spot, and the coolness of the place itself,--everything
imparts a pleasant but sublime impression. Not a day passes on which I
do not spend an hour there. The young maidens come from the town to
fetch water,--innocent and necessary employment, and formerly the
occupation of the daughters of kings. As I take my rest there, the idea
of the old patriarchal life is awakened around me. I see them, our old
ancestors, how they formed their friendships and contracted alliances
at the fountain-side; and I feel how fountains and streams were guarded
by beneficent spirits. He who is a stranger to these sensations has
never really enjoyed cool repose at the side of a fountain after the
fatigue of a weary summer day.


                                                     May 13.

You ask if you shall send me books. My dear friend, I beseech you, for
the love of God, relieve me from such a yoke! I need no more to be
guided, agitated, heated. My heart ferments sufficiently of itself. I
want strains to lull me, and I find them to perfection in my Homer.
Often do I strive to allay the burning fever of my blood; and you have
never witnessed anything so unsteady, so uncertain, as my heart. But
need I confess this to you, my dear friend, who have so often endured
the anguish of witnessing my sudden transitions from sorrow to
immoderate joy, and from sweet melancholy to violent passions? I treat
my poor heart like a sick child, and gratify its every fancy. Do not
mention this again: there are people who would censure me for it.


                                                     May 15.

The common people of the place know me already, and love me,
particularly the children. When at first I associated with them, and
inquired in a friendly tone about their various trifles, some fancied
that I wished to ridicule them, and turned from me in exceeding
ill-humour. I did not allow that circumstance to grieve me: I only felt
most keenly what I have often before observed. Persons who can claim a
certain rank keep themselves coldly aloof from the common people, as
though they feared to lose their importance by the contact; whilst
wanton idlers, and such as arc prone to bad joking, affect to descend
to their level, only to make the poor people feel their impertinence
all the more keenly.

I know very well that we are not all equal, nor can be so; but it is my
opinion that he who avoids the common people, in order not to lose
their respect, is as much to blame as a coward who hides himself from
his enemy because he fears defeat.

The other day I went to the fountain, and found a young servant-girl,
who had set her pitcher on the lowest step, and looked round to see if
one of her companions was approaching to place it on her head. I ran
down, and looked at her. "Shall I help you, pretty lass?" said I. She
blushed deeply. "Oh, sir!" she exclaimed. "No ceremony!" I replied. She
adjusted her head-gear, and I helped her. She thanked me, and ascended
the steps.


                                                     May 17.

I have made all sorts of acquaintances, but have as yet found no
society. I know not what attraction I possess for the people, so many
of them like me, and attach themselves to me; and then I feel sorry
when the road we pursue together goes only a short distance. If you
inquire what the people are like here, I must answer, "The same as
everywhere." The human race is but a monotonous affair. Most of them
labour the greater part of their time for mere subsistence; and the
scanty portion of freedom which remains to them so troubles them that
they use every exertion to get rid of it. Oh, the destiny of man!

But they are a right good sort of people. If I occasionally forget
myself, and take part in the innocent pleasures which are not yet
forbidden to the peasantry, and enjoy myself, for instance, with
genuine freedom and sincerity, round a well-covered table, or arrange
an excursion or a dance opportunely, and so forth, all this produces a
good effect upon my disposition; only I must forget that there lie
dormant within me so many other qualities which moulder uselessly, and
which I am obliged to keep carefully concealed. Ah! this thought
affects my spirits fearfully. And yet to be misunderstood is the fate
of the like of us.

Alas, that the friend of my youth is gone! Alas, that I ever knew her!
I might say to myself, "You are a dreamer to seek what is not to be
found here below." But she has been mine. I have possessed that heart,
that noble soul, in whose presence I seemed to be more than I really
was, because I was all that I could be. Good heavens! did then a single
power of my soul remain unexercised? In her presence could I not
display, to its full extent, that mysterious feeling with which my
heart embraces Nature? Was not our intercourse a perpetual web of the
finest emotions, of the keenest wit, the varieties of which, even in
their very eccentricity, bore the stamp of genius? Alas! the few years
by which she was my senior brought her to the grave before me. Never
can I forget her firm mind or her heavenly patience.

A few days ago I met a certain young V----, a frank, open fellow, with
a most pleasing countenance. He has just left the university, does not
deem himself over-wise, but believes he knows more than other people.
He has worked hard, as I can perceive from many circumstances, and, in
short, possesses a large stock of information. When he heard that I am
drawing a good deal, and that I know Greek (two wonderful things for
this part of the country), he came to see me, and displayed his whole
store of learning, from Batteaux to Wood, from De Piles to Winkelmann:
he assured me he had read through the first part of Sultzer's theory,
and also possessed a manuscript of Heyne's work on the study of the
antique. I allowed it all to pass.

I have become acquainted, also, with a very worthy person, the district
judge, a frank and open-hearted man. I am told it is a most delightful
thing to see him in the midst of his children, of whom he has nine. His
eldest daughter especially is highly spoken of. He has invited me to go
and see him, and I intend to do so on the first opportunity. He lives
at one of the royal hunting-lodges, which can be reached from here in
an hour and a half by walking, and which he obtained leave to inhabit
after the loss of his wife, as it is so painful to him to reside in
town and at the court.

There have also come in my way a few other originals of a questionable
sort, who are in all respects undesirable, and most intolerable in
their demonstrations of friendship. Good-by. This letter will please
you; it is quite historical.


                                                     May 22.

That the life of man is but a dream, many a man has surmised
heretofore; and I, too, am everywhere pursued by this feeling. When I
consider the narrow limits within which our active and inquiring
faculties are confined; when I see how all our energies are wasted in
providing for mere necessities, which again have no further end than to
prolong a wretched existence; and then that all our satisfaction
concerning certain subjects of investigation ends in nothing better
than a passive resignation, whilst we amuse ourselves painting our
prison-walls with bright figures and brilliant landscapes,--when I
consider all this, Wilhelm, I am silent. I examine my own being and
find there a world, but a world rather of imagination and dim desires,
than of distinctness and living power. Then everything swims before my
senses, and I smile and dream while pursuing my way through the world.

All learned professors and doctors are agreed that children do not
comprehend the cause of their desires; but that the grown-up should
wander about this earth like children, without knowing whence they
come, or whither they go, influenced as little by fixed motives, but
guided like them by biscuits, sugar-plums, and the rod,--this is what
nobody is willing to acknowledge; and yet I think it is palpable.

I know what you say in reply; for I am ready to admit that they are
happiest, who, like children, amuse themselves with their play-things,
dress and undress their dolls, and attentively watch the cupboard,
where mamma has locked up her sweet things, and, when at last they get
a delicious morsel, eat it greedily, and exclaim, "More!" These are
certainly happy beings; but others also are objects of envy, who
dignify their paltry employments, and sometimes even their passions,
with pompous titles, representing them to mankind as gigantic
achievements performed for their welfare and glory. But the man who
humbly acknowledges the vanity of all this, who observes with what
pleasure the thriving citizen converts his little garden into a
paradise, and how patiently even the poor man pursues his weary way
under his burden, and how all wish equally to behold the light of the
sun a little longer,--yes, such a man is at peace, and creates his own
world within himself; and he is also happy, because he is a man. And
then, however limited his sphere, he still preserves in his bosom the
sweet feeling of liberty, and knows that he can quit his prison
whenever he likes.


                                                     May 26.

You know of old my ways of settling anywhere, of selecting a little
cottage in some cosey spot, and of putting up in it with every
inconvenience. Here, too, I have discovered such a snug, comfortable
place, which possesses peculiar charms for me.

About a league from the town is a place called Walheim.[1] It is
delightfully situated on the side of a hill; and by proceeding along
one of the footpaths which lead out of the village, you can have a view
of the whole valley. A good old woman lives there, who keeps a small
inn. She sells wine, beer, and coffee, and is cheerful and pleasant
notwithstanding her age. The chief charm of this spot consists in two
linden-trees, spreading their enormous branches over the little green
before the church, which is entirely surrounded by peasants' cottages,
barns, and homesteads. I have seldom seen a place so retired and
peaceable; and there often have my table and chair brought out from the
little inn, and drink my coffee there, and read my Homer. Accident
brought me to the spot one fine afternoon, and I found it perfectly
deserted. Everybody was in the fields except a little boy about four
years of age, who was sitting on the ground, and held between his knees
a child about six months old; he pressed it to his bosom with both
arms, which thus formed a sort of armchair; and notwithstanding the
liveliness which sparkled in its black eyes, it remained perfectly
still. The sight charmed me. I sat down upon a plough opposite, and
sketched with great delight this little picture of brotherly
tenderness. I added the neighbouring hedge, the barn-door, and some
broken cart-wheels, just as they happened to lie; and I found in about
an hour that I had made a very correct and interesting drawing, without
putting in the slightest thing of my own. This confirmed me in my
resolution of adhering, for the future, entirely to Nature, She alone
is inexhaustible, and capable of forming the greatest masters. Much may
be alleged in favour of rules; as much may be likewise advanced in
favour of the laws of society: an artist formed upon them will never
produce anything absolutely bad or disgusting; as a man who observes
the laws and obeys decorum can never be an absolutely intolerable
neighbour nor a decided villain: but yet, say what you will of rules,
they destroy the genuine feeling of Nature, as well as its true
expression. Do not tell me "that this is too hard, that they only
restrain and prune superfluous branches, etc." My good friend, I will
illustrate this by an analogy. These things resemble love. A
warmhearted youth becomes strongly attached to a maiden: he spends
every hour of the day in her company, wears out his health, and
lavishes his fortune, to afford continual proof that he is wholly
devoted to her. Then comes a man of the world, a man of place and
respectability, and addresses him thus: "My good young friend, love is
natural; but you must love within bounds. Divide your time: devote a
portion to business, and give the hours of recreation to your mistress.
Calculate your fortune; and out of the superfluity you may make her a
present, only not too often,--on her birthday, and such occasions."
Pursuing this advice, he may become a useful member of society, and I
should advise every prince to give him an appointment; but it is all up
with his love, and with his genius if he be an artist. O my friend! why
is it that the torrent of genius so seldom bursts forth, so seldom
rolls in full-flowing stream, overwhelming your astounded soul?
Because, on either side of this stream, cold and respectable persons
have taken up their abodes, and, forsooth, their summer-houses and
tulip-beds would suffer from the torrent; wherefore they dig trenches,
and raise embankments betimes, in order to avert the impending danger.


                                                     May 27.

I find I have fallen into raptures, declamation, and similes, and have
forgotten, in consequence, to tell you what became of the children.
Absorbed in my artistic contemplations, which I briefly described in my
letter of yesterday, I continued sitting on the plough for two hours.
Towards evening a young woman, with a basket on her arm, came running
towards the children, who had not moved all that time. She exclaimed
from a distance, "You are a good boy, Philip!" She gave me greeting: I
returned it, rose, and approached her. I inquired if she were the
mother of those pretty children. "Yes," she said; and, giving the
eldest a piece of bread, she took the little one in her arms and kissed
it with a mother's tenderness. "I left my child in Philip's care," she
said, "whilst I went into the town with my eldest boy to buy some
wheaten bread, some sugar, and an earthen pot." I saw the various
articles in the basket, from which the cover had fallen. "I shall make
some broth to-night for my little Hans (which was the name of the
youngest): that wild fellow, the big one, broke my pot yesterday,
whilst he was scrambling with Philip for what remained of the
contents." I inquired for the eldest; and she had scarcely time to tell
me that he was driving a couple of geese home from the meadow, when he
ran up, and handed Philip an osier-twig. I talked a little longer with
the woman, and found that she was the daughter of the schoolmaster, and
that her husband was gone on a journey into Switzerland for some money
a relation had left him. "They wanted to cheat him," she said, "and
would not answer his letters; so he is gone there himself. I hope he
has met with no accident, as I have heard nothing of him since his
departure." I left the woman with regret, giving each of the children a
kreutzer, with an additional one for the youngest, to buy some wheaten
bread for his broth when she went to town next; and so we parted.

I assure you, my dear friend, when my thoughts are all in tumult, the
sight of such a creature as this tranquillises my disturbed mind. She
moves in a happy thoughtlessness within the confined circle of her
existence; she supplies her wants from day to day; and when she sees
the leaves fall, they raise no other idea in her mind than that winter
is approaching.

Since that time I have gone out there frequently. The children have
become quite familiar with me; and each gets a lump of sugar when I
drink my coffee, and they share my milk and bread and butter in the
evening. They always receive their kreutzer on Sundays, for the good
woman has orders to give it to them when I do not go there after
evening service.

They are quite at home with me, tell me everything; and I am
particularly amused with observing their tempers, and the simplicity of
their behaviour, when some of the other village children are assembled
with them.

It has given me a deal of trouble to satisfy the anxiety of the mother,
lest (as she says) "they should inconvenience the gentleman."


                                                     May 30.

What I have lately said of painting is equally true with respect to
poetry. It is only necessary for us to know what is really excellent,
and venture to give it expression; and that is saying much in few
words. To-day I have had a scene which, if literally related, would
make the most beautiful idyl in the world. But why should I talk of
poetry and scenes and idyls? Can we never take pleasure in Nature
without having recourse to art?

If you expect anything grand or magnificent from this introduction, you
will be sadly mistaken. It relates merely to a peasant-lad, who has
excited in me the warmest interest. As usual, I shall tell my story
badly; and you, as usual, will think me extravagant. It is Walheim once
more--always Walheim--which produces these wonderful phenomena.

A party had assembled outside the house under the linden-trees, to
drink coffee. The company did not exactly please me; and, under one
pretext or another, I lingered behind.

A peasant came from an adjoining house, and set to work arranging some
part of the same plough which I had lately sketched. His appearance
pleased me; and I spoke to him, inquired about his circumstances, made
his acquaintance, and, as is my wont with persons of that class, was
soon admitted into his confidence. He said he was in the service of a
young widow, who set great store by him. He spoke so much of his
mistress, and praised her so extravagantly, that I could soon see he
was desperately in love with her. "She is no longer young," he said;
"and she was treated so badly by her former husband that she does not
mean to marry again." From his account it was so evident what
incomparable charms she possessed for him, and how ardently he wished
she would select him to extinguish the recollection of her first
husband's misconduct, that I should have to repeat his own words in
order to describe the depth of the poor fellow's attachment, truth, and
devotion. It would, in fact, require the gifts of a great poet to
convey the expression of his features, the harmony of his voice, and
the heavenly fire of his eye. No words can portray the tenderness of
his every movement and of every feature; no effort of mine could do
justice to the scene. His alarm lest I should misconceive his position
with regard to his mistress, or question the propriety of her conduct,
touched me particularly. The charming manner with which he described
her form and person, which, without possessing the graces of youth, won
and attached him to her, is inexpressible, and must be left to the
imagination. I have never in my life witnessed or fancied or conceived
the possibility of such intense devotion, such ardent affections,
united with so much purity. Do not blame me if I say that the
recollection of this innocence and truth is deeply impressed upon my
very soul; that this picture of fidelity and tenderness haunts me
everywhere: and that my own heart, as though enkindled by the flame,
glows and burns within me.

I mean now to try and see her as soon as I can: or perhaps, on second
thoughts, I had better not; it is better I should behold her through
the eyes of her lover. To my sight, perhaps, she would not appear as
she now stands before me; and why should I destroy so sweet a picture?


                                                    June 16.

"Why do I not write to you?" You lay claim to learning, and ask such a
question. You should have guessed that I am well--that is to say--in a
word, I have made an acquaintance who has won my heart: I have--I know
not.

To give you a regular account of the manner in which I have become
acquainted with the most amiable of women would be a difficult task. I
am a happy and contented mortal, but a poor historian.

An angel! Nonsense! Everybody so describes his mistress; and yet I find
it impossible to tell you how perfect she is, or why she is so perfect:
suffice it to say she has captivated all my senses.

So much simplicity with so much understanding--so mild, and yet so
resolute--a mind so placid, and a life so active.

But all this is ugly balderdash, which expresses not a single character
nor feature. Some other time--but no, not some other time, now, this
very instant, will I tell you all about it. Now or never. Well, between
ourselves, since I commenced my letter, I have been three times on the
point of throwing down my pen, of ordering my horse, and riding out.
And yet I vowed this morning that I would not ride to-day, and yet
every moment I am rushing to the window to see how high the sun is.

                           *   *   *   *   *

I could not restrain myself--go to her I must. I have just returned,
Wilhelm; and whilst I am taking supper, I will write to you. What a
delight it was for my soul to see her in the midst of her dear,
beautiful children,--eight brothers and sisters!

But if I proceed thus, you will be no wiser at the end of my letter
than you were at the beginning. Attend, then, and I will compel myself
to give you the details.

I mentioned to you the other day that I had become acquainted with
S----, the district judge, and that he had invited me to go and visit
him in his retirement, or rather in his little kingdom. But I neglected
going, and perhaps should never have gone, if chance had not discovered
to me the treasure which lay concealed in that retired spot. Some of
our young people had proposed giving a ball in the country, at which I
consented to be present. I offered my hand for the evening to a pretty
and agreeable, but rather commonplace, sort of girl from the immediate
neighbourhood; and it was agreed that I should engage a carriage, and
call upon Charlotte, with my partner and her aunt, to convey them to
the ball. My companion informed me, as we drove along through the park
to the hunting-lodge, that I should make the acquaintance of a very
charming young lady. "Take care," added the aunt, "that you do not lose
your heart." "Why?" said I. "Because she is already engaged to a very
worthy man," she replied, "who is gone to settle his affairs upon the
death of his father, and will succeed to a very considerable
inheritance." This information possessed no interest for me. When we
arrived at the gate, the sun was setting behind the tops of the
mountains. The atmosphere was heavy; and the ladies expressed their
fears of an approaching storm, as masses of low black clouds were
gathering in the horizon. I relieved their anxieties by pretending to
be weather-wise, although I myself had some apprehensions lest our
pleasure should be interrupted.

I alighted; and a maid came to the door, and requested us to wait a
moment for her mistress. I walked across the court to a well-built
house, and, ascending the flight of steps in front, opened the door,
and saw before me the most charming spectacle I had ever witnessed. Six
children, from eleven to two years old, were running about the hall,
and surrounding a lady of middle height, with a lovely figure, dressed
in a robe of simple white, trimmed with pink ribbons. She was holding a
rye loaf in her hand, and was cutting slices for the little ones all
round, in proportion to their age and appetite. She performed her task
in a graceful and affectionate manner; each claimant awaiting his turn
with outstretched hands, and boisterously shouting his thanks. Some of
them ran away at once, to enjoy their evening meal; whilst others, of a
gentler disposition, retired to the courtyard to see the strangers, and
to survey the carriage in which their Charlotte was to drive away.
"Pray forgive me for giving you the trouble to come for me, and for
keeping the ladies waiting: but dressing, and arranging some household
duties before I leave, had made me forget my children's supper; and
they do not like to take it from any one but me." I uttered some
indifferent compliment: but my whole soul was absorbed by her air, her
voice, her manner; and I had scarcely recovered myself when she ran
into her room to fetch her gloves and fan. The young ones threw
inquiring glances at me from a distance; whilst I approached the
youngest, a most delicious little creature. He drew back; and
Charlotte, entering at the very moment, said, "Louis, shake hands with
your cousin." The little fellow obeyed willingly; and I could not
resist giving him a hearty kiss, notwithstanding his rather dirty face.
"Cousin," said I to Charlotte, as I handed her down, "do you think I
deserve the happiness of being related to you?" She replied, with a
ready smile, "Oh! I have such a number of cousins that I should be
sorry if you were the most undeserving of them." In taking leave, she
desired her next sister, Sophy, a girl about eleven years old, to take
great care of the children, and to say good-by to papa for her when he
came home from his ride. She enjoined to the little ones to obey their
sister Sophy as they would herself, upon which some promised that they
would; but a little fair-haired girl, about six years old, looked
discontented, and said, "But Sophy is not you, Charlotte; and we like
you best." The two eldest boys had clambered up the carriage; and, at
my request, she permitted them to accompany us a little way through the
forest, upon their promising to sit very still, and hold fast.

We were hardly seated, and the ladies had scarcely exchanged
compliments, making the usual remarks upon each other's dress, and upon
the company they expected to meet, when Charlotte stopped the carriage,
and made her brothers get down. They insisted upon kissing her hands
once more; which the eldest did with all the tenderness of a youth of
fifteen, but the other in a lighter and more careless manner. She
desired them again to give her love to the children, and we drove off.

The aunt inquired of Charlotte whether she had finished the book she
had last sent her. "No," said Charlotte; "I did not like it: you can
have it again. And the one before was not much better." I was
surprised, upon asking the title, to hear that it was ----.[2] I found
penetration and character in everything she said: every expression
seemed to brighten her features with new charms, with new rays of
genius, which unfolded by degrees, as she felt herself understood.

"When I was younger," she observed, "I loved nothing so much as
romances. Nothing could equal my delight when, on some holiday, I could
settle down quietly in a corner, and enter with my whole heart and soul
into the joys or sorrows of some fictitious Leonora. I do not deny that
they even possess some charms for me yet. But I read so seldom that I
prefer books suited exactly to my taste. And I like those authors best
whose scenes describe my own situation in life,--and the friends who
are about me whose stories touch me with interest, from resembling my
own homely existence,--which, without being absolutely paradise, is, on
the whole, a source of indescribable happiness."

I endeavoured to conceal the emotion which these words occasioned, but
it was of slight avail; for when she had expressed so truly her opinion
of "The Vicar of Wakefield," and of other works, the names of which I
omit,[3] I could no longer contain myself, but gave full utterance to
what I thought of it; and it was not until Charlotte had addressed
herself to the two other ladies, that I remembered their presence, and
observed them sitting mute with astonishment. The aunt looked at me
several times with an air of raillery, which, however, I did not at all
mind.

We talked of the pleasures of dancing. "If it is a fault to love it,"
said Charlotte, "I am ready to confess that I prize it above all other
amusements. If anything disturbs me, I go to the piano, play an air to
which I have danced, and all goes right again directly."

You, who know me, can fancy how steadfastly I gazed upon her rich dark
eyes during these remarks, how my very soul gloated over her warm lips
and fresh, glowing cheeks, how I became quite lost in the delightful
meaning of her words,--so much so, that I scarcely heard the actual
expressions. In short, I alighted from the carriage like a person in a
dream, and was so lost to the dim world around me that I scarcely heard
the music which resounded from the illuminated ball-room.

The two Messrs. Andran and a certain N. N. (I cannot trouble myself
with the names), who were the aunt's and Charlotte's partners, received
us at the carriage-door, and took possession of their ladies, whilst I
followed with mine.

We commenced with a minuet. I led out one lady after another, and
precisely those who were the most disagreeable could not bring
themselves to leave off. Charlotte and her partner began an English
country dance, and you must imagine my delight when it was their turn
to dance the figure with us.

You should see Charlotte dance. She dances with her whole heart and
soul: her figure is all harmony, elegance, and grace, as if she were
conscious of nothing else, and had no other thought or feeling; and,
doubtless, for the moment every other sensation is extinct.

She was engaged for the second country dance, but promised me the
third, and assured me, with the most agreeable freedom, that she was
very fond of waltzing. "It is the custom here," she said, "for the
previous partners to waltz together; but my partner is an indifferent
waltzer, and will feel delighted if I save him the trouble. Your
partner is not allowed to waltz, and, indeed, is equally incapable: but
I observed during the country dance that you waltz well; so, if you
will waltz with me, I beg you would propose it to my partner, and I
will propose it to yours." We agreed, and it was arranged that our
partners should mutually entertain each other.

We set off, and at first delighted ourselves with the usual graceful
motions of the arms. With what grace, with what ease, she moved! When
the waltz commenced, and the dancers whirled round each other in the
giddy maze, there was some confusion, owing to the incapacity of some
of the dancers. We judiciously remained still, allowing the others to
weary themselves; and when the awkward dancers had withdrawn, we joined
in, and kept it up famously together with one other couple,--Andran and
his partner. Never did I dance more lightly. I felt myself more than
mortal, holding this loveliest of creatures in my arms, flying with her
as rapidly as the wind, till I lost sight of every other object; and
oh, Wilhelm, I vowed at that moment, that a maiden whom I loved, or for
whom I felt the slightest attachment, never, never should waltz with
any one else but with me, if I went to perdition for it!--you will
understand this.

We took a few turns in the room to recover our breath. Charlotte sat
down, and felt refreshed by partaking of some oranges which I had had
secured,--the only ones that had been left; but at every slice which
from politeness she offered to her neighbours, I felt as though a
dagger went through my heart.

We were the second couple in the third country dance. As we were going
down (and Heaven knows with what ecstasy I gazed at her arms and eyes,
beaming with the sweetest feeling of pure and genuine enjoyment), we
passed a lady whom I had noticed for her charming expression of
countenance, although she was no longer young. She looked at Charlotte
with a smile, then holding up her finger in a threatening attitude,
repeated twice in a very significant tone of voice the name of
"Albert."

"Who is Albert," said I to Charlotte, "if it is not impertinent to
ask?" She was about to answer, when we were obliged to separate, in
order to execute a figure in the dance; and as we crossed over again in
front of each other, I perceived she looked somewhat pensive. "Why need
I conceal it from you?" she said, as she gave me her hand for the
promenade. "Albert is a worthy man, to whom I am engaged." Now, there
was nothing new to me in this (for the girls had told me of it on the
way); but it was so far new that I had not thought of it in connection
with her whom in so short a time I had learned to prize so highly.
Enough. I became confused, got out in the figure, and occasioned
general confusion; so that it required all Charlotte's presence of mind
to set me right by pulling and pushing me into my proper place.

The dance was not yet finished when the lightning which had for some
time been seen in the horizon, and which I had asserted to proceed
entirely from heat, grew more violent; and the thunder was heard above
the music. When any distress or terror surprises us in the midst of our
amusements, it naturally makes a deeper impression than at other times,
either because the contrast makes us more keenly susceptible, or rather
perhaps because our senses are then more open to impressions, and the
shock is consequently stronger. To this cause I must ascribe the fright
and shrieks of the ladies. One sagaciously sat down in a corner with
her back to the window, and held her fingers to her ears; a second
knelt down before her, and hid her face in her lap; a third threw
herself between them, and embraced her sister with a thousand tears;
some insisted on going home; others, unconscious of their actions,
wanted sufficient presence of mind to repress the impertinence of their
young partners, who sought to direct to themselves those sighs which
the lips of our agitated beauties intended for heaven. Some of the
gentlemen had gone downstairs to smoke a quiet cigar, and the rest of
the company gladly embraced a happy suggestion of the hostess to retire
into another room which was provided with shutters and curtains. We had
hardly got there, when Charlotte placed the chairs in a circle; and
when the company had sat down in compliance with her request, she
forthwith proposed a round game.

I noticed some of the company prepare their mouths and draw themselves
up at the prospect of some agreeable forfeit. "Let us play at
counting," said Charlotte. "Now, pay attention: I shall go round the
circle from right to left; and each person is to count, one after the
other, the number that comes to him, and must count fast; whoever stops
or mistakes is to have a box on the ear, and so on, till we have
counted a thousand." It was delightful to see the fun. She went round
the circle with upraised arm. "One," said the first; "two," the second;
"three," the third; and so, till Charlotte went faster and faster. One
made a mistake, instantly a box on the ear; and amid the laughter that
ensued, came another box; and so on, faster and faster. I myself came
in for two. I fancied they were harder than the rest, and felt quite
delighted. A general laughter and confusion put an end to the game long
before we had counted as far as a thousand. The party broke up into
little separate knots; the storm had ceased, and I followed Charlotte
into the ballroom. On the way she said, "The game banished their fears
of the storm." I could make no reply. "I myself," she continued, "was
as much frightened as any of them; but by affecting courage, to keep up
the spirits of the others, I forgot my apprehensions." We went to the
window. It was still thundering at a distance; a soft rain was pouring
down over the country, and filled the air around us with delicious
odours. Charlotte leaned forward on her arm; her eyes wandered over the
scene; she raised them to the sky, and then turned them upon me: they
were moistened with tears; she placed her hand on mine and said,
"Klopstock!" At once I remembered the magnificent ode which was in her
thoughts; I felt oppressed with the weight of my sensations, and sank
under them. It was more than I could bear. I bent over her hand, kissed
it in a stream of delicious tears, and again looked up to her eyes.
Divine Klopstock! why didst thou not see thy apotheosis in those eyes?
And thy name, so often profaned, would that I never heard it repeated!


                                                    June 19.

I no longer remember where I stopped in my narrative; I only know it
was two in the morning when I went to bed; and if you had been with me,
that I might have talked instead of writing to you, I should, in all
probability, have kept you up till daylight.

I think I have not yet related what happened as we rode home from the
ball, nor have I time to tell you now. It was a most magnificent
sunrise; the whole country was refreshed, and the rain fell drop by
drop from the trees in the forest. Our companions were asleep.
Charlotte asked me if I did not wish to sleep also, and begged of me
not to make any ceremony on her account. Looking steadfastly at her, I
answered, "As long as I see those eyes open, there is no fear of my
falling asleep." We both continued awake till we reached her door. The
maid opened it softly, and assured her, in answer to her inquiries,
that her father and the children were well, and still sleeping. I left
her, asking permission to visit her in the course of the day. She
consented, and I went; and since that time sun, moon, and stars may
pursue their course: I know not whether it is day or night; the whole
world is nothing to me.


                                                    June 21.

My days are as happy as those reserved by God for his elect; and
whatever be my fate hereafter, I can never say that I have not tasted
joy,--the purest joy of life. You know Walheim. I am now completely
settled there. In that spot I am only half a league from Charlotte; and
there I enjoy myself, and taste all the pleasure which can fall to the
lot of man.

Little did I imagine, when I selected Walheim for my pedestrian
excursions, that all heaven lay so near it. How often, in my wanderings
from the hillside or from the meadows across the river, have I beheld
this hunting-lodge, which now contains within it all the joy of my
heart!

I have often, my dear Wilhelm, reflected on the eagerness men feel to
wander and make new discoveries, and upon that secret impulse which
afterwards inclines them to return to their narrow circle, conform to
the laws of custom, and embarrass themselves no longer with what passes
around them.

It is so strange how, when I came here first, and gazed upon that
lovely valley from the hillside, I felt charmed with the entire scene
surrounding me. The little wood opposite,--how delightful to sit under
its shade! How fine the view from that point of rock! Then that
delightful chain of hills, and the exquisite valleys at their feet!
Could I but wander and lose myself amongst them! I went, and returned
without finding what I wished. Distance, my friend, is like futurity. A
dim vastness is spread before our souls; the perceptions of our mind
are as obscure as those of our vision; and we desire earnestly to
surrender up our whole being, that it may be filled with the complete
and perfect bliss of one glorious emotion. But alas! when we have
attained our object, when the distant _there_ becomes the present
_here_, all is changed; we are as poor and circumscribed as ever, and
our souls still languish for unattainable happiness.

So does the restless traveller pant for his native soil, and find in
his own cottage, in the arms of his wife, in the affections of his
children, and in the labour necessary for their support, that happiness
which he had sought in vain through the wide, world.

When in the morning at sunrise I go out to Walheim and with my own
hands gather in the garden the pease which are to serve for my dinner;
when I sit down to shell them, and read my Homer during the intervals,
and then, selecting a saucepan from the kitchen, fetch my own butter,
put my mess on the fire, cover it up, and sit down to stir it as
occasion requires,--I figure to myself the illustrious suitors of
Penelope, killing, dressing, and preparing their own oxen and swine.
Nothing fills me with a more pure and genuine sense of happiness than
those traits of patriarchal life which, thank Heaven! I can imitate
without affectation. Happy is it, indeed, for me that my heart is
capable of feeling the same simple and innocent pleasure as the peasant
whose table is covered with food of his own rearing, and who not only
enjoys his meal, but remembers with delight the happy days and sunny
mornings when he planted it, the soft evenings when he watered it, and
the pleasure he experienced in watching its daily growth.


                                                    June 29.

The day before yesterday the physician came from the town to pay a
visit to the judge. He found me on the floor playing with Charlotte's
children. Some of them were scrambling over me, and others romped with
me; and as I caught and tickled them, they made a great noise. The
doctor is a formal sort of personage; he adjusts the plaits of his
ruffles and continually settles his frill whilst he is talking to you;
and he thought my conduct beneath the dignity of a sensible man. I
could perceive this by his countenance; but I did not suffer myself to
be disturbed. I allowed him to continue his wise conversation, whilst I
rebuilt the children's card-houses for them as fast as they threw them
down. He went about the town afterwards, complaining that the judge's
children were spoiled enough before, but that now Werther was
completely ruining them.

Yes, my dear Wilhelm, nothing on this earth affects my heart so much as
children. When I look on at their doings; when I mark in the little
creatures the seeds of all those virtues and qualities which they will
one day find so indispensable; when I behold in the obstinate all the
future firmness and constancy of a noble character, in the capricious
that levity and gayety of temper which will carry them lightly over the
dangers and troubles of life, their whole nature simple and
unpolluted,--then I call to mind the golden words of the Great Teacher
of mankind, "Unless ye become like one of these." And now, my friend,
these children, who are our equals, whom we ought to consider as our
models,--we treat them as though they were our subjects. They are
allowed no will of their own. And have we, then, none ourselves? Whence
comes our exclusive right? Is it because we are older and more
experienced? Great God! from the height of thy heaven thou beholdest
great children and little children, and no others; and thy Son has long
since declared which afford thee greatest pleasure. But they believe in
him and hear him not,--that, too, is an old story; and they train their
children after their own image, etc.

Adieu, Wilhelm. I will not further bewilder myself with this subject.


                                                     July 1.

The consolation Charlotte can bring to an invalid I experience from my
own heart, which suffers more from her absence than many a poor
creature lingering on a bed of sickness. She is gone to spend a few
days in the town with a very worthy woman, who is given over by the
physicians, and wishes to have Charlotte near her in her last moments.
I accompanied her last week on a visit to the vicar of S----, a small
village in the mountains, about a league hence. We arrived about four
o'clock. Charlotte had taken her little sister with her. When we
entered the vicarage court, we found the good old man sitting on a
bench before the door, under the shade of two large walnut-trees. At
the sight of Charlotte he seemed to gain new life, rose, forgot his
stick, and ventured to walk towards her. She ran to him, and made him
sit down again; then placing herself by his side, she gave him a number
of messages from her father, and then caught up his youngest child,--a
dirty, ugly little thing, the joy of his old age,--and kissed it. I
wish you could have witnessed her attention to this old man,--how she
raised her voice on account of his deafness; how she told him of
healthy young people who had been carried off when it was least
expected; praised the virtues of Carlsbad, and commended his
determination to spend the ensuing summer there; and assured him that
he looked better and stronger than he did when she saw him last. I, in
the mean time, paid attention to his good lady. The old man seemed
quite in spirits; and as I could not help admiring the beauty of the
walnut-trees, which formed such an agreeable shade over our heads, he
began, though with some little difficulty, to tell us their history.
"As to the oldest," said he, "we do not know who planted it,--some say
one clergyman, and some another; but the younger one, there behind us,
is exactly the age of my wife,--fifty years old next October. Her
father planted it in the morning, and in the evening she came into the
world. My wife's father was my predecessor here, and I cannot tell you
how fond he was of that tree; and it is fully as dear to me. Under the
shade of that very tree, upon a log of wood, my wife was seated
knitting when I, a poor student, came into this court for the first
time, just seven and twenty years ago." Charlotte inquired for his
daughter. He said she was gone with Herr Schmidt to the meadows, and
was with the haymakers. The old man then resumed his story, and told us
how his predecessor had taken a fancy to him, as had his daughter
likewise; and how he had become first his curate, and subsequently his
successor. He had scarcely finished his story when his daughter
returned through the garden, accompanied by the above-mentioned Herr
Schmidt. She welcomed Charlotte affectionately, and I confess I was
much taken with her appearance. She was a lively-looking, good-humoured
brunette, quite competent to amuse one for a short time in the country.
Her lover (for such Herr Schmidt evidently appeared to be) was a
polite, reserved personage, and would not join our conversation,
notwithstanding all Charlotte's endeavours to draw him out. I was much
annoyed at observing, by his countenance, that his silence did not
arise from want of talent, but from caprice and ill-humour. This
subsequently became very evident, when we set out to take a walk, and
Frederica joining Charlotte, with whom I was talking, the worthy
gentleman's face, which was naturally rather sombre, became so dark and
angry that Charlotte was obliged to touch my arm and remind me that I
was talking too much to Frederica. Nothing distresses me more than to
see men torment each other; particularly when in the flower of their
age, in the very season of pleasure, they waste their few short days of
sunshine in quarrels and disputes, and only perceive their error when
it is too late to repair it. This thought dwelt upon my mind; and in
the evening, when we returned to the vicar's, and were sitting round
the table with our bread and milk, the conversation turned on the joys
and sorrows of the world, I could not resist the temptation to inveigh
bitterly against ill-humour. "We are apt," said I, "to complain, but
with very little cause, that our happy days are few and our evil days
many. If our hearts were always disposed to receive the benefits Heaven
sends us, we should acquire strength to support evil when it comes."
"But," observed the vicar's wife, "we cannot always command our
tempers, so much depends upon the constitution; when the body suffers,
the mind is ill at ease." "I acknowledge that," I continued; "but we
must consider such a disposition in the light of a disease, and inquire
whether there is no remedy for it." "I should be glad to hear one,"
said Charlotte. "At least, I think very much depends upon ourselves; I
know it is so with me. When anything annoys me, and disturbs my temper,
I hasten into the garden, hum a couple of country dances, and it is all
right with me directly." "That is what I meant," I replied. "Ill-humour
resembles indolence: it is natural to us; but if once we have courage
to exert ourselves, we find our work run fresh from our hands, and we
experience in the activity from which we shrank a real enjoyment."
Frederica listened very attentively; and the young man objected that we
were not masters of ourselves, and still less so of our feelings. "The
question is about a disagreeable feeling," I added, "from which every
one would willingly escape, but none know their own power without
trial. Invalids are glad to consult physicians, and submit to the most
scrupulous regimen, the most nauseous medicines, in order to recover
their health." I observed that the good old man inclined his head, and
exerted himself to hear our discourse; so I raised my voice, and
addressed myself directly to him. "We preach against a great many
crimes," I observed, "but I never remember a sermon delivered against
ill-humour." "That may do very well for your town clergymen," said he;
"country people are never ill-humoured, though, indeed, it might be
useful occasionally,--to my wife, for instance, and the judge." We all
laughed, as did he likewise very cordially, till he fell into a fit of
coughing, which interrupted our conversation for a time. Herr Schmidt
resumed the subject. "You call ill-humour a crime," he remarked, "but I
think you use too strong a term." "Not at all," I replied, "if that
deserves the name which is so pernicious to ourselves and our
neighbours. Is it not enough that we want the power to make one another
happy,--must we deprive each other of the pleasure which we can all
make for ourselves? Show me the man who has the courage to hide his
ill-humour, who bears the whole burden himself without disturbing the
peace of those around him. No; ill-humour arises from an inward
consciousness of our own want of merit,--from a discontent which ever
accompanies that envy which foolish vanity engenders. We see people
happy whom we have not made so, and cannot endure the sight." Charlotte
looked at me with a smile; she observed the emotion with which I spoke;
and a tear in the eyes of Frederica stimulated me to proceed. "Woe unto
those," I said, "who use their power over a human heart to destroy the
simple pleasures it would naturally enjoy! All the favours, all the
attentions, in the world cannot compensate for the loss of that
happiness which a cruel tyranny has destroyed." My heart was full as I
spoke. A recollection of many things which had happened pressed upon my
mind, and filled my eyes with tears. "We should daily repeat to
ourselves," I exclaimed, "that we should not interfere with our
friends, unless to leave them in possession of their own joys, and
increase their happiness by sharing it with them! But when their souls
are tormented by a violent passion, or their hearts rent with grief, is
it in your power to afford them the slightest consolation?

"And when the last fatal malady seizes the being whose untimely grave
you have prepared, when she lies languid and exhausted before you, her
dim eyes raised to heaven, and the damp of death upon her pallid
brow,--then you stand at her bedside like a condemned criminal, with
the bitter feeling that your whole fortune could not save her; and the
agonizing thought wrings you that all your efforts are powerless to
impart even a moment's strength to the departing soul, or quicken her
with a transitory consolation."

At these words the remembrance of a similar scene at which I had been
once present fell with full force upon my heart. I buried my face in my
handkerchief, and hastened from the room, and was only recalled to my
recollection by Charlotte's voice, who reminded me that it was time to
return home. With what tenderness she chid me on the way for the too
eager interest I took in everything! She declared it would do me
injury, and that I ought to spare myself. Yes, my angel! I will do so
for your sake.


                                                     July 6.

She is still with her dying friend, and is still the same bright,
beautiful creature whose presence softens pain, and sheds happiness
around whichever way she turns. She went out yesterday with her little
sisters: I knew it, and went to meet them; and we walked together. In
about an hour and a half we returned to the town. We stopped at the
spring I am so fond of, and which is now a thousand times dearer to me
than ever. Charlotte seated herself upon the low wall, and we gathered
about her. I looked round, and recalled the time when my heart was
unoccupied and free. "Dear fountain," I said, "since that time I have
no more come to enjoy cool repose by thy fresh stream; I have passed
thee with careless steps, and scarcely bestowed a glance upon thee." I
looked down, and observed Charlotte's little sister, Jane, coming up
the steps with a glass of water. I turned towards Charlotte, and I felt
her influence over me. Jane at the moment approached with the glass.
Her sister, Marianne, wished to take it from her. "No!" cried the
child, with the sweetest expression of face, "Charlotte must drink
first."

The affection and simplicity with which this was uttered so charmed me
that I sought to express my feelings by catching up the child and
kissing her heartily. She was frightened, and began to cry. "You should
not do that," said Charlotte. I felt perplexed. "Come, Jane," she
continued, taking her hand and leading her down the steps again, "it is
no matter; wash yourself quickly in the fresh water."

I stood and watched them; and when I saw the little dear rubbing her
cheeks with her wet hands, in full belief that all the impurities
contracted from my ugly beard would be washed off by the miraculous
water, and how, though Charlotte said it would do, she continued still
to wash with all her might, as though she thought too much were better
than too little, I assure you, Wilhelm, I never attended a baptism with
greater reverence; and when Charlotte came up from the well, I could
have prostrated myself as before the prophet of an Eastern nation.

In the evening I could not resist telling the story to a person who, I
thought, possessed some natural feeling, because he was a man of
understanding. But what a mistake I made! He maintained it was very
wrong of Charlotte,--that we should not deceive children,--that such
things occasioned countless mistakes and superstitions, from which we
were bound to protect the young. It occurred to me, then, that this
very man had been baptized only a week before; so I said nothing
further, but maintained the justice of my own convictions. We should
deal with children as God deals with us,--we are happiest under the
influence of innocent delusions.


                                                     July 8.

What a child is man that he should be so solicitous about a look! What
a child is man! We had been to Walheim: the ladies went in a carriage;
but during our walk I thought I saw in Charlotte's dark eyes--I am a
fool--but forgive me! you should see them,--those eyes. However, to be
brief (for my own eyes are weighed down with sleep), you must know,
when the ladies stepped into their carriage again, young W. Seldstadt,
Andran, and I were standing about the door. They are a merry set of
fellows, and they were all laughing and joking together. I watched
Charlotte's eyes. They wandered from one to the other; but they did not
light on me,--on me, who stood there motionless, and who saw nothing
but her! My heart bade her a thousand times adieu, but she noticed me
not. The carriage drove off, and my eyes filled with tears. I looked
after her: suddenly I saw Charlotte's bonnet leaning out of the window,
and she turned to look back,--was it at me? My dear friend, I know not;
and in this uncertainty I find consolation. Perhaps she turned to look
at me. Perhaps! Good-night--what a child I am!


                                                    July 10.

You should see how foolish I look in company when her name is
mentioned, particularly when I am asked plainly how I like her. How I
like her!--I detest the phrase. What sort of creature must he be who
merely liked Charlotte, whose whole heart and senses were not entirely
absorbed by her? Like her! Some one asked me lately how I liked Ossian.


                                                    July 11.

Madame M---- is very ill. I pray for her recovery, because Charlotte
shares my sufferings. I see her occasionally at my friend's house, and
to-day she has told me the strangest circumstance. Old M---- is a
covetous, miserly fellow, who has long worried and annoyed the poor
lady sadly; but she has borne her afflictions patiently. A few days
ago, when the physician informed us that her recovery was hopeless, she
sent for her husband (Charlotte was present), and addressed him thus:
"I have something to confess which after my decease may occasion
trouble and confusion. I have hitherto conducted your household as
frugally and economically as possible, but you must pardon me for
having defrauded you for thirty years. At the commencement of our
married life you allowed a small sum for the wants of the kitchen and
the other household expenses. When our establishment increased and our
property grew larger, I could not persuade you to increase the weekly
allowance in proportion; in short, you know that when our wants were
greatest, you required me to supply everything with seven florins a
week. I took the money from you without an observation, but made up the
weekly deficiency from the money-chest,--as nobody would suspect your
wife of robbing the household bank. But I wasted nothing, and should
have been content to meet my eternal Judge without this confession, if
she, upon whom the management of your establishment will devolve after
my decease, would be free from embarrassment upon your insisting that
the allowance made to me, your former wife, was sufficient."

I talked with Charlotte of the inconceivable manner in which men allow
themselves to be blinded; how any one could avoid suspecting some
deception, when seven florins only were allowed to defray expenses
twice as great. But I have myself known people who believed, without
any visible astonishment, that their house possessed the prophet's
never-failing cruse of oil.


                                                    July 13.

No, I am not deceived. In her dark eyes I read a genuine interest
in me and in my fortunes. Yes, I feel it; and I may believe my own
heart which tells me--dare I say it?--dare I pronounce the divine
words?--that she loves me!

That she loves me! How the idea exalts me in my own eyes! And as you
can understand my feelings, I may say to you, how I honour myself since
she loves me!

Is this presumption, or is it a consciousness of the truth? I do not
know a man able to supplant me in the heart of Charlotte; and yet when
she speaks of her betrothed with so much warmth and affection, I feel
like the soldier who has been stripped of his honours and titles, and
deprived of his sword.


                                                    July 16.

How my heart beats when by accident I touch her finger, or my feet meet
hers under the table! I draw back as if from a furnace; but a secret
force impels me forward again, and my senses become disordered. Her
innocent, unconscious heart never knows what agony these little
familiarities inflict upon me. Sometimes when we are talking she lays
her hand upon mine, and in the eagerness of conversation comes closer
to me, and her balmy breath reaches my lips,--when I feel as if
lightning had struck me, and that I could sink into the earth. And yet,
Wilhelm, with all this heavenly confidence,--if I know myself, and
should ever dare--you understand me. No, no! my heart is not so
corrupt,--it is weak, weak enough--but is not that a degree of
corruption?

She is to me a sacred being. All passion is still in her presence; I
cannot express my sensations when I am near her. I feel as if my soul
beat in every nerve of my body. There is a melody which she plays on
the piano with angelic skill,--so simple is it, and yet so spiritual!
It is her favourite air; and when she plays the first note, all pain,
care, and sorrow disappear from me in a moment.

I believe every word that is said of the magic of ancient music. How
her simple song enchants me! Sometimes, when I am ready to commit
suicide, she sings that air; and instantly the gloom and madness which
hung over me are dispersed, and I breathe freely again.


                                                    July 18.

Wilhelm, what is the world to our hearts without love? What is a
magic-lantern without light? You have but to kindle the flame within,
and the brightest figures shine on the white wall; and if love only
show us fleeting shadows, we are yet happy, when, like mere children,
we behold them, and are transported with the splendid phantoms. I have
not been able to see Charlotte to-day. I was prevented by company from
which I could not disengage myself. What was to be done? I sent my
servant to her house, that I might at least see somebody to-day who had
been near her. Oh, the impatience with which I waited for his return,
the joy with which I welcomed him! I should certainly have caught him
in my arms, and kissed him, if I had not been ashamed.

It is said that the Bonona stone, when placed in the sun, attracts the
rays, and for a time appears luminous in the dark. So was it with me
and this servant The idea that Charlotte's eyes had dwelt on his
countenance, his cheek, his very apparel, endeared them all inestimably
to me, so that at the moment I would not have parted from him for a
thousand crowns. His presence made me so happy! Beware of laughing at
me, Wilhelm. Can that be a delusion which makes us happy?


                                                    July 19.

"I shall see her to-day!" I exclaim with delight, when I rise in the
morning, and look out with gladness of heart at the bright, beautiful
sun. "I shall see her to-day!" and then I have no further wish to form;
all, all is included in that one thought.


                                                    July 20.

I cannot assent to your proposal that I should accompany the ambassador
to ----. I do not love subordination; and we all know that he is a
rough, disagreeable person to be connected with. You say my mother
wishes me to be employed. I could not help laughing at that. Am I not
sufficiently employed? And is it not in reality the same, whether I
shell pease or count lentils? The world runs on from one folly to
another; and the man who, solely from regard to the opinion of others,
and without any wish or necessity of his own, toils after gold, honour,
or any other phantom, is no better than a fool.


                                                    July 24.

You insist so much on my not neglecting my drawing, that it would be as
well for me to say nothing as to confess how little I have lately done.

I never felt happier, I never understood Nature better, even down to
the veriest stem or smallest blade of grass; and yet I am unable to
express myself: my powers of execution are so weak, everything seems to
swim and float before me, so that I cannot make a clear, bold outline.
But I fancy I should succeed better if I had some clay or wax to model.
I shall try, if this state of mind continues much longer, and will take
to modelling, if I only knead dough.

I have commenced Charlotte's portrait three times, and have as often
disgraced myself. This is the more annoying, as I was formerly very
happy in taking likenesses. I have since sketched her profile, and must
content myself with that.


                                                    July 25.

Yes, dear Charlotte! I will order and arrange everything. Only give me
more commissions, the more the better. One thing, however, I must
request: use no more writing-sand with the dear notes you send me.
To-day I raised your letter hastily to my lips, and it set my teeth on
edge.


                                                    July 26.

I have often determined not to see her so frequently. But who could
keep such a resolution? Every day I am exposed to the temptation, and
promise faithfully that to-morrow I will really stay away; but when
to-morrow comes, I find some irresistible reason for seeing her; and
before I can account for it, I am with her again. Either she has said
on the previous evening, "You will be sure to call to-morrow,"--and who
could stay away then?--or she gives me some commission, and I find it
essential to take her the answer in person; or the day is fine, and I
walk to Walheim; and when I am there, it is only half a league farther
to her. I am within the charmed atmosphere, and soon find myself at her
side. My grandmother used to tell us a story of a mountain of
loadstone. When any vessels came near it, they were instantly deprived
of their ironwork; the nails flew to the mountain, and the unhappy crew
perished amidst the disjointed planks.


                                                    July 30.

Albert is arrived, and I must take my departure. Were he the best and
noblest of men, and I in every respect his inferior, I could not endure
to see him in possession of such a perfect being. Possession!--enough,
Wilhelm; her betrothed is here,--a fine, worthy fellow, whom one cannot
help liking. Fortunately I was not present at their meeting. It would
have broken my heart! And he is so considerate: he has not given
Charlotte one kiss in my presence. Heaven reward him for it! I must
love him for the respect with which he treats her. He shows a regard
for me; but for this I suspect I am more indebted to Charlotte than to
his own fancy for me. Women have a delicate tact in such matters, and
it should be so. They cannot always succeed in keeping two rivals on
terms with each other; but when they do, they are the only gainers.

I cannot help esteeming Albert. The coolness of his temper contrasts
strongly with the impetuosity of mine, which I cannot conceal. He has a
great deal of feeling, and is fully sensible of the treasure he
possesses in Charlotte. He is free from ill-humour, which you know is
the fault I detest most.

He regards me as a man of sense; and my attachment to Charlotte, and
the interest I take in all that concerns her, augment his triumph and
his love. I shall not inquire whether he may not at times tease her
with some little jealousies; as I know that, were I in his place, I
should not be entirely free from such sensations.

But, be that as it may, my pleasure with Charlotte is over. Call it
folly or infatuation, what signifies a name? The thing speaks for
itself. Before Albert came, I knew all that I know now. I knew I could
make no pretensions to her, nor did I offer any,--that is, as far as it
was possible, in the presence of so much loveliness, not to pant for
its enjoyment. And now behold me, like a silly fellow, staring with
astonishment when another comes in, and deprives me of my love.

I bite my lips, and feel infinite scorn for those who tell me to be
resigned, because there is no help for it. Let me escape from the yoke
of such silly subterfuges! I ramble through the woods; and when I
return to Charlotte, and find Albert sitting by her side in the
summer-house in the garden, I am unable to bear it, behave like a fool,
and commit a thousand extravagances. "For Heaven's sake," said
Charlotte to-day, "let us have no more scenes like those of last night!
You terrify me when you are so violent." Between ourselves, I am always
away now when he visits her; and I feel delighted when I find her
alone.


                                                     Aug. 8.

Believe me, dear Wilhelm, I did not allude to you when I spoke so
severely of those who advise resignation to inevitable fate. I did not
think it possible for you to indulge such a sentiment. But in fact you
are right. I only suggest one objection. In this world one is seldom
reduced to make a selection between two alternatives. There are as many
varieties of conduct and opinion as there are turns of feature between
an aquiline nose and a flat one.

You will, therefore, permit me to concede your entire argument, and yet
contrive means to escape your dilemma.

Your position is this, I hear you say: "Either you have hopes of
obtaining Charlotte, or you have none. Well, in the first case, pursue
your course, and press on to the fulfilment of your wishes. In the
second, be a man, and shake off a miserable passion, which will
enervate and destroy you." My dear friend, this is well and easily
said.

But would you require a wretched being, whose life is slowly wasting
under a lingering disease, to despatch himself at once by the stroke of
a dagger? Does not the very disorder which consumes his strength
deprive him of the courage to effect his deliverance?

You may answer me, if you please, with a similar analogy: "Who would
not prefer the amputation of an arm to the perilling of life by doubt
and procrastination?" But I know not if I am right, and let us leave
these comparisons.

Enough! There are moments, Wilhelm, when I could rise up and shake it
all off, and when, if I only knew where to go, I could fly from this
place.


                                           The Same Evening.

My diary, which I have for some time neglected, came before me to-day;
and I am amazed to see how deliberately I have entangled myself step by
step. To have seen my position so clearly, and yet to have acted so
like a child! Even still I behold the result plainly, and yet have no
thought of acting with greater prudence.


                                                    Aug. 10.

If I were not a fool, I could spend the happiest and most delightful
life here. So many agreeable circumstances, and of a kind to insure a
worthy man's happiness, are seldom united. Alas! I feel it too
sensibly,--the heart alone makes our happiness! To be admitted into
this most charming family, to be loved by the father as a son, by the
children as a father, and by Charlotte!--then the noble Albert, who
never disturbs my happiness by any appearance of ill-humour, receiving
me with the heartiest affection, and loving me, next to Charlotte,
better than all the world! Wilhelm, you would be delighted to hear us
in our rambles, and conversations about Charlotte. Nothing in the world
can be more absurd than our connection, and yet the thought of it often
moves me to tears.

He tells me sometimes of her excellent mother; how, upon her death-bed,
she had committed her house and children to Charlotte, and had given
Charlotte herself in charge to him; how, since that time, a new spirit
had taken possession of her; how, in care and anxiety for their
welfare, she became a real mother to them; how every moment of her time
was devoted to some labour of love in their behalf,--and yet her mirth
and cheerfulness had never forsaken her. I walk by his side, pluck
flowers by the way, arrange them carefully into a nosegay, then fling
them into the first stream I pass, and watch them as they float gently
away. I forgot whether I told you that Albert is to remain here. He has
received a government appointment, with a very good salary; and I
understand he is in high favour at court. I have met few persons so
punctual and methodical in business.


                                                    Aug. 12.

Certainly Albert is the best fellow in the world. I had a strange scene
with him yesterday. I went to take leave of him; for I took it into my
head to spend a few days in these mountains, from where I now write to
you. As I was walking up and down his room, my eye fell upon his
pistols. "Lend me those pistols," said I, "for my journey." "By all
means," he replied, "if you will take the trouble to load them; for
they only hang there for form." I took down one of them; and he
continued: "Ever since I was near suffering from my extreme caution, I
will have nothing to do with such things." I was curious to hear the
story. "I was staying," said he, "some three months ago, at a friend's
house in the country. I had a brace of pistols with me, unloaded; and I
slept without any anxiety. One rainy afternoon I was sitting by myself,
doing nothing, when it occurred to me--I do not know how--that the
house might be attacked, that we might require the pistols, that we
might--in short, you know how we go on fancying, when we have nothing
better to do. I gave the pistols to the servant, to clean and load. He
was playing with the maid, and trying to frighten her, when the pistol
went off--God knows how!--the ramrod was in the barrel; and it went
straight through her right hand, and shattered the thumb. I had to
endure all the lamentation, and to pay the surgeon's bill; so, since
that time, I have kept all my weapons unloaded. But, my dear friend,
what is the use of prudence? We can never be on our guard against all
possible dangers. However,"--now, you must know I can tolerate all men
till they come to "however;" for it is self-evident that every
universal rule must have its exceptions. But he is so exceedingly
accurate that if he only fancies he has said a word too precipitate or
too general or only half true, he never ceases to qualify, to modify,
and extenuate, till at last he appears to have said nothing at all.
Upon this occasion Albert was deeply immersed in his subject: I ceased
to listen to him, and became lost in reverie. With a sudden motion I
pointed the mouth of the pistol to my forehead, over the right eye.
"What do you mean?" cried Albert, turning back the pistol. "It is not
loaded," said I. "And even if not," he answered with impatience, "what
can you mean? I cannot comprehend how a man can be so mad as to shoot
himself; and the bare idea of it shocks me."

"But why should any one," said I, "in speaking of an action, venture to
pronounce it mad or wise, or good or bad? What is the meaning of all
this? Have you carefully studied the secret motives of our actions? Do
you understand? can you explain the causes which occasion them, and
make them inevitable? If you can, you will be less hasty with your
decision."

"But you will allow," said Albert, "that some actions are criminal, let
them spring from whatever motives they may." I granted it, and shrugged
my shoulders.

"But still, my good friend," I continued, "there are some exceptions
here too. Theft is a crime; but the man who commits it from extreme
poverty, with no design but to save his family from perishing, is he an
object of pity or of punishment? Who shall throw the first stone at a
husband who in the heat of just resentment sacrifices his faithless
wife and her perfidious seducer; or at the young maiden who in her weak
hour of rapture forgets herself in the impetuous joys of love? Even our
laws, cold and cruel as they are, relent in such cases, and withhold
their punishment."

"That is quite another thing," said Albert; "because a man under the
influence of violent passion loses all power of reflection, and is
regarded as intoxicated or insane."

"Oh, you people of sound understandings," I replied, smiling, "are ever
ready to exclaim, 'Extravagance, and madness, and intoxication!' You
moral men are so calm and so subdued! You abhor the drunken man, and
detest the extravagant; you pass by, like the Levite, and thank God,
like the Pharisee, that you are not like one of them. I have been more
than once intoxicated, my passions have always bordered on
extravagance: I am not ashamed to confess it; for I have learned, by my
own experience, that all extraordinary men, who have accomplished great
and astonishing actions, have ever been decried by the world as drunken
or insane. And in private life, too, is it not intolerable that no one
can undertake the execution of a noble or generous deed, without giving
rise to the exclamation that the doer is intoxicated or mad? Shame upon
you, ye sages!"

"This is another of your extravagant humours," said Albert: "you always
exaggerate a case, and in this matter you are undoubtedly wrong; for we
were speaking of suicide, which you compare with great actions, when it
is impossible to regard it as anything but a weakness. It is much
easier to die than to bear a life of misery with fortitude."

I was on the point of breaking off the conversation, for nothing puts
me so completely out of patience as the utterance of a wretched
commonplace when I am talking from my inmost heart. However, I composed
myself, for I had often heard the same observation with sufficient
vexation; and I answered him, therefore, with a little warmth, "You
call this a weakness,--beware of being led astray by appearances.

"When a nation which has long groaned under the intolerable yoke of a
tyrant rises at last and throws off its chains, do you call that
weakness? The man who, to rescue his house from the flames, finds his
physical strength redoubled, so that he lifts burdens with ease which
in the absence of excitement he could scarcely move; he who under the
rage of an insult attacks and puts to flight half a score of his
enemies,--are such persons to be called weak? My good friend, if
resistance be strength, how can the highest degree of resistance be a
weakness?"

Albert looked steadfastly at me, and said, "Pray forgive me, but I do
not see that the examples you have adduced bear any relation to the
question." "Very likely," I answered; "for I have often been told that
my style of illustration borders a little on the absurd. But let us see
if we cannot place the matter in another point of view, by inquiring
what can be a man's state of mind who resolves to free himself from the
burden of life,--a burden often so pleasant to bear,--for we cannot
otherwise reason fairly upon the subject.

"Human nature," I continued, "has its limits. It is able to endure a
certain degree of joy, sorrow, and pain, but becomes annihilated as
soon as this measure is exceeded. The question, therefore, is, not
whether a man is strong or weak, but whether he is able to endure the
measure of his sufferings. The suffering may be moral or physical; and
in my opinion it is just as absurd to call a man a coward who destroys
himself, as to call a man a coward who dies of a malignant fever."

"Paradox, all paradox!" exclaimed Albert. "Not so paradoxical as you
imagine," I replied. "You allow that we designate a disease as mortal
when Nature is so severely attacked, and her strength so far exhausted,
that she cannot possibly recover her former condition under any change
that may take place.

"Now, my good friend, apply this to the mind; observe a man in his
natural, isolated condition; consider how ideas work, and how
impressions fasten on him, till at length a violent passion seizes him,
destroying all his powers of calm reflection, and utterly ruining him.

"It is in vain that a man of sound mind and cool temper understands the
condition of such a wretched being, in vain he counsels him. He can no
more communicate his own wisdom to him than a healthy man can instil
his strength into the invalid by whose bedside he is seated."

Albert thought this too general. I reminded him of a girl who had
drowned herself a short time previously, and I related her history.

She was a good creature, who had grown up in the narrow sphere of
household industry and weekly-appointed labour; one who knew no
pleasure beyond indulging in a walk on Sundays, arrayed in her best
attire, accompanied by her friends, or perhaps joining in the dance
now and then at some festival, and chatting away her spare hours
with a neighbour, discussing the scandal or the quarrels of the
village,--trifles sufficient to occupy her heart. At length the warmth
of her nature is influenced by certain new and unknown wishes. Inflamed
by the flatteries of men, her former pleasures become by degrees
insipid, till at length she meets with a youth to whom she is attracted
by an indescribable feeling; upon him she now rests all her hopes; she
forgets the world around her; she sees, hears, desires nothing but him,
and him only. He alone occupies all her thoughts. Uncorrupted by the
idle indulgence of an enervating vanity, her affection moving steadily
towards its object, she hopes to become his, and to realise, in an
everlasting union with him, all that happiness which she sought, all
that bliss for which she longed. His repeated promises confirm her
hopes: embraces and endearments, which increase the ardour of her
desires, overmaster her soul. She floats in a dim, delusive
anticipation of her happiness; and her feelings become excited to their
utmost tension. She stretches out her arms finally to embrace the
object of all her wishes--and her lover forsakes her. Stunned and
bewildered, she stands upon a precipice. All is darkness around her.

No prospect, no hope, no consolation,--forsaken by him in whom her
existence was centred! She sees nothing of the wide world before her,
thinks nothing of the many individuals who might supply the void in her
heart; she feels herself deserted, forsaken by the world; and, blinded
and impelled by the agony which wrings her soul, she plunges into the
deep, to end her sufferings in the broad embrace of death. See here,
Albert, the history of thousands; and tell me, is not this a case of
physical infirmity? Nature has no way to escape from the labyrinth: her
powers are exhausted; she can contend no longer, and the poor soul must
die.

"Shame upon him who can look on calmly, and exclaim, The foolish girl!
she should have waited; she should have allowed time to wear off the
impression; her despair would have been softened, and she would have
found another lover to comfort her.' One might as well say, 'The fool,
to die of a fever! why did he not wait till his strength was restored,
till his blood became calm? All would then have gone well, and he would
have been alive now.'"

Albert, who could not see the justice of the comparison, offered some
further objections, and, amongst others, urged that I had taken the
case of a mere ignorant girl. But how any man of sense, of more
enlarged views and experience, could be excused, he was unable to
comprehend. "My friend!" I exclaimed, "man is but man; and, whatever be
the extent of his reasoning powers, they are of little avail when
passion rages within, and he feels himself confined by the narrow
limits of Nature. It were better, then--But we will talk of this some
other time," I said, and caught up my hat. Alas! my heart was full; and
we parted without conviction on either side. How rarely in this world
do men understand each other!


                                                    Aug. 15.

There can be no doubt that in this world nothing is so indispensable as
love. I observe that Charlotte could not lose me without a pang, and
the very children have but one wish; that is, that I should visit them
again to-morrow. I went this afternoon to tune Charlotte's piano. But I
could not do it, for the little ones insisted on my telling them a
story; and Charlotte herself urged me to satisfy them. I waited upon
them at tea, and they are now as fully contented with me as with
Charlotte; and I told them my very best tale of the princess who was
waited upon by dwarfs. I improve myself by this exercise, and am quite
surprised at the impression my stories create. If I sometimes invent an
incident which I forget upon the next narration, they remind me
directly that the story was different before; so that I now endeavour
to relate with exactness the same anecdote in the same monotonous tone
which never changes. I find by this, how much an author injures his
works by altering them, even though they be improved in a poetical
point of view. The first impression is readily received. We are so
constituted that we believe the most incredible things; and, once they
are engraved upon the memory, woe to him who would endeavour to efface
them.


                                                    Aug. 18.

Must it ever be thus,--that the source of our happiness must also be
the fountain of our misery? The full and ardent sentiment which
animated my heart with the love of Nature, overwhelming me with a
torrent of delight, and which brought all paradise before me, has now
become an insupportable torment,--a demon which perpetually pursues and
harasses me. When in by-gone days I gazed from these rocks upon yonder
mountains across the river, and upon the green, flowery valley before
me, and saw all Nature budding and bursting around; the hills clothed
from foot to peak with tall, thick forest trees; the valleys in all
their varied windings, shaded with the loveliest woods; and the soft
river gliding along amongst the lisping reeds, mirroring the beautiful
clouds which the soft evening breeze wafted across the sky,--when I
heard the groves about me melodious with the music of birds, and saw
the million swarms of insects dancing in the last golden beams of the
sun, whose setting rays awoke the humming beetles from their grassy
beds, whilst the subdued tumult around directed my attention to the
ground, and I there observed the arid rock compelled to yield nutriment
to the dry moss, whilst the heath flourished upon the barren sands
below me,--all this displayed to me the inner warmth which animates all
nature, and filled and glowed within my heart. I felt myself exalted by
this overflowing fulness to the perception of the Godhead, and the
glorious forms of an infinite universe became visible to my soul!
Stupendous mountains encompassed me, abysses yawned at my feet, and
cataracts fell headlong down before me; impetuous rivers rolled through
the plain, and rocks and mountains resounded from afar. In the depths
of the earth I saw innumerable powers in motion, and multiplying to
infinity; whilst upon its surface, and beneath the heavens, there
teemed ten thousand varieties of living creatures. Everything around is
alive with an infinite number of forms; while mankind fly for security
to their petty houses, from the shelter of which they rule in their
imaginations over the wide-extended universe. Poor fool! in whose petty
estimation all things are little. From the inaccessible mountains,
across the desert which no mortal foot has trod, far as the confines of
the unknown ocean, breathes the spirit of the eternal Creator; and
every atom to which he has given existence finds favour in his sight.
Ah, how often at that time has the flight of a bird, soaring above my
head, inspired me with the desire of being transported to the shores of
the immeasurable waters, there to quaff the pleasures of life from the
foaming goblet of the Infinite, and to partake, if but for a moment
even, with the confined powers of my soul, the beatitude of that
Creator who accomplishes all things in himself, and through himself!

My dear friend, the bare recollection of those hours still consoles me.
Even this effort to recall those ineffable sensations, and give them
utterance, exalts my soul above itself, and makes me doubly feel the
intensity of my present anguish.

It is as if a curtain had been drawn from before my eyes, and,
instead of prospects of eternal life, the abyss of an ever-open grave
yawned before me. Can we say of anything that it exists when all passes
away,--when time, with the speed of a storm, carries all things
onward,--and our transitory existence, hurried along by the torrent, is
either swallowed up by the waves or dashed against the rocks? There is
not a moment but preys upon you, and upon all around you,--not a moment
in which you do not yourself become a destroyer. The most innocent walk
deprives of life thousands of poor insects: one step destroys the
fabric of the industrious ant, and converts a little world into chaos.
No: it is not the great and rare calamities of the world, the floods
which sweep away whole villages, the earthquakes which swallow up our
towns, that affect me. My heart is wasted by the thought of that
destructive power which lies concealed in every part of universal
Nature. Nature has formed nothing that does not consume itself, and
every object near it: so that, surrounded by earth and air and all the
active powers, I wander on my way with aching heart; and the universe
is to me a fearful monster, forever devouring its own offspring.


                                                    Aug. 21.

In vain do I stretch out my arms towards her when I awaken in the
morning from my weary slumbers. In vain do I seek for her at night in
my bed, when some innocent dream has happily deceived me, and placed
her near me in the fields, when I have seized her hand and covered it
with countless kisses. And when I feel for her in the half confusion of
sleep, with the happy sense that she is near me, tears flow from my
oppressed heart; and, bereft of all comfort, I weep over my future
woes.


                                                    Aug. 22.

What a misfortune, Wilhelm! My active spirits have degenerated into
contented indolence. I cannot be idle, and yet I am unable to set to
work. I cannot think: I have no longer any feeling for the beauties of
nature, and books are distasteful to me. Once we give ourselves up, we
are totally lost. Many a time and oft I wished I were a common
labourer; that awakening in the morning, I might have but one prospect,
one pursuit, one hope, for the day which has dawned. I often envy
Albert when I see him buried in a heap of papers and parchments, and I
fancy I should be happy were I in his place. Often impressed with this
feeling, I have been on the point of writing to you and to the
minister, for the appointment at the embassy, which you think T might
obtain. I believe I might procure it. The minister has long shown a
regard for me, and has frequently urged me to seek employment. It is
the business of an hour only.

Now and then the fable of the horse recurs to me. Weary of liberty, he
suffered himself to be saddled and bridled, and was ridden to death for
his pains. I know not what to determine upon. For is not this anxiety
for change the consequence of that restless spirit which would pursue
me equally in every situation of life?


                                                    Aug. 28.

If my ills would admit of any cure, they would certainly be cured here.
This is my birthday, and early in the morning I received a packet from
Albert. Upon opening it, I found one of the pink ribbons which
Charlotte wore in her dress the first time I saw her, and which I had
several times asked her to give me. With it were two volumes in
duodecimo of Wetstein's Homer,--a book I had often wished for, to save
me the inconvenience of carrying the large Ernestine edition with me
upon my walks. You see how they anticipate my wishes, how well they
understand all those little attentions of friendship, so superior to
the costly presents of the great, which are humiliating. I kissed the
ribbon a thousand times, and in every breath inhaled the remembrance of
those happy and irrevocable days, which filled me with the keenest joy.
Such, Wilhelm, is our fate. T do not murmur at it: the flowers of life
are but visionary. How many pass away and leave no trace behind; how
few yield any fruit; and the fruit itself, how rarely does it ripen!
And yet there are flowers enough; and is it not strange, my friend,
that we should suffer the little that does really ripen to rot, decay,
and perish unenjoyed? Farewell! This is a glorious summer. I often
climb into the trees in Charlotte's orchard, and shake down the pears
that hang on the highest branches; she stands below, and catches them
as they fall.


                                                    Aug. 30.

Unhappy being that I am! Why do I thus deceive myself? What is to come
of all this wild, aimless, endless passion? I cannot pray except to
her. My imagination sees nothing but her; all surrounding objects are
of no account except as they relate to her. In this dreamy state I
enjoy many happy hours, till at length I feel compelled to tear myself
away from her. Ah, Wilhelm, to what does not my heart often compel me!
When I have spent several hours in her company, till I feel completely
absorbed by her figure, her grace, the divine expression of her
thoughts, my mind becomes gradually excited to the highest excess, my
sight grows dim, my hearing confused, my breathing oppressed as if by
the hand of a murderer, and my beating heart seeks to obtain relief for
my aching senses. I am sometimes unconscious whether I really exist. If
in such moments I find no sympathy, and Charlotte does not allow me to
enjoy the melancholy consolation of bathing her hand with my tears, I
feel compelled to tear myself from her, when I either wander through
the country, climb some precipitous cliff, or force a path through the
trackless thicket, where I am lacerated and torn by thorns and briers;
and thence I find relief.

Sometimes I lie stretched on the ground, overcome with fatigue and
dying with thirst; sometimes, late in the night, when the moon shines
above me, I recline against an aged tree in some sequestered forest to
rest my weary limbs, when, exhausted and worn, I sleep till break of
day. O Wilhelm! the hermit's cell, his sackcloth, and girdle of thorns
would be luxury and indulgence compared with what I suffer. Adieu! I
see no end to this wretchedness except the grave.


                                                    Sept. 3.

I must away. Thank you, Wilhelm, for determining my wavering purpose.
For a whole fortnight I have thought of leaving her. I must away. She
has returned to town, and is at the house of a friend. And then,
Albert--yes, I must go.


                                                   Sept. 10.

Oh, what a night, Wilhelm! I can henceforth bear anything. I shall
never see her again. Oh, why cannot I fall on your neck, and with
floods of tears and raptures give utterance to all the passions which
distract my heart! Here I sit gasping for breath, and struggling to
compose myself. I wait for day, and at sunrise the horses are to be at
the door.

And she is sleeping calmly, little suspecting that she has seen me for
the last time. I am free. I have had the courage, in an interview of
two hours' duration, not to betray my intention. And oh, Wilhelm, what
a conversation it was!

Albert had promised to come to Charlotte in the garden immediately
after supper. I was upon the terrace under the tall chestnut-trees, and
watched the setting sun. I saw him sink for the last time beneath this
delightful valley and silent stream. I had often visited the same spot
with Charlotte, and witnessed that glorious sight; and now--I was
walking up and down the very avenue which was so dear to me. A secret
sympathy had frequently drawn me thither before I knew Charlotte; and
we were delighted when, in our early acquaintance, we discovered that
we each loved the same spot, which is indeed as romantic as any that
ever captivated the fancy of an artist.

From beneath the chestnut-trees there is an extensive view. But I
remember that I have mentioned all this in a former letter, and have
described the tall mass of beech-trees at the end, and how the avenue
grows darker and darker as it winds its way among them, till it ends in
a gloomy recess, which has all the charm of a mysterious solitude. I
still remember the strange feeling of melancholy which came over me the
first time I entered that dark retreat, at bright midday. I felt some
secret foreboding that it would one day be to me the scene of some
happiness or misery.

I had spent half an hour struggling between the contending thoughts of
going and returning, when I heard them coming up the terrace. I ran to
meet them. I trembled as I took her hand, and kissed it. As we reached
the top of the terrace, the moon rose from behind the wooded hill. We
conversed on many subjects, and without perceiving it approached the
gloomy recess. Charlotte entered, and sat down. Albert seated himself
beside her. I did the same, but my agitation did not suffer me to
remain long seated. I got up and stood before her, then walked
backwards and forwards, and sat down again. I was restless and
miserable. Charlotte drew our attention to the beautiful effect of the
moonlight, which threw a silver hue over the terrace in front of us
beyond the beech-trees. It was a glorious sight, and was rendered more
striking by the darkness which surrounded the spot where we were. We
remained for some time silent, when Charlotte observed, "Whenever I
walk by moonlight, it brings to my remembrance all my beloved and
departed friends, and I am filled with thoughts of death and futurity.
We shall live again, Werther," she continued, with a firm but feeling
voice; "but shall we know one another again? What do you think? What do
you say?"

"Charlotte," I said, as I took her hand in mine, and my eyes filled
with tears, "we shall see each other again,--here and hereafter we
shall meet again." I could say no more. Why, Wilhelm, should she put
this question to me just at the moment when the fear of our cruel
separation filled my heart?

"And oh, do those departed ones know how we are employed here? Do they
know when we are well and happy? Do they know when we recall their
memories with the fondest love? In the silent hour of evening the shade
of my mother hovers round me; when seated in the midst of my children,
I see them assembled near me as they used to assemble near her; and
then I raise my anxious eyes to heaven, and wish she could look down
upon us, and witness how I fulfil the promise I made to her in her last
moments to be a mother to her children. With what emotion do I then
exclaim: 'Pardon, dearest of mothers, pardon me, if I do not adequately
supply your place! Alas! I do my utmost. They are clothed and fed; and,
still better, they are loved and educated. Could you but see, sweet
saint, the peace and harmony that dwells amongst us, you would glorify
God with the warmest feelings of gratitude, to whom, in your last hour,
you addressed such fervent prayers for our happiness.'" Thus did she
express herself; but, oh, Wilhelm, who can do justice to her language?
How can cold and passionless words convey the heavenly expressions of
the spirit? Albert interrupted her gently: "This affects you too
deeply, my dear Charlotte. I know your soul dwells on such
recollections with intense delight; but I implore--" "Oh, Albert!"
she continued, "I am sure you do not forget the evenings when we three
used to sit at the little round table, when papa was absent, and the
little ones had retired. You often had a good book with you, but seldom
read it; the conversation of that noble being was preferable to
everything,--that beautiful, bright, gentle, and yet ever-toiling
woman. God alone knows how I have supplicated with tears on my nightly
couch that I might be like her!"

I threw myself at her feet, and seizing her hand, bedewed it with a
thousand tears. "Charlotte," I exclaimed, "God's blessing and your
mother's spirit are upon you!" "Oh that you had known her!" she said,
with a warm pressure of the hand. "She was worthy of being known to
you." I thought I should have fainted. Never had I received praise so
flattering. She continued: "And yet she was doomed to die in the flower
of her youth, when her youngest child was scarcely six months old. Her
illness was but short, but she was calm and resigned; and it was only
for her children, especially the youngest, that she felt unhappy. When
her end drew nigh, she bade me bring them to her. I obeyed. The younger
ones knew nothing of their approaching loss, while the elder ones were
quite overcome with grief. They stood around the bed; and she raised
her feeble hands to heaven, and prayed over them; then kissing them in
turn, she dismissed them, and said to me, 'Be you a mother to them.' I
gave her my hand. 'You are promising much, my child,' she said,--'a
mother's fondness and a mother's care! I have often witnessed, by your
tears of gratitude, that you know what is a mother's tenderness; show
it to your brothers and sisters. And be dutiful and faithful to your
father as a wife; you will be his comfort.' She inquired for him. He
had retired to conceal his intolerable anguish,--he was heart-broken.

"Albert, you were in the room. She heard some one moving; she inquired
who it was, and desired you to approach. She surveyed us both with a
look of composure and satisfaction, expressive of her conviction that
we should be happy,--happy with one another." Albert fell upon her
neck, and kissed her, and exclaimed, "We are so, and we shall be so!"
Even Albert, generally so tranquil, had quite lost his composure; and I
was excited beyond expression.

"And such a being," she continued, "was to leave us, Werther! Great
God, must we thus part with everything we hold dear in this world?
Nobody felt this more acutely than the children; they cried and
lamented for a long time afterwards, complaining that black men had
carried away their dear mamma."

Charlotte rose. It aroused me; but I continued sitting, and held her
hand. "Let us go," she said; "it grows late." She attempted to withdraw
her hand; I held it still. "We shall see each other again," I
exclaimed; "we shall recognise each other under every possible change!
I am going," I continued, "going willingly; but, should I say forever,
perhaps I may not keep my word. Adieu, Charlotte; adieu, Albert. We
shall meet again." "Yes; to-morrow, I think," she answered with a
smile. To-morrow! how I felt the word! Ah! she little thought, when she
drew her hand away from mine. They walked down the avenue. I stood
gazing after them in the moonlight. I threw myself upon the ground, and
wept; I then sprang up, and ran out upon the terrace, and saw, under
the shade of the linden-trees, her white dress disappearing near the
garden-gate. I stretched out my arms, and she vanished.



                                BOOK II


                                                    Oct. 20.

We arrived here yesterday. The ambassador is indisposed, and will not
go out for some days. If he were less peevish and morose, all would be
well. I see but too plainly that Heaven has destined me to severe
trials; but courage! a light heart may bear anything. A light heart!
I smile to find such a word proceeding from my pen. A little more
light-heartedness would render me the happiest being under the sun. But
must I despair of my talents and faculties, whilst others of far
inferior abilities parade before me with the utmost self-satisfaction?
Gracious Providence, to whom I owe all my powers, why didst thou not
withhold some of those blessings I possess, and substitute in their
place a feeling of self-confidence and contentment?

But patience! all will yet be well; for I assure you, my dear friend,
you were right: since I have been obliged to associate continually with
other people, and observe what they do, and how they employ themselves,
I have become far better satisfied with myself. For we are so
constituted by nature, that we are ever prone to compare ourselves with
others; and our happiness or misery depends very much on the objects
and persons around us. On this account nothing is more dangerous than
solitude; there our imagination, always disposed to rise, taking a new
flight on the wings of fancy, pictures to us a chain of beings of whom
we seem the most inferior. All things appear greater than they really
are, and all seem superior to us. This operation of the mind is quite
natural; we so continually feel our own imperfections, and fancy we
perceive in others the qualities we do not possess, attributing to them
also all that we enjoy ourselves, that by this process we form the idea
of a perfect, happy man,--a man, however, who only exists in our own
imagination.

But when, in spite of weakness and disappointments, we set to work in
earnest, and persevere steadily, we often find that, though obliged
continually to tack, we make more way than others who have the
assistance of wind and tide; and, in truth, there can be no greater
satisfaction than to keep pace with others or outstrip them in the
race.


                                                    Nov. 26.

I begin to find my situation here more tolerable, considering all
circumstances. I find a great advantage in being much occupied; and the
number of persons I meet, and their different pursuits, create a varied
entertainment for me. I have formed the acquaintance of the Count
C----, and I esteem him more and more every day. He is a man of strong
understanding and great discernment; but though he sees farther than
other people, he is not on that account cold in his manner, but capable
of inspiring and returning the warmest affection. He appeared
interested in me on one occasion, when I had to transact some business
with him. He perceived, at the first word, that we understood each
other, and that he could converse with me in a different tone from what
he used with others. I cannot sufficiently esteem his frank and open
kindness to me. It is the greatest and most genuine of pleasures to
observe a great mind in sympathy with our own.


                                                    Dec. 24.

As I anticipated, the ambassador occasions me infinite annoyance. He is
the most punctilious blockhead under heaven. He does everything step by
step, with the trifling minuteness of an old woman; and he is a man
whom it is impossible to please, because he is never pleased with
himself. I like to do business regularly and cheerfully, and, when it
is finished, to leave it. But he constantly returns my papers to me,
saying, "They will do," but recommending me to look over them again, as
"one may always improve by using a better word or a more appropriate
particle." I then lose all patience, and wish myself at the Devil's.
Not a conjunction, not an adverb, must be omitted; he has a deadly
antipathy to all those transpositions of which I am so fond; and if the
music of our periods is not tuned to the established official key, he
cannot comprehend our meaning. It is deplorable to be connected with
such a fellow.

My acquaintance with the Count C---- is the only compensation for such
an evil. He told me frankly, the other day, that he was much displeased
with the difficulties and delays of the ambassador; that people like
him are obstacles, both to themselves and to others. "But," added he,
"one must submit, like a traveller who has to ascend a mountain; if the
mountain was not there, the road would be both shorter and pleasanter;
but there it is, and he must get over it."

The old man perceives the count's partiality for me; this annoys him,
and he seizes every opportunity to depreciate the count in my hearing.
I naturally defend him, and that only makes matters worse. Yesterday he
made me indignant, for he also alluded to me. "The count," he said, "is
a man of the world, and a good man of business; his style is good, and
he writes with facility; but, like other geniuses, he has no solid
learning." He looked at me with an expression that seemed to ask if I
felt the blow. But it did not produce the desired effect; I despise a
man who can think and act in such a manner. However, I made a stand,
and answered with not a little warmth. The count, I said, was a man
entitled to respect, alike for his character and his acquirements. I
had never met a person whose mind was stored with more useful and
extensive knowledge,--who had, in fact, mastered such an infinite
variety of subjects, and who yet retained all his activity for the
details of ordinary business. This was altogether beyond his
comprehension; and I took my leave, lest my anger should be too highly
excited by some new absurdity of his.

And you are to blame for all this,--you who persuaded me to bend my
neck to this yoke by preaching a life of activity to me. If the man who
plants vegetables, and carries his corn to town on market-days, is not
more usefully employed than I am, then let me work ten years longer at
the galleys to which I am now chained.

Oh the brilliant wretchedness, the weariness, that one is doomed to
witness among the silly people whom we meet in society here! The
ambition of rank! How they watch, how they toil, to gain precedence!
What poor and contemptible passions are displayed in their utter
nakedness! We have a woman here, for example, who never ceases to
entertain the company with accounts of her family and her estates. Any
stranger would consider her a silly being, whose head was turned by her
pretensions to rank and property; but she is in reality even more
ridiculous,--the daughter of a mere magistrate's clerk from this
neighbourhood. I cannot understand how human beings can so debase
themselves.

Every day I observe more and more the folly of judging of others by
ourselves; and I have so much trouble with myself, and my own heart is
in such constant agitation, that I am well content to let others pursue
their own course, if they only allow me the same privilege.

What provokes me most is the unhappy extent to which distinctions of
rank are carried. I know perfectly well how necessary are inequalities
of condition, and I am sensible of the advantages I myself derive
therefrom; but I would not have these institutions prove a barrier to
the small chance of happiness which I may enjoy on this earth.

I have lately become acquainted with a Miss B----, a very agreeable
girl, who has retained her natural manners in the midst of artificial
life. Our first conversation pleased us both equally; and, at taking
leave, I requested permission to visit her. She consented in so
obliging a manner, that I waited with impatience for the arrival of the
happy moment. She is not a native of this place, but resides here with
her aunt. The countenance of the old lady is not prepossessing. I paid
her much attention, addressing the greater part of my conversation to
her; and, in less than half an hour, I discovered what her niece
subsequently acknowledged to me, that her aged aunt, having but a small
fortune and a still smaller share of understanding, enjoys no
satisfaction except in the pedigree of her ancestors, no protection
save in her noble birth, and no enjoyment but in looking from her
castle over the heads of the humble citizens. She was, no doubt,
handsome in her youth, and in her early years probably trifled away her
time in rendering many a poor youth the sport of her caprice: in her
riper years she has submitted to the yoke of a veteran officer, who, in
return for her person and her small independence, has spent with her
what we may designate her age of brass. He is dead; and she is now a
widow, and deserted. She spends her iron age alone, and would not be
approached, except for the loveliness of her niece.


                                               Jan. 8, 1772.

What beings are men, whose whole thoughts are occupied with form and
ceremony, who for years together devote their mental and physical
exertions to the task of advancing themselves but one step, and
endeavouring to occupy a higher place at the table! Not that such
persons would otherwise want employment: on the contrary, they give
themselves much trouble by neglecting important business for such petty
trifles. Last week a question of precedence arose at a sledging-party,
and all our amusement was spoiled.

The silly creatures cannot see that it is not place which constitutes
real greatness, since the man who occupies the first place but seldom
plays the principal part. How many kings are governed by their
ministers, how many ministers by their secretaries? Who, in such cases,
is really the chief? He, as it seems to me, who can see through the
others, and possesses strength or skill enough to make their power or
passions subservient to the execution of his own designs.


                                                    Jan. 20.

I must write to you from this place, my dear Charlotte, from a small
room in a country inn, where I have taken shelter from a severe storm.
During my whole residence in that wretched place, D----, where I lived
amongst strangers,--strangers, indeed, to this heart,--I never at any
time felt the smallest inclination to correspond with you; but in this
cottage, in this retirement, in this solitude, with the snow and hail
beating against my lattice-pane, you are my first thought. The instant
I entered, your figure rose up before me, and the remembrance,--O my
Charlotte, the sacred, tender remembrance! Gracious Heaven, restore to
me the happy moment of our first acquaintance!

Could you but see me, my dear Charlotte, in the whirl of
dissipation,--how my senses are dried up, but my heart is at no time
full. I enjoy no single moment of happiness: all is vain,--nothing
touches me. I stand, as it were, before the raree-show: I see the
little puppets move, and I ask whether it is not an optical illusion. I
am amused with these puppets, or rather, I am myself one of them; but
when I sometimes grasp my neighbour's hand, I feel that it is not
natural, and I withdraw mine with a shudder. In the evening I say I
will enjoy the next morning's sunrise, and yet I remain in bed: in the
day I promise to ramble by moonlight; and I, nevertheless, remain at
home. I know not why I rise, nor why I go to sleep.

The leaven which animated my existence is gone: the charm which cheered
me in the gloom of night, and aroused me from my morning slumbers, is
forever fled.

I have found but one being here to interest me, a Miss B----. She
resembles you, my dear Charlotte, if any one can possibly resemble you.
"Ah!" you will say, "he has learned how to pay fine compliments." And
this is partly true. I have been very agreeable lately, as it was not
in my power to be otherwise. I have, moreover, a deal of wit: and the
ladies say that no one understands flattery better, or falsehoods you
will add; since the one accomplishment invariably accompanies the
other. But I must tell you of Miss B----. She has abundance of soul,
which flashes from her deep blue eyes. Her rank is a torment to her,
and satisfies no one desire of her heart. She would gladly retire from
this whirl of fashion, and we often picture to ourselves a life of
undisturbed happiness in distant scenes of rural retirement: and
then we speak of you, my dear Charlotte; for she knows you, and
renders homage to your merits; but her homage is not exacted, but
voluntary,--she loves you, and delights to hear you made the subject
of conversation.

Oh that I were sitting at your feet in your favourite little room, with
the dear children playing around us! If they became troublesome to you,
I would tell them some appalling goblin story; and they would crowd
round me with silent attention. The sun is setting in glory; his last
rays are shining on the snow, which covers the face of the country: the
storm is over, and I must return to my dungeon. Adieu! Is Albert with
you? and what is he to you? God forgive the question.


                                                     Feb. 8.

For a week past we have had the most wretched weather: but this to me
is a blessing; for, during my residence here, not a single fine day has
beamed from the heavens but has been lost to me by the intrusion of
somebody. During the severity of rain, sleet, frost, and storm, I
congratulate myself that it cannot be worse in-doors than abroad, nor
worse abroad than it is within doors; and so I become reconciled.
When the sun rises bright in the morning, and promises a glorious
day, I never omit to exclaim, "There, now, they have another blessing
from Heaven, which they will be sure to destroy: they spoil
everything,--health, fame, happiness, amusement; and they do this
generally through folly, ignorance, or imbecility, and always,
according to their own account, with the best intentions!" I could
often beseech them, on my bended knees, to be less resolved upon their
own destruction.


                                                    Feb. 17.

I fear that my ambassador and I shall not continue much longer
together. He is really growing past endurance. He transacts his
business in so ridiculous a manner that I am often compelled to
contradict him, and do things my own way; and then, of course, he
thinks them very ill done. He complained of me lately on this account
at court; and the minister gave me a reprimand,--a gentle one, it is
true, but still a reprimand. In consequence of this I was about to
tender my resignation, when I received a letter, to which I submitted
with great respect, on account of the high, noble, and generous spirit
which dictated it. He endeavoured to soothe my excessive sensibility,
paid a tribute to my extreme ideas of duty, of good example, and of
perseverance in business, as the fruit of my youthful ardour,--an
impulse which he did not seek to destroy, but only to moderate, that it
might have proper play and be productive of good. So now I am at rest
for another week, and no longer at variance with myself. Content and
peace of mind are valuable things: I could wish, my dear friend, that
these precious jewels were less transitory.


                                                    Feb. 20.

God bless you, my dear friends, and may he grant you that happiness
which he denies to me!

I thank you, Albert, for having deceived me. I waited for the news that
your wedding-day was fixed; and I intended on that day, with solemnity,
to take down Charlotte's profile from the walls, and to bury it with
some other papers I possess. You are now united, and her picture still
remains here. Well, let it remain! Why should it not? I know that
I am still one of your society, that I still occupy a place uninjured
in Charlotte's heart, that I hold the second place therein; and I
intend to keep it. Oh, I should become mad if she could forget!
Albert, that thought is hell! Farewell, Albert,--farewell, angel of
heaven,--farewell, Charlotte!


                                                   March 15.

I have just had a sad adventure, which will drive me away from here. I
lose all patience! Death! It is not to be remedied; and you alone are
to blame, for you urged and impelled me to fill a post for which I was
by no means suited. I have now reason to be satisfied, and so have you!
But, that you may not again attribute this fatality to my impetuous
temper, I send you, my dear sir, a plain and simple narration of the
affair, as a mere chronicler of facts would describe it.

The Count of O---- likes and distinguishes me. It is well known, and I
have mentioned this to you a hundred times. Yesterday I dined with him.
It is the day on which the nobility are accustomed to assemble at his
house in the evening. I never once thought of the assembly, nor that we
subalterns did not belong to such society. Well, I dined with the
count; and after dinner we adjourned to the large hall. We walked up
and down together; and I conversed with him, and with Colonel B----,
who joined us; and in this manner the hour for the assembly approached.
God knows, I was thinking of nothing, when who should enter but the
honourable Lady S----, accompanied by her noble husband and their
silly, scheming daughter, with her small waist and flat neck; and, with
disdainful looks and a haughty air, they passed me by. As I heartily
detest the whole race, I determined upon going away; and only waited
till the count had disengaged himself from their impertinent prattle,
to take leave, when the agreeable Miss B---- came in. As I never meet
her without experiencing a heartfelt pleasure, I stayed and talked to
her, leaning over the back of her chair, and did not perceive, till
after some time, that she seemed a little confused, and ceased to
answer me with her usual ease of manner. I was struck with it.
"Heavens!" I said to myself, "can she, too, be like the rest?" I felt
annoyed, and was about to withdraw; but I remained, notwithstanding,
forming excuses for her conduct fancying she did not mean it, and still
hoping to receive some friendly recognition. The rest of the company
now arrived. There was the Baron F----, in an entire suit that dated
from the coronation of Francis I.; the Chancellor N----, with his deaf
wife; the shabbily dressed I----, whose old-fashioned coat bore
evidence of modern repairs: this crowned the whole. I conversed with
some of my acquaintances, but they answered me laconically. I was
engaged in observing Miss B----, and did not notice that the women were
whispering at the end of the room, that the murmur extended by degrees
to the men, that Madame S---- addressed the count with much warmth
(this was all related to me subsequently by Miss B----); till at length
the count came up to me, and took me to the window. "You know our
ridiculous customs," he said. "I perceive the company is rather
displeased at your being here. I would not on any account"--"I beg your
excellency's pardon!" I exclaimed. "I ought to have thought of this
before, but I know you will forgive this little inattention. I was
going," I added, "some time ago, but my evil genius detained me." And I
smiled and bowed to take my leave. He shook me by the hand, in a manner
which expressed everything. I hastened at once from the illustrious
assembly, sprang into a carriage, and drove to M----. I contemplated
the setting sun from the top of the hill, and read that beautiful
passage in Homer where Ulysses is entertained by the hospitable
herdsmen. This was indeed delightful.

I returned home to supper in the evening. But few persons were
assembled in the room. They had turned up a corner of the tablecloth,
and were playing at dice. The good-natured A---- came in. He laid down
his hat when he saw me, approached me, and said in a low tone, "You
have met with a disagreeable adventure." "I!" I exclaimed. "The count
obliged you to withdraw from the assembly." "Deuce take the assembly!"
said I. "I was very glad to be gone." "I am delighted," he added, "that
you take it so lightly. I am only sorry that it is already so much
spoken of." The circumstance then began to pain me. I fancied that
every one who sat down, and even looked at me, was thinking of this
incident; and my heart became embittered.

And now I could plunge a dagger into my bosom when I hear myself
everywhere pitied, and observe the triumph of my enemies, who say that
this is always the case with vain persons, whose heads are turned with
conceit, who affect to despise forms and such petty, idle nonsense.

Say what you will of fortitude, but show me the man who can patiently
endure the laughter of fools, when they have obtained an advantage over
him. 'Tis only when their nonsense is without foundation that one can
suffer it without complaint.


                                                   March 16.

Everything conspires against me. I met Miss B---- walking to-day. I
could not help joining her; and when we were at a little distance from
her companions, I expressed my sense of her altered manner towards me.
"O Werther!" she said, in a tone of emotion, "you, who know my heart,
how could you so ill interpret my distress? What did I not suffer for
you from the moment you entered the room! I foresaw it all; a hundred
times was I on the point of mentioning it to you. I knew that the
S----s and T----s, with their husbands, would quit the room rather than
remain in your company. I knew that the count would not break with
them: and now so much is said about it." "How!" I exclaimed, and
endeavoured to conceal my emotion; for all that Adelin had mentioned to
me yesterday recurred to me painfully at that moment. "Oh, how much it
has already cost me!" said this amiable girl, while her eyes filled
with tears. I could scarcely contain myself, and was ready to throw
myself at her feet. "Explain yourself!" I cried. Tears flowed down her
cheeks. I became quite frantic. She wiped them away, without attempting
to conceal them. "You know my aunt," she continued; "she was present:
and in what light does she consider the affair! Last night, and this
morning, Werther, I was compelled to listen to a lecture upon my
acquaintance with you. I have been obliged to hear you condemned and
depreciated; and I could not--I dared not--say much in your defence."

Every word she uttered was a dagger to my heart. She did not feel what
a mercy it would have been to conceal everything from me. She told me,
in addition, all the impertinence that would be further circulated, and
how the malicious would triumph; how they would rejoice over the
punishment of my pride, over my humiliation for that want of esteem for
others with which I had often been reproached. To hear all this,
Wilhelm, uttered by her in a voice of the most sincere sympathy,
awakened all my passions; and I am still in a state of extreme
excitement. I wish I could find a man to jeer me about this event. I
would sacrifice him to my resentment. The sight of his blood might
possibly be a relief to my fury. A hundred times have I seized a
dagger, to give ease to this oppressed heart. Naturalists tell of a
noble race of horses that instinctively open a vein with their teeth,
when heated and exhausted by a long course, in order to breathe more
freely, I am often tempted to open a vein, to procure for myself
everlasting liberty.


                                                   March 24.

I have tendered my resignation to the court. I hope it will be
accepted, and you will forgive me for not having previously consulted
you. It is necessary I should leave this place. I know you all will
urge me to stay, and therefore--I beg you will soften this news to my
mother. I am unable to do anything for myself: how, then, should I be
competent to assist others? It will afflict her that I should have
interrupted that career which would have made me first privy
councillor, and then minister, and that I should look behind me, in
place of advancing. Argue as you will, combine all the reasons which
should have induced me to remain,--I am going: that is sufficient. But,
that you may not be ignorant of my destination, I may mention that the
Prince of ---- is here. He is much pleased with my company; and, having
heard of my intention to resign, he has invited me to his country
house, to pass the spring months with him. I shall be left completely
my own master; and as we agree on all subjects but one, I shall try my
fortune, and accompany him.


                                                   April 19.

Thanks for both your letters. I delayed my reply, and withheld this
letter, till I should obtain an answer from the court. I feared my
mother might apply to the minister to defeat my purpose. But my request
is granted, my resignation is accepted. I shall not recount with what
reluctance it was accorded, nor relate what the minister has written:
you would only renew your lamentations. The Crown Prince has sent me a
present of five and twenty ducats; and, indeed, such goodness has
affected me to tears. For this reason I shall not require from my
mother the money for which I lately applied.


                                                      May 5.

I leave this place to-morrow; and as my native place is only six miles
from the high-road, I intend to visit it once more, and recall the
happy dreams of my childhood. I shall enter at the same gate through
which I came with my mother, when, after my father's death, she left
that delightful retreat to immure herself in your melancholy town.
Adieu, my dear friend: you shall hear of my future career.


                                                      May 9.

I have paid my visit to my native place with all the devotion of a
pilgrim, and have experienced many unexpected emotions. Near the great
elm-tree, which is a quarter of a league from the village, I got out of
the carriage, and sent it on before, that alone and on foot I might
enjoy vividly and heartily all the pleasure of my recollections. I
stood there under that same elm which was formerly the term and object
of my walks. How things have since changed! Then, in happy ignorance, I
sighed for a world I did not know, where I hoped to find every pleasure
and enjoyment which my heart could desire; and now, on my return from
that wide world, O my friend, how many disappointed hopes and
unsuccessful plans have I brought back!

As I contemplated the mountains which lay stretched out before me, I
thought how often they had been the object of my dearest desires. Here
used I to sit for hours together with my eyes bent upon them, ardently
longing to wander in the shade of those woods, to lose myself in those
valleys, which form so delightful an object in the distance. With what
reluctance did I leave this charming spot, when my hour of recreation
was over, and my leave of absence expired! I drew near to the village:
all the well-known old summer-houses and gardens were recognized again;
I disliked the new ones, and all other alterations which had taken
place. I entered the village, and all my former feelings returned. I
cannot, my dear friend, enter into details, charming as were my
sensations; they would be dull in the narration. I had intended to
lodge in the market-place, near our old house. As soon as I entered, I
perceived that the schoolroom, where our childhood had been taught by
that good old woman, was converted into a shop, I called to mind the
sorrow, the heaviness, the tears, and oppression of heart which I
experienced in that confinement. Every step produced some particular
impression. A pilgrim in the Holy Land does not meet so many spots
pregnant with tender recollections, and his soul is hardly moved with
greater devotion. One incident will serve for illustration. I followed
the course of a stream to a farm, formerly a delightful walk of mine,
and paused at the spot where, when boys we used to amuse ourselves
making ducks and drakes upon the water. I recollected so well how I
used formerly to watch the course of that same stream, following it
with inquiring eagerness, forming romantic ideas of the countries it
was to pass through; but my imagination was soon exhausted; while the
water continued flowing farther and farther on, till my fancy became
bewildered by the contemplation of an invisible distance. Exactly such,
my dear friend, so happy and so confined, were the thoughts of our good
ancestors. Their feelings and their poetry were fresh as childhood. And
when Ulysses talks of the immeasurable sea and boundless earth, his
epithets are true, natural, deeply felt, and mysterious. Of what
importance is it that I have learned, with every schoolboy, that the
world is round? Man needs but little earth for enjoyment, and still
less for his final repose.

I am at present with the prince at his hunting-lodge. He is a man with
whom one can live happily. He is honest and unaffected. There are,
however, some strange characters about him, whom I cannot at all
understand. They do not seem vicious, and yet they do not carry the
appearance of thoroughly honest men. Sometimes I am disposed to believe
them honest, and yet I cannot persuade myself to confide in them. It
grieves me to hear the prince occasionally talk of things which he has
only read or heard of, and always with the same view in which they have
been represented by others.

He values my understanding and talents more highly than my heart, but I
am proud of the latter only. It is the sole source of everything,--of
our strength, happiness, and misery. All the knowledge I possess every
one else can acquire, but my heart is exclusively my own.


                                                     May 25.

I have had a plan in my head of which I did not intend to speak to you
until it was accomplished: now that it has failed, I may as well
mention it. I wished to enter the army, and had long been desirous of
taking the step. This, indeed, was the chief reason for my coming here
with the prince, as he is a general ---- in the service. I communicated
my design to him during one of our walks together. He disapproved of
it, and it would have been actual madness not to have listened to his
reasons.


                                                    June 11.

Say what you will, I can remain here no longer. Why should I remain?
Time hangs heavy upon my hands. The prince is as gracious to me as any
one could be, and yet I am not at my ease. There is, indeed, nothing in
common between us. He is a man of understanding, but quite of the
ordinary kind. His conversation affords me no more amusement than I
should derive from the perusal of a well-written book. I shall remain
here a week longer, and then start again on my travels. My drawings are
the best things I have done since I came here. The prince has a taste
for the arts, and would improve if his mind were not fettered by cold
rules and mere technical ideas. I often lose patience, when, with a
glowing imagination, I am giving expression to art and nature, he
interferes with learned suggestions, and uses at random the technical
phraseology of artists.


                                                    July 16.

Once more I am a wanderer, a pilgrim, through the world. But what else
are you!


                                                    July 18.

Whither am I going? I will tell you in confidence. I am obliged to
continue a fortnight longer here, and then I think it would be better
for me to visit the mines in ----. But I am only deluding myself thus.
The fact is, I wish to be near Charlotte again,--that is all. I smile
at the suggestions of my heart, and obey its dictates.


                                                    July 29.

No, no! it is yet well--all is well! I her husband! O God, who gave
me being, if thou hadst destined this happiness for me, my whole
life would have been one continual thanksgiving! But I will not
murmur,--forgive these tears, forgive these fruitless wishes. She--my
wife! Oh, the very thought of folding that dearest of Heaven's
creatures in my arms! Dear Wilhelm, my whole frame feels convulsed when
I see Albert put his arms round her slender waist!

And shall I avow it? Why should I not, Wilhelm? She would have been
happier with me than with him. Albert is not the man to satisfy the
wishes of such a heart. He wants a certain sensibility; he wants--in
short, their hearts do not beat in unison. How often, my dear friend,
in reading a passage from some interesting book, when my heart and
Charlotte's seemed to meet, and in a hundred other instances when our
sentiments were unfolded by the story of some fictitious character,
have I felt that we were made for each other! But, dear Wilhelm, he
loves her with his whole soul; and what does not such a love deserve?

I have been interrupted by an insufferable visit. I have dried my
tears, and composed my thoughts. Adieu, my best friend!


                                                     Aug. 4.

I am not alone unfortunate. All men are disappointed in their hopes,
and deceived in their expectations. I have paid a visit to my good old
woman under the lime-trees. The eldest boy ran out to meet me: his
exclamation of joy brought out his mother, but she had a very
melancholy look. Her first word was: "Alas! dear sir, my little John is
dead." He was the youngest of her children. I was silent. "And my
husband has returned from Switzerland without any money; and if some
kind people had not assisted him, he must have begged his way home. He
was taken ill with fever on his journey." I could answer nothing, but
made the little one a present. She invited me to take some fruit. I
complied, and left the place with a sorrowful heart.


                                                    Aug. 21.

My sensations are constantly changing. Sometimes a happy prospect
opens before me; but alas! it is only for a moment; and then, when
I am lost in reverie, I cannot help saying to myself, "If Albert were
to die?--Yes, she would become--and I should be"--and so I pursue a
chimera, till it leads me to the edge of a precipice at which I
shudder.

When I pass through the same gate, and walk along the same road which
first conducted me to Charlotte, my heart sinks within me at the change
that has since taken place. All, all is altered! No sentiment, no
pulsation of my heart, is the same. My sensations are such as would
occur to some departed prince whose spirit should return to visit the
superb palace which he had built in happy times, adorned with costly
magnificence, and left to a beloved son, but whose glory he should find
departed, and its halls deserted and in ruins.


                                                    Sept. 3.

I sometimes cannot understand how she can love another, how she dares
love another, when I love nothing in this world so completely, so
devotedly, as I love her, when I know only her, and have no other
possession than her in the world.


                                                    Sept. 4.

It is even so! As Nature puts on her autumn tints, it becomes autumn
with me and around me. My leaves are sear and yellow, and the
neighbouring trees are divested of their foliage. Do you remember my
writing to you about a peasant-boy shortly after my arrival here? I
have just made inquiries about him in Walheim. They say he has been
dismissed from his service, and is now avoided by every one. I met him
yesterday on the road, going to a neighbouring village. I spoke to him,
and he told me his story. It interested me exceedingly, as you will
easily understand when I repeat it to you. But why should I trouble
you? Why should I not reserve all my sorrow for myself? Why should I
continue to give you occasion to pity and blame me? But no matter: this
also is part of my destiny.

At first the peasant-lad answered my inquiries with a sort of subdued
melancholy, which seemed to me the mark of a timid disposition; but as
we grew to understand each other, he spoke with less reserve, and
openly confessed his faults, and lamented his misfortune. I wish, my
dear friend, I could give proper expression to his language. He told
me, with a sort of pleasurable recollection, that after my departure
his passion for his mistress increased daily, until at last he neither
knew what he did nor what he said, nor what was to become of him. He
could neither eat nor drink nor sleep: he felt a sense of suffocation;
he disobeyed all orders, and forgot all commands involuntarily; he
seemed as if pursued by an evil spirit, till one day, knowing that his
mistress had gone to an upper chamber, he had followed, or rather, been
drawn after her. As she proved deaf to his entreaties, he had recourse
to violence. He knows not what happened; but he called God to witness
that his intentions to her were honourable, and that he desired nothing
more sincerely than that they should marry, and pass their lives
together. When he had come to this point, he began to hesitate, as if
there was something which he had not courage to utter, till at length
he acknowledged with some confusion certain little confidences she had
encouraged, and liberties she had allowed.

He broke off two or three times in his narration, and assured me most
earnestly that he had no wish to make her bad, as he termed it, for he
loved her still as sincerely as ever; that the tale had never before
escaped his lips, and was only now told to convince me that he was not
utterly lost and abandoned. And here, my dear friend, I must commence
the old song which you know I utter eternally. If I could only
represent the man as he stood, and stands now before me,--could I only
give his true expressions, you would feel compelled to sympathise in
his fate. But enough: you, who know my misfortune and my disposition,
can easily comprehend the attraction which draws me towards every
unfortunate being, but particularly towards him whose story I have
recounted.

On perusing this letter a second time, I find I have omitted the
conclusion of my tale; but it is easily supplied. She became reserved
towards him, at the instigation of her brother who had long hated him,
and desired his expulsion from the house, fearing that his sister's
second marriage might deprive his children of the handsome fortune they
expected from her; as she is childless. He was dismissed at length; and
the whole affair occasioned so much scandal that the mistress dared not
take him back, even if she had wished it. She has since hired another
servant, with whom, they say, her brother is equally displeased, and
whom she is likely to marry; but my informant assures me that he
himself is determined not to survive such a catastrophe.

This story is neither exaggerated nor embellished; indeed, I have
weakened and impaired it in the narration, by the necessity of using
the more refined expressions of society.

This love, then, this constancy, this passion, is no poetical fiction.
It is actual, and dwells in its greatest purity amongst that class of
mankind whom we term rude, uneducated. We are the educated, not the
perverted! But read this story with attention, I implore you. I am
tranquil to-day, for I have been employed upon this narration: you see
by my writing that I am not so agitated as usual. Read and reread this
tale, Wilhelm: it is the history of your friend! My fortune has been
and will be similar; and I am neither half so brave nor half so
determined as the poor wretch with whom I hesitate to compare myself.


                                                    Sept. 5.

Charlotte had written a letter to her husband in the country, where he
was detained by business. It commenced, "My dearest love, return as
soon as possible: I await you with a thousand raptures." A friend who
arrived, brought word that, for certain reasons, he could not return
immediately. Charlotte's letter was not forwarded, and the same evening
it fell into my hands. I read it, and smiled. She asked the reason.
"What a heavenly treasure is imagination!" I exclaimed; "I fancied for
a moment that this was written to me."

She paused, and seemed displeased. I was silent.


                                                    Sept. 6.

It cost me much to part with the blue coat which I wore the first time
I danced with Charlotte. But I could not possibly wear it any longer.
But I have ordered a new one, precisely similar, even to the collar and
sleeves, as well as a new waistcoat and pantaloons.

But it does not produce the same effect upon me. I know not how it is,
but I hope in time I shall like it better.


                                                   Sept. 12.

She has been absent for some days. She went to meet Albert. To-day I
visited her: she rose to receive me, and I kissed her hand most
tenderly.

A canary at the moment flew from a mirror, and settled upon her
shoulder. "Here is a new friend," she observed, while she made him
perch upon her hand: "he is a present for the children. What a dear he
is! Look at him! When I feed him, he flutters with his wings, and pecks
so nicely. He kisses me, too,--only look!"

She held the bird to her mouth; and he pressed her sweet lips with so
much fervour that he seemed to feel the excess of bliss which he
enjoyed.

"He shall kiss you too," she added; and then she held the bird towards
me. His little beak moved from her mouth to mine, and the delightful
sensation seemed like the forerunner of the sweetest bliss.

"A kiss," I observed, "does not seem to satisfy him: he wishes for
food, and seems disappointed by these unsatisfactory endearments."

"But he eats out of my mouth," she continued, and extended her lips to
him containing seed; and she smiled with all the charm of a being who
has allowed an innocent participation of her love.

I turned my face away. She should not act thus. She ought not to excite
my imagination with such displays of heavenly innocence and happiness,
nor awaken my heart from its slumbers, in which it dreams of the
worthlessness of life! And why not? Because she knows how much I love
her.


                                                   Sept. 15.

It makes me wretched, Wilhelm, to think that there should be men
incapable of appreciating the few things which possess a real value in
life. You remember the walnut-trees at S----, under which I used to sit
with Charlotte, during my visits to the worthy old vicar. Those
glorious trees, the very sight of which has so often filled my heart
with joy, how they adorned and refreshed the parsonage-yard, with their
wide-extended branches! and how pleasing was our remembrance of the
good old pastor, by whose hands they were planted so many years ago!
The schoolmaster has frequently mentioned his name. He had it from his
grandfather. He must have been a most excellent man; and, under the
shade of those old trees, his memory was ever venerated by me.

The schoolmaster informed us yesterday, with tears in his eyes, that
those trees had been felled. Yes, cut to the ground! I could, in my
wrath, have slain the monster who struck the first stroke. And I must
endure this!--I, who, if I had had two such trees in my own court, and
one had died from old age, should have wept with real affliction. But
there is some comfort left,--such a thing is sentiment,--the whole
village murmurs at the misfortune; and I hope the vicar's wife will
soon find, by the cessation of the villagers' presents, how much she
has wounded the feelings of the neighbourhood. It was she who did
it,--the wife of the present incumbent (our good old man is dead),--a
tall, sickly creature, who is so far right to disregard the world as
the world totally disregards her. The silly being affects to be
learned, pretends to examine the canonical books, lends her aid towards
the new-fashioned reformation of Christendom, moral and critical, and
shrugs up her shoulders at the mention of Lavater's enthusiasm. Her
health is destroyed, on account of which she is prevented from having
any enjoyment here below. Only such a creature could have cut down my
walnut-trees! I can never pardon it. Hear her reasons. The falling
leaves made the court wet and dirty; the branches obstructed the light;
boys threw stones at the nuts when they were ripe, and the noise
affected her nerves, and disturbed her profound meditations, when she
was weighing the difficulties of Kennicot, Semler, and Michaels.
Finding that all the parish, particularly the old people, were
displeased, I asked why they allowed it. "Ah, sir!" they replied, "when
the steward orders, what can we poor peasants do?" But one thing has
happened well. The steward and the vicar (who for once thought to reap
some advantage from the caprices of his wife) intended to divide the
trees between them. The revenue-office, being informed of it, revived
an old claim to the ground where the trees had stood, and sold them to
the best bidder. There they still lie on the ground. If I were the
sovereign, I should know how to deal with them all,--vicar, steward,
and revenue-office. Sovereign, did I say? I should in that case care
little about the trees that grew in the country.


                                                    Oct. 10.

Only to gaze upon her dark eyes is to me a source of happiness! And
what grieves me is that Albert does not seem so happy as he--hoped to
be--as I should have been--if-- I am no friend to these pauses, but
here I cannot express it otherwise; and probably I am explicit enough.


                                                    Oct. 12.

Ossian has superseded Homer in my heart. To what a world does the
illustrious bard carry me! To wander over pathless wilds, surrounded by
impetuous whirlwinds, where, by the feeble light of the moon, we see
the spirits of our ancestors; to hear from the mountain-tops, mid the
roar of torrents, their plaintive sounds issuing from deep caverns, and
the sorrowful lamentations of a maiden who sighs and expires on the
mossy tomb of the warrior by whom she was adored. I meet this bard with
silver hair; he wanders in the valley; he seeks the footsteps of his
fathers, and, alas! he finds only their tombs. Then, contemplating the
pale moon, as she sinks beneath the waves of the rolling sea, the
memory of bygone days strikes the mind of the hero,--days when
approaching danger invigorated the brave, and the moon shone upon his
bark laden with spoils, and returning in triumph. When I read in his
countenance deep sorrow, when I see his dying glory sink exhausted into
the grave, as he inhales new and heart-thrilling delight from his
approaching union with his beloved, and he casts a look on the cold
earth and the tall grass which is so soon to cover him, and then
exclaims, "The traveller will come,--he will come who has seen my
beauty, and he will ask, 'Where is the bard,--where is the illustrious
son of Fingal?' He will walk over my tomb, and will seek me in vain!"
Then, O my friend, I could instantly, like a true and noble knight,
draw my sword, and deliver my prince from the long and painful languor
of a living death, and dismiss my own soul to follow the demigod whom
my hand had set free!


                                                    Oct. 19.

Alas! the void--the fearful void, which I feel in my bosom! Sometimes I
think, if I could only once--but once, press her to my heart, this
dreadful void would be filled.


                                                    Oct. 26.

Yes, I feel certain, Wilhelm, and every day I become more certain, that
the existence of any being whatever is of very little consequence. A
friend of Charlotte's called to see her just now. I withdrew into a
neighbouring apartment, and took up a book; but, finding I could not
read, I sat down to write. I heard them converse in an undertone: they
spoke upon indifferent topics, and retailed the news of the town. One
was going to be married; another was ill, very ill,--she had a dry
cough, her face was growing thinner daily, and she had occasional fits.
"N---- is very unwell, too," said Charlotte. "His limbs begin to swell
already," answered the other; and my lively imagination carried me at
once to the beds of the infirm. There I see them struggling against
death, with all the agonies of pain and horror; and these women,
Wilhelm, talk of all this with as much indifference as one would
mention the death of a stranger. And when I look around the apartment
where I now am,--when I see Charlotte's apparel lying before me, and
Albert's writings, and all those articles of furniture which are so
familiar to me, even to the very inkstand which I am using,--when I
think what I am to this family--everything. My friends esteem me; I
often contribute to their happiness, and my heart seems as if it could
not beat without them; and yet--if I were to die, if I were to be
summoned from the midst of this circle, would they feel--or how long
would they feel--the void which my loss would make in their existence?
How long! Yes, such is the frailty of man, that even there, where he
has the greatest consciousness of his own being, where he makes the
strongest and most forcible impression, even in the memory, in the
heart of his beloved, there also he must perish,--vanish,--and that
quickly.


                                                    Oct. 27.

I could tear open my bosom with vexation to think how little we are
capable of influencing the feelings of each other. No one can
communicate to me those sensations of love, joy, rapture, and delight
which I do not naturally possess; and though my heart may glow with the
most lively affection, I cannot make the happiness of one in whom the
same warmth is not inherent.


                                           Oct. 27: Evening.

I possess so much, but my love for her absorbs it all. I possess so
much, but without her I have nothing.


                                                    Oct. 30.

One hundred times have I been on the point of embracing her. Heavens!
what a torment it is to see so much loveliness passing and repassing
before us, and yet not dare to lay hold of it! And laying hold is the
most natural of human instincts, Do not children touch everything they
see? And I!


                                                     Nov. 3.

Witness, Heaven, how often I lie down in my bed with a wish, and even a
hope, that I may never awaken again' And in the morning, when I open my
eyes, I behold the sun once more, and am wretched. If I were whimsical,
I might blame the weather, or an acquaintance, or some personal
disappointment, for my discontented mind; and then this insupportable
load of trouble would not rest entirely upon myself. But, alas! I feel
it too sadly; I am alone the cause of my own woe, am I not? Truly, my
own bosom contains the source of all my sorrow, as it previously
contained the source of all my pleasure. Am I not the same being who
once enjoyed an excess of happiness, who at every step saw paradise
open before him, and whose heart was ever expanded towards the whole
world? And this heart is now dead; no sentiment can revive it. My eyes
are dry; and my senses, no more refreshed by the influence of soft
tears, wither and consume my brain. I suffer much, for I have lost the
only charm of life: that active, sacred power which created worlds
around me,--it is no more. When I look from my window at the distant
hills, and behold the morning sun breaking through the mists, and
illuminating the country around, which is still wrapped in silence,
whilst the soft stream winds gently through the willows, which have
shed their leaves; when glorious Nature displays all her beauties
before me, and her wondrous prospects are ineffectual to extract one
tear of joy from my withered heart,--I feel that in such a moment I
stand like a reprobate before heaven, hardened, insensible, and
unmoved. Oftentimes do I then bend my knee to the earth, and implore
God for the blessing of tears, as the desponding labourer in some
scorching climate prays for the dews of heaven to moisten his parched
corn.

But I feel that God does not grant sunshine or rain to our importunate
entreaties. And oh, those bygone days, whose memory now torments me!
why were they so fortunate? Because I then waited with patience for the
blessings of the Eternal, and received his gifts with the grateful
feelings of a thankful heart.


                                                     Nov. 8.

Charlotte has reproved me for my excesses, with so much tenderness and
goodness! I have lately been in the habit of drinking more wine than
heretofore. "Don't do it," she said; "think of Charlotte!" "Think of
you!" I answered; "need you bid me do so? Think of you--I do not think
of you: you are ever before my soul! This very morning I sat on the
spot where, a few days ago, you descended from the carriage, and--" She
immediately changed the subject to prevent me from pursuing it farther.
My dear friend, my energies are all prostrated; she can do with me what
she pleases.


                                                    Nov. 15.

I thank you, Wilhelm, for your cordial sympathy, for your excellent
advice; and I implore you to be quiet. Leave me to my sufferings. In
spite of my wretchedness, I have still strength enough for endurance. I
revere religion,--you know I do. I feel that it can impart strength to
the feeble and comfort to the afflicted; but does it affect all men
equally? Consider this vast universe: you will see thousands for whom
it has never existed, thousands for whom it will never exist, whether
it be preached to them or not; and must it, then, necessarily exist for
me? Does not the Son of God himself say that they are his whom the
Father has given to him? Have I been given to Him? What if the Father
will retain me for himself, as my heart sometimes suggests? I pray you,
do not misinterpret this. Do not extract derision from my harmless
words. I pour out my whole soul before you. Silence were otherwise
preferable to me, but I need not shrink from a subject of which few
know more than I do myself. What is the destiny of man, but to fill up
the measure of his sufferings, and to drink his allotted cup of
bitterness? And if that same cup proved bitter to the God of heaven,
under a human form, why should I affect a foolish pride, and call it
sweet? Why should I be ashamed of shrinking at that fearful moment when
my whole being will tremble between existence and annihilation; when a
remembrance of the past, like a flash of lightning, will illuminate the
dark gulf of futurity; when everything shall dissolve around me, and
the whole world vanish away? Is not this the voice of a creature
oppressed beyond all resource, self-deficient, about to plunge into
inevitable destruction, and groaning deeply at its inadequate strength:
"My God! my God! why hast thou forsaken me?" And should I feel ashamed
to utter the same expression? Should I not shudder at a prospect which
had its fears even for him who folds up the heavens like a garment?


                                                    Nov. 21.

She does not feel, she does not know that she is preparing a poison
which will destroy us both; and I drink deeply of the draught which is
to prove my destruction. What mean those looks of kindness with which
she often--often? no, not often, but sometimes--regards me, that
complacency with which she hears the involuntary sentiments which
frequently escape me, and the tender pity for my sufferings which
appears in her countenance?

Yesterday, when I took leave, she seized me by the hand, and said,
"Adieu, dear Werther." Dear Werther! It was the first time she ever
called me "dear:" the sound sunk deep into my heart. I have repeated it
a hundred times; and last night, on going to bed, and talking to myself
of various things, I suddenly said, "Good night, dear Werther!" and
then could not but laugh at myself.


                                                    Nov. 22.

I cannot pray, "Leave her to me!" and yet she often seems to belong to
me. I cannot pray, "Give her to me!" for she is another's. In this way
I affect mirth over my troubles; and if I had time, I could compose a
whole litany of antitheses.


                                                    Nov. 24.

She is sensible of my sufferings. This morning her look pierced my very
soul. I found her alone, and she was silent; she steadfastly surveyed
me. I no longer saw in her face the charms of beauty or the fire of
genius; these had disappeared. But I was affected by an expression much
more touching,--a look of the deepest sympathy and of the softest pity.
Why was I afraid to throw myself at her feet? Why did I not dare to
take her in my arms, and answer her by a thousand kisses? She had
recourse to her piano for relief, and in a low and sweet voice
accompanied the music with delicious sounds. Her lips never appeared so
lovely: they seemed but just to open, that they might imbibe the sweet
tones which issued from the instrument, and return the heavenly
vibration from her lovely mouth. Oh, who can express my sensations! I
was quite overcome, and bending down, pronounced this vow: "Beautiful
lips, which the angels guard, never will I seek to profane your purity
with a kiss." And yet, my friend, oh, I wish--but my heart is darkened
by doubt and indecision--could I but taste felicity, and then die to
expiate the sin! What sin?


                                                    Nov. 26.

Oftentimes I say to myself, "Thou alone art wretched: all other mortals
are happy; none are distressed like thee." Then I read a passage in an
ancient poet, and I seem to understand my own heart! I have so much to
endure! Have men before me ever been so wretched?


                                                    Nov. 30.

I shall never be myself again! Wherever I go, some fatality occurs to
distract me. Even to-day--alas, for our destiny! alas, for human
nature!

About dinner-time I went to walk by the river-side, for I had no
appetite. Everything around seemed gloomy; a cold and damp easterly
wind blew from the mountains, and black, heavy clouds spread over the
plain. I observed at a distance a man in a tattered coat; he was
wandering among the rocks, and seemed to be looking for plants. When I
approached, he turned round at the noise; and I saw that he had an
interesting countenance, in which a settled melancholy, strongly marked
by benevolence, formed the principal feature. His long black hair was
divided, and flowed over his shoulders. As his garb betokened a person
of the lower order, I thought he would not take it ill if I inquired
about his business; and I therefore asked what he was seeking. He
replied, with a deep sigh, that he was looking for flowers, and could
find none. "But it is not the season," I observed, with a smile. "Oh,
there are so many flowers!" he answered, as he came nearer to me. "In
my garden there are roses and honeysuckles of two sorts: one sort was
given to me by my father; they grow as plentifully as weeds. I have
been looking for them these two days, and cannot find them. There are
flowers out there, yellow, blue, and red; and that centaury has a very
pretty blossom: but I can find none of them." I observed his
peculiarity, and therefore asked him, with an air of indifference, what
he intended to do with his flowers. A strange smile overspread his
countenance. Holding his finger to his mouth, he expressed a hope that
I would not betray him; and he then informed me that he had promised to
gather a nosegay for his mistress. "That is right," said I. "Oh!" he
replied, "she possesses many other things as well; she is very rich."
"And yet," I continued, "she likes your nosegays." "Oh, she has jewels
and crowns!" he exclaimed. I asked who she was. "If the states-general
would but pay me," he added, "I should be quite another man. Alas!
there was a time when I was so happy; but that is past, and I am now--"
He raised his swimming eyes to heaven. "And you were happy once?" I
observed. "Ah, would I were so still!" was his reply. "I was then as
gay and contented as a man can be." An old woman, who was coming
towards us, now called out: "Henry, Henry! where are you? We have been
looking for you everywhere. Come to dinner." "Is he your son?" I
inquired, as I went towards her. "Yes," she said; "he is my poor,
unfortunate son. The Lord has sent me a heavy affliction." I asked
whether he had been long in this state. She answered: "He has been as
calm as he is at present for about six months. I thank Heaven that he
has so far recovered. He was for one whole year quite raving, and
chained down in a madhouse. Now he injures no one, but talks of nothing
else than kings and queens. He used to be a very good, quiet youth, and
helped to maintain me; he wrote a very fine hand. But all at once he
became melancholy, was seized with a violent fever, grew distracted,
and is now as you see. If I were only to tell you, sir--" I interrupted
her by asking what period it was in which he boasted of having been so
happy. "Poor boy!" she exclaimed, with a smile of compassion, "he means
the time when he was completely deranged,--a time he never ceases to
regret,--when he was in the madhouse, and unconscious of everything." I
was thunderstruck. I placed a piece of money in her hand, and hastened
away.

"You were happy!" I exclaimed, as I returned quickly to the town, "'as
gay and contented as a man can be!'" God of heaven! and is this the
destiny of man? Is he only happy before he has acquired his reason or
after he has lost it? Unfortunate being! And yet I envy your fate; I
envy the delusion to which you are a victim. You go forth with joy to
gather flowers for your princess in winter, and grieve when you can
find none, and cannot understand why they do not grow. But I wander
forth without joy, without hope, without design; and I return as I
came. You fancy what a man you would be if the states-general paid you.
Happy mortal, who can ascribe your wretchedness to an earthly cause!
You do not know, you do not feel, that in your own distracted heart and
disordered brain dwells the source of that unhappiness which all the
potentates on earth cannot relieve.

Let that man die unconsoled who can deride the invalid for undertaking
a journey to distant, healthful springs,--where he often finds only a
heavier disease and a more painful death,--or who can exult over the
despairing mind of a sinner who, to obtain peace of conscience and an
alleviation of misery, makes a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre. Each
laborious step which galls his wounded feet in rough and untrodden
paths pours a drop of balm into his troubled soul, and the journey of
many a weary day brings a nightly relief to his anguished heart.

Will you dare call this enthusiasm, ye crowd of pompous declaimers?
Enthusiasm? O God! thou seest my tears. Thou hast allotted us our
portion of misery; must we also have brethren to persecute us, to
deprive us of our consolation, of our trust in thee and in thy love and
mercy? For our trust in the virtue of the healing root or in the
strength of the vine,--what is it else than a belief in thee, from whom
all that surrounds us derives its healing and restoring powers. Father,
whom I know not,--who wert once wont to fill my soul, but who now
hidest thy face from me,--call me back to thee; be silent no longer!
Thy silence shall not delay a soul which thirsts after thee. What man,
what father, could be angry with a son for returning to him suddenly,
for falling on his neck, and exclaiming, "I am here again, my father!
Forgive me if I have anticipated my journey, and returned before the
appointed time! The world is everywhere the same,--a scene of labour
and pain, of pleasure and reward; but what does it all avail? I am
happy only where thou art, and in thy presence am I content to suffer
or enjoy." And wouldst thou, Heavenly Father, banish such a child from
thy presence?


                                                     Dec. 1.

Wilhelm, the man about whom I wrote to you,--that man so enviable in
his misfortunes,--was secretary to Charlotte's father; and an unhappy
passion for her, which he cherished, concealed, and at length
discovered, caused him to be dismissed from his situation. This made
him mad. Think, whilst you peruse this plain narration, what an
impression the circumstance has made upon me! But it was related to me
by Albert with as much calmness as you will probably peruse it.


                                                     Dec. 4.

I implore your attention. It is all over with me. I can support this
state no longer. To-day I was sitting by Charlotte. She was playing
upon her piano a succession of delightful melodies, with such intense
expression! Her little sister was dressing her doll upon my lap. The
tears came into my eyes. I leaned down, and looked intently at her
wedding-ring; my tears fell--immediately she began to play that
favourite, that divine air which has so often enchanted me. I felt
comfort from a recollection of the past, of those bygone days when that
air was familiar to me; and then I recalled all the sorrows and the
disappointments which I had since endured. I paced with hasty strides
through the room, my heart became convulsed with painful emotions. At
length I went up to her, and exclaimed with eagerness, "For Heaven's
sake, play that air no longer!" She stopped, and looked steadfastly at
me. She then said, with a smile which sunk deep into my heart:
"Werther, you are ill; your dearest food is distasteful to you. But go,
I entreat you, and endeavour to compose yourself." I tore myself away.
God, thou seest my torments, and wilt end them!


                                                     Dec. 6.

How her image haunts me! Waking or asleep, she fills my entire soul!
Soon as I close my eyes, here, in my brain, where all the nerves of
vision are concentrated, her dark eyes are imprinted. Here--I do not
know how to describe it; but if I shut my eyes, hers are immediately
before me: dark as an abyss they open upon me, and absorb my senses.

And what is man,--that boasted demigod? Do not his powers fail when he
most requires their use? And whether he soar in joy or sink in sorrow,
is not his career in both inevitably arrested? And whilst he fondly
dreams that he is grasping at infinity, does he not feel compelled to
return to a consciousness of his cold, monotonous existence?



                        THE EDITOR TO THE READER


It is a matter of extreme regret that we want original evidence of the
last remarkable days of our friend; and we are, therefore, obliged to
interrupt the progress of his correspondence, and to supply the
deficiency by a connected narration.

I have felt it my duty to collect accurate information from the mouths
of persons well acquainted with his history. The story is simple; and
all the accounts agree, except in some unimportant particulars. It is
true that, with respect to the characters of the persons spoken of,
opinions and judgments vary.

We have only, then, to relate conscientiously the facts which our
diligent labour has enabled us to collect, to give the letters of the
deceased, and to pay particular attention to the slightest fragment
from his pen, more especially as it is so difficult to discover the
real and correct motives of men who are not of the common order.

Sorrow and discontent had taken deep root in Werther's soul, and
gradually imparted their character to his whole being. The harmony of
his mind became completely disturbed; a perpetual excitement and mental
irritation, which weakened his natural powers, produced the saddest
effects upon him, and rendered him at length the victim of an
exhaustion against which he struggled with still more painful efforts
than he had displayed, even in contending with his other misfortunes.
His mental anxiety weakened his various good qualities; and he was soon
converted into a gloomy companion,--always unhappy and unjust in his
ideas, the more wretched he became. This was, at least, the opinion of
Albert's friends. They assert, moreover, that the character of Albert
himself had undergone no change in the meantime; he was still the same
being whom Werther had loved, honoured, and respected from the
commencement. His love for Charlotte was unbounded; he was proud of
her, and desired that she should be recognised by every one as the
noblest of created beings. Was he, however, to blame for wishing to
avert from her every appearance of suspicion? or for his unwillingness
to share his rich prize with another, even for a moment, and in the
most innocent manner? It is asserted that Albert frequently retired
from his wife's apartment during Werther's visits; but this did not
arise from hatred or aversion to his friend, but only from a feeling
that his presence was oppressive to Werther.

Charlotte's father, who was confined to the house by indisposition, was
accustomed to send his carriage for her, that she might make excursions
in the neighbourhood. One day the weather had been unusually severe,
and the whole country was covered with snow.

Werther went for Charlotte the following morning, in order that, if
Albert were absent, he might conduct her home.

The beautiful weather produced but little impression on his troubled
spirit. A heavy weight lay upon his soul, deep melancholy had taken
possession of him, and his mind knew no change save from one painful
thought to another.

As he now never enjoyed internal peace, the condition of his
fellow-creatures was to him a perpetual source of trouble and distress.
He believed he had disturbed the happiness of Albert and his wife; and
whilst he censured himself strongly for this, he began to entertain a
secret dislike to Albert.

His thoughts were occasionally directed to this point. "Yes," he would
repeat to himself, with ill-concealed dissatisfaction,--"yes, this is,
after all, the extent of that confiding, dear, tender, and sympathetic
love, that calm and eternal fidelity! What do I behold but satiety and
indifference? Does not every frivolous engagement attract him more than
his charming and lovely wife? Does he know how to prize his happiness?
Can he value her as she deserves? He possesses her, it is true,--I know
that, as I know much more,--and I have become accustomed to the thought
that he will drive me mad, or, perhaps, murder me. Is his friendship
towards me unimpaired? Does he not view my attachment to Charlotte as
an infringement upon his rights, and consider my attention to her as a
silent rebuke to himself? I know, and indeed feel, that he dislikes
me,--that he wishes for my absence,--that my presence is hateful to
him."

He would often pause when on his way to visit Charlotte, stand still as
though in doubt, and seem desirous of returning, but would nevertheless
proceed; and, engaged in such thoughts and soliloquies as we have
described, he finally reached the hunting-lodge, with a sort of
involuntary consent.

Upon one occasion he entered the house; and, inquiring for Charlotte,
he observed that the inmates were in a state of unusual confusion. The
eldest boy informed him that a dreadful misfortune had occurred at
Walheim,--that a peasant had been murdered! But this made little
impression upon him. Entering the apartment, he found Charlotte engaged
reasoning with her father, who, in spite of his infirmity, insisted on
going to the scene of the crime, in order to institute an inquiry. The
criminal was unknown; the victim had been found dead at his own door
that morning. Suspicions were excited; the murdered man had been in the
service of a widow, and the person who had previously filled the
situation had been dismissed from her employment.

As soon as Werther heard this, he exclaimed with great excitement, "Is
it possible! I must go to the spot,--I cannot delay a moment!" He
hastened to Walheim. Every incident returned vividly to his
remembrance; and he entertained not the slightest doubt that that man
was the murderer to whom he had so often spoken, and for whom he
entertained so much regard. His way took him past the well-known
lime-trees, to the house where the body had been carried; and his
feelings were greatly excited at the sight of the fondly recollected
spot. That threshold where the neighbours' children had so often played
together was stained with blood; love and attachment, the noblest
feelings of human nature, had been converted into violence and murder.
The huge trees stood there leafless and covered with hoar-frost; the
beautiful hedgerows which surrounded the old churchyard wall were
withered; and the gravestones, half covered with snow, were visible
through the openings.

As he approached the inn, in front of which the whole village was
assembled, screams were suddenly heard. A troop of armed peasants was
seen approaching, and every one exclaimed that the criminal had been
apprehended. Werther looked, and was not long in doubt. The prisoner
was no other than the servant, who had been formerly so attached to the
widow, and whom he had met prowling about, with that suppressed anger
and ill-concealed despair which we have before described.

"What have you done, unfortunate man?" inquired Werther, as he advanced
towards the prisoner. The latter turned his eyes upon him in silence,
and then replied with perfect composure, "No one will now marry her,
and she will marry no one." The prisoner was taken in the inn, and
Werther left the place.

The mind of Werther was fearfully excited by this shocking occurrence.
He ceased, however, to be oppressed by his usual feeling of melancholy,
moroseness, and indifference to everything that passed around him. He
entertained a strong degree of pity for the prisoner, and was seized
with an indescribable anxiety to save him from his impending fate. He
considered him so unfortunate, he deemed his crime so excusable, and
thought his own condition so nearly similar, that he felt convinced he
could make every one else view the matter in the light in which he saw
it himself. He now became anxious to undertake his defence, and
commenced composing an eloquent speech for the occasion; and, on his
way to the hunting-lodge, he could not refrain from speaking aloud the
statement which he resolved to make to the judge.

Upon his arrival, he found Albert had been before him: and he was a
little perplexed by this meeting; but he soon recovered himself, and
expressed his opinion with much warmth to the judge. The latter shook
his head doubtingly; and although Werther urged his case with the
utmost zeal, feeling, and determination in defence of his client, yet,
as we may easily suppose, the judge was not much influenced by his
appeal. On the contrary, he interrupted him in his address, reasoned
with him seriously, and even administered a rebuke to him for becoming
the advocate of a murderer. He demonstrated that, according to this
precedent, every law might be violated, and the public security utterly
destroyed. He added, moreover, that in such a case he could himself do
nothing, without incurring the greatest responsibility; that everything
must follow in the usual course, and pursue the ordinary channel.

Werther, however, did not abandon his enterprise, and even besought the
judge to connive at the flight of the prisoner. But this proposal was
peremptorily rejected. Albert, who had taken some part in the
discussion, coincided in opinion with the judge. At this Werther became
enraged, and took his leave in great anger, after the judge had more
than once assured him that the prisoner could not be saved.

The excess of his grief at this assurance may be inferred from a note
we have found amongst his papers, and which was doubtless written upon
this very occasion.


"You cannot be saved, unfortunate man! I see clearly that we cannot be
saved!"


Werther was highly incensed at the observations which Albert had made
to the judge in this matter of the prisoner. He thought he could detect
therein a little bitterness towards himself personally; and although,
upon reflection, it could not escape his sound judgment that their view
of the matter was correct, he felt the greatest possible reluctance to
make such an admission.

A memorandum of Werther's upon this point, expressive of his general
feelings towards Albert, has been found amongst his papers.


"What is the use of my continually repeating that he is a good and
estimable man? He is an inward torment to me, and I am incapable of
being just towards him."


One fine evening in winter, when the weather seemed inclined to thaw,
Charlotte and Albert were returning home together. The former looked
from time to time about her, as if she missed Werther's company. Albert
began to speak of him, and censured him for his prejudices. He alluded
to his unfortunate attachment, and wished it were possible to
discontinue his acquaintance. "I desire it on our own account," he
added; "and I request you will compel him to alter his deportment
towards you, and to visit you less frequently. The world is censorious,
and I know that here and there we are spoken of." Charlotte made no
reply, and Albert seemed to feel her silence. At least, from that time,
he never again spoke of Werther; and when she introduced the subject,
he allowed the conversation to die away, or else he directed the
discourse into another channel.

The vain attempt Werther had made to save the unhappy murderer was the
last feeble glimmering of a flame about to be extinguished. He sank
almost immediately afterwards into a state of gloom and inactivity,
until he was at length brought to perfect distraction by learning that
he was to be summoned as a witness against the prisoner, who asserted
his complete innocence.

His mind now became oppressed by the recollection of every misfortune
of his past life. The mortification he had suffered at the
ambassador's, and his subsequent troubles, were revived in his memory.
He became utterly inactive. Destitute of energy, he was cut off from
every pursuit and occupation which compose the business of common life;
and he became a victim to his own susceptibility, and to his restless
passion for the most amiable and beloved of women, whose peace he
destroyed. In this unvarying monotony of existence his days were
consumed; and his powers became exhausted without aim or design, until
they brought him to a sorrowful end.

A few letters which he left behind, and which we here subjoin, afford
the best proofs of his anxiety of mind and of the depth of his passion,
as well as of his doubts and struggles, and of his weariness of life.


                                                    Dec. 12.

Dear Wilhelm, I am reduced to the condition of those unfortunate
wretches who believe they are pursued by an evil spirit. Sometimes I am
oppressed, not by apprehension or fear, but by an inexpressible
internal sensation, which weighs upon my heart, and impedes my breath!
Then I wander forth at night, even in this tempestuous season, and feel
pleasure in surveying the dreadful scenes around me.

Yesterday evening I went forth. A rapid thaw had suddenly set in: I had
been informed that the river had risen, that the brooks had all
overflowed their banks, and that the whole vale of Walheim was under
water! Upon the stroke of twelve I hastened forth. I beheld a fearful
sight. The foaming torrents rolled from the mountains in the
moonlight,--fields and meadows, trees and hedges, were confounded
together; and the entire valley was converted into a deep lake, which
was agitated by the roaring wind! And when the moon shone forth, and
tinged the black clouds with silver, and the impetuous torrent at my
feet foamed and resounded with awful and grand impetuosity, I was
overcome by a mingled sensation of apprehension and delight. With
extended arms I looked down into the yawning abyss, and cried,
"Plunge!" For a moment my senses forsook me, in the intense delight of
ending my sorrows and my sufferings by a plunge into that gulf! And
then I felt as if I were rooted to the earth, and incapable of seeking
an end to my woes! But my hour is not yet come; I feel it is not. Oh,
Wilhelm, how willingly could I abandon my existence to ride the
whirlwind, or to embrace the torrent! and then might not rapture
perchance be the portion of this liberated soul?

I turned my sorrowful eyes towards a favourite spot, where I was
accustomed to sit with Charlotte beneath a willow after a fatiguing
walk. Alas! it was covered with water, and with difficulty I found even
the meadow. And the fields around the hunting-lodge, thought I. Has our
dear bower been destroyed by this unpitying storm? And a beam of past
happiness streamed upon me, as the mind of a captive is illumined by
dreams of flocks and herds and bygone joys of home! But I am free from
blame. I have courage to die! Perhaps I have,--but I still sit here,
like a wretched pauper, who collects fagots, and begs her bread from
door to door, that she may prolong for a few days a miserable existence
which she is unwilling to resign.


                                                    Dec. 15.

What is the matter with me, dear Wilhelm? I am afraid of myself!
Is not my love for her of the purest, most holy, and most brotherly
nature? Has my soul ever been sullied by a single sensual desire?
But I will make no protestations. And now, ye nightly visions, how
truly have those mortals understood you, who ascribe your various
contradictory effects to some invincible power! This night--I tremble
at the avowal--I held her in my arms, locked in a close embrace: I
pressed her to my bosom, and covered with countless kisses those dear
lips which murmured in reply soft protestations of love. My sight
became confused by the delicious intoxication of her eyes. Heavens! is
it sinful to revel again in such happiness, to recall once more those
rapturous moments with intense delight? Charlotte! Charlotte! I am
lost! My senses are bewildered, my recollection is confused, mine
eyes are bathed in tears--I am ill; and yet I am well--I wish for
nothing--I have no desires--it were better I were gone.


Under the circumstances narrated above, a determination to quit this
world had now taken fixed possession of Werther's soul. Since
Charlotte's return, this thought had been the final object of all his
hopes and wishes; but he had resolved that such a step should not be
taken with precipitation, but with calmness and tranquillity, and with
the most perfect deliberation.

His troubles and internal struggles may be understood from the
following fragment, which was found, without any date, amongst his
papers, and appears to have formed the beginning of a letter to
Wilhelm:


"Her presence, her fate, her sympathy for me, have power still to
extract tears from my withered brain.

"One lifts up the curtain, and passes to the other side,--that is all!
And why all these doubts and delays? Because we know not what is
behind,--because there is no returning,--and because our mind infers
that all is darkness and confusion, where we have nothing but
uncertainty."


His appearance at length became quite altered by the effect of his
melancholy thoughts; and his resolution was now finally and irrevocably
taken, of which the following ambiguous letter which he addressed to
his friend, may appear to afford some proof:--


                                                    Dec. 20.

I am grateful to your love, Wilhelm, for having repeated your advice so
seasonably. Yes, you are right: it is undoubtedly better that I should
depart. But I do not entirely approve your scheme of returning at once
to your neighbourhood; at least, I should like to make a little
excursion on the way, particularly as we may now expect a continued
frost, and consequently good roads. I am much pleased with your
intention of coming to fetch me; only delay your journey for a
fortnight, and wait for another letter from me. One should gather
nothing before it is ripe, and a fortnight sooner or later makes a
great difference. Entreat my mother to pray for her son, and tell her I
beg her pardon for all the unhappiness I have occasioned her. It has
ever been my fate to give pain to those whose happiness I should have
promoted. Adieu, my dearest friend. May every blessing of heaven attend
you! Farewell.


We find it difficult to express the emotions with which Charlotte's
soul was agitated during the whole of this time, whether in relation to
her husband or to her unfortunate friend; although we are enabled, by
our knowledge of her character, to understand their nature.

It is certain that she had formed a determination by every means in her
power to keep Werther at a distance; and if she hesitated in her
decision, it was from a sincere feeling of friendly pity, knowing how
much it would cost him,--indeed, that he would find it almost
impossible to comply with her wishes. But various causes now urged her
to be firm. Her husband preserved a strict silence about the whole
matter; and she never made it a subject of conversation, feeling bound
to prove to him by her conduct that her sentiments agreed with his.

The same day, which was the Sunday before Christmas, after Werther had
written the last-mentioned letter to his friend, he came in the evening
to Charlotte's house, and found her alone. She was busy preparing some
little gifts for her brothers and sisters, which were to be distributed
to them on Christmas Day. He began talking of the delight of the
children, and of that age when the sudden appearance of the
Christmas-tree, decorated with fruit and sweetmeats, and lighted up
with
wax candles, causes such transports of joy. "You shall have a gift,
too,
if you behave well," said Charlotte, hiding her embarrassment under a
sweet smile. "And what do you call behaving well? What should I do,
what can I do, my dear Charlotte?" said he. "Thursday night," she
answered, "is Christmas Eve. The children are all to be here, and my
father too: there is a present for each; do you come likewise, but do
not come before that time." Werther started. "I desire you will not: it
must be so," she continued. "I ask it of you as a favour, for my own
peace and tranquillity. We cannot go on in this manner any longer." He
turned away his face, walked hastily up and down the room, muttering
indistinctly, "We cannot go on in this manner any longer!" Charlotte,
seeing the violent agitation into which these words had thrown him,
endeavoured to divert his thoughts by different questions, but in vain.
"No, Charlotte!" he exclaimed; "I will never see you anymore!" "And why
so?" she answered. "We may--we must see each other again; only let it
be with more discretion. Oh! why were you born with that excessive,
that ungovernable passion for everything that is dear to you?" Then,
taking his hand, she said: "I entreat of you to be more calm: your
talents, your understanding, your genius, will furnish you with a
thousand resources. Be a man, and conquer an unhappy attachment towards
a creature who can do nothing but pity you." He bit his lips, and
looked at her with a gloomy countenance. She continued to hold his
hand. "Grant me but a moment's patience, Werther," she said. "Do you
not see that you are deceiving yourself, that you are seeking your own
destruction? Why must you love me, me only, who belong to another? I
fear, I much fear, that it is only the impossibility of possessing me
which makes your desire for me so strong." He drew back his hand,
whilst he surveyed her with a wild and angry look. "Tis well!" he
exclaimed, "'tis very well! Did not Albert furnish you with this
reflection? It is profound, a very profound remark." "A reflection that
any one might easily make," she answered; "and is there not a woman in
the whole world who is at liberty, and has the power to make you happy?
Conquer yourself: look for such a being, and believe me when I say that
you will certainly find her. I have long felt for you, and for us all:
you have confined yourself too long within the limits of too narrow a
circle. Conquer yourself; make an effort: a short journey will be of
service to you. Seek and find an object worthy of your love; then
return hither and let us enjoy together all the happiness of the most
perfect friendship."

"This speech," replied Werther, with a cold smile,--"this speech should
be printed, for the benefit of all teachers. My dear Charlotte, allow
me but a short time longer, and all will be well." "But, however,
Werther," she added, "do not come again before Christmas." He was about
to make some answer, when Albert came in. They saluted each other
coldly, and with mutual embarrassment paced up and down the room.
Werther made some common remarks; Albert did the same, and their
conversation soon dropped. Albert asked his wife about some household
matters; and, finding that his commissions were not executed, he used
some expressions which, to Werther's ear, savoured of extreme
harshness. He wished to go, but had not power to move; and in this
situation he remained till eight o'clock, his uneasiness and discontent
continually increasing. At length the cloth was laid for supper, and he
took up his hat and stick. Albert invited him to remain; but Werther,
fancying that he was merely paying a formal compliment, thanked him
coldly and left the house.

Werther returned home, took the candle from his servant, and retired to
his room alone. He talked for some time with great earnestness to
himself, wept aloud, walked in a state of great excitement through his
chamber; till at length, without undressing, he threw himself on the
bed, where he was found by his servant at eleven o'clock, when the
latter ventured to enter the room and take off his boots. Werther did
not prevent him, but forbade him to come in the morning till he should
ring.

On Monday morning, the 21st of December, he wrote to Charlotte the
following letter, which was found, sealed, on his bureau after his
death, and was given to her. I shall insert it in fragments; as it
appears, from several circumstances, to have been written in that
manner.


"It is all over, Charlotte: I am resolved to die! I make this
declaration deliberately and coolly, without any romantic passion, on
this morning of the day when I am to see you for the last time. At the
moment you read these lines, O best of women, the cold grave will hold
the inanimate remains of that restless and unhappy being who in the
last moments of his existence knew no pleasure so great as that of
conversing with you! I have passed a dreadful night,--or rather, let me
say, a propitious one; for it has given me resolution, it has fixed my
purpose. I am resolved to die. When I tore myself from you yesterday,
my senses were in tumult and disorder; my heart was oppressed, hope and
pleasure had fled from me forever, and a petrifying cold had seized my
wretched being. I could scarcely reach my room. I threw myself on my
knees, and Heaven, for the last time, granted me the consolation of
shedding tears. A thousand ideas, a thousand schemes, arose within my
soul; till at length one last, fixed, final thought took possession of
my heart. It was to die. I lay down to rest; and in the morning, in the
quiet hour of awakening, the same determination was upon me. To die! It
is not despair: it is conviction that I have filled up the measure of
my sufferings, that I have reached my appointed term, and must
sacrifice myself for thee. Yes, Charlotte, why should I not avow it?
One of us three must die: it shall be Werther. O beloved Charlotte!
this heart, excited by rage and fury, has often conceived the horrid
idea of murdering your husband--you--myself! The lot is cast at length.
And in the bright, quiet evenings of summer, when you sometimes wander
towards the mountains, let your thoughts then turn to me: recollect how
often you have watched me coming to meet you from the valley; then bend
your eyes upon the churchyard which contains my grave, and, by the
light of the setting sun, mark how the evening breeze waves the tall
grass which grows above my tomb. I was calm when I began this letter,
but the recollection of these scenes makes me weep like a child."


About ten in the morning, Werther called his servant, and, whilst he
was dressing told him that in a few days he intended to set out upon a
journey, and bade him therefore lay his clothes in order, and prepare
them for packing up, call in all his accounts, fetch home the books he
had lent, and give two months' pay to the poor dependants who were
accustomed to receive from him a weekly allowance.

He breakfasted in his room, and then mounted his horse, and went to
visit the steward, who, however, was not at home. He walked pensively
in the garden, and seemed anxious to renew all the ideas that were most
painful to him.

The children did not suffer him to remain alone long. They followed
him, skipping and dancing before him, and told him that after
to-morrow--and to-morrow--and one day more, they were to receive
their Christmas gift from Charlotte; and they then recounted all the
wonders of which they had formed ideas in their child imaginations.
"Tomorrow--and to-morrow," said he, "and one day more!" And he kissed
them tenderly. He was going; but the younger boy stopped him, to
whisper something in his ear. He told him that his elder brothers had
written splendid New Year's wishes--so large!--one for papa, and
another for Albert and Charlotte, and one for Werther; and they were to
be presented early in the morning, on New-Year's Day. This quite
overcame him. He made each of the children a present, mounted his
horse, left his compliments for papa and mama, and, with tears in his
eyes, rode away from the place.

He returned home about five o'clock, ordered his servant to keep up his
fire, desired him to pack his books and linen at the bottom of the
trunk, and to place his coats at the top. He then appears to have made
the following addition to the letter addressed to Charlotte.--


"You do not expect me. You think I will obey you, and not visit you
again till Christmas Eve. Oh, Charlotte, to-day or never! On Christmas
Eve you will hold this paper in your hand; you will tremble, and
moisten it with your tears. I will--I must! Oh, how happy I feel to be
determined!"


In the mean time Charlotte was in a pitiable state of mind. After her
last conversation with Werther, she found how painful to herself it
would be to decline his visits, and knew how severely he would suffer
from their separation.

She had, in conversation with Albert, mentioned casually that Werther
would not return before Christmas Eve; and soon afterwards Albert went
on horseback to see a person in the neighbourhood, with whom he had to
transact some business which would detain him all night.

Charlotte was sitting alone. None of her family were near, and she gave
herself up to the reflections that silently took possession of her
mind. She was forever united to a husband whose love and fidelity she
had proved, to whom she was heartily devoted, and who seemed to be a
special gift from Heaven to insure her happiness. On the other hand,
Werther had become dear to her. There was a cordial unanimity of
sentiment between them from the very first hour of their acquaintance,
and their long association and repeated interviews had made an
indelible impression upon her heart. She had been accustomed to
communicate to him every thought and feeling which interested her, and
his absence threatened to open a void in her existence which it might
be impossible to fill. How heartily she wished that she might change
him into her brother,--that she could induce him to marry one of her
own friends, or could reestablish his intimacy with Albert.

She passed all her intimate friends in review before her mind, but
found something objectionable in each, and could decide upon none to
whom she would consent to give him.

Amid all these considerations she felt deeply but indistinctly that her
own real but unexpressed wish was to retain him for herself, and her
pure and amiable heart felt from this thought a sense of oppression
which seemed to forbid a prospect of happiness. She was wretched: a
dark cloud obscured her mental vision.

It was now half-past six o'clock, and she heard Werther's step on the
stairs. She at once recognised his voice, as he inquired if she were
at home. Her heart beat audibly--we could almost say for the first
time--at his arrival. It was too late to deny herself; and as he
entered, she exclaimed, with a sort of ill-concealed confusion, "You
have not kept your word!" "I promised nothing," he answered. "But you
should have complied, at least for my sake," she continued. "I implore
you, for both our sakes."

She scarcely knew what she said or did, and sent for some friends, who
by their presence might prevent her being left alone with Werther. He
put down some books he had brought with him, then made inquiries about
some others, until she began to hope that her friends might arrive
shortly, entertaining at the same time a desire that they might stay
away.

At one moment she felt anxious that the servant should remain in the
adjoining room, then she changed her mind. Werther, meanwhile, walked
impatiently up and down. She went to the piano, and determined not to
retire. She then collected her thoughts, and sat down quietly at
Werther's side, who had taken his usual place on the sofa.

"Have you brought nothing to read?" she inquired. He had nothing.
"There in my drawer," she continued, "you will find your own
translation of some of the songs of Ossian. I have not yet read them,
as I have still hoped to hear you recite them; but, for some time past,
I have not been able to accomplish such a wish." He smiled, and went
for the manuscript, which he took with a shudder. He sat down: and,
with eyes full of tears, he began to read.


"Star of descending night! fair is thy light in the west! thou liftest
thy unshorn head from thy cloud; thy steps are stately on thy hill.
What dost thou behold in the plain? The stormy winds are laid. The
murmur of the torrent comes from afar. Roaring waves climb the distant
rock. The flies of evening are on their feeble wings: the hum of their
course is on the field. What dost thou behold, fair light? But thou
dost smile and depart. The waves come with joy around thee: they bathe
thy lovely hair. Farewell, thou silent beam! Let the light of Ossian's
soul arise!

"And it does arise in its strength? I behold my departed friends. Their
gathering is on Lora, as in the days of other years. Fingal comes like
a watery column of mist! his heroes are around; and see the bards of
song,--gray-haired Ullin! stately Ryno! Alpin with the tuneful voice!
the soft complaint of Minona! How are ye changed, my friends, since the
days of Selma's feast, when we contended, like gales of spring as they
fly along the hill, and bend by turns the feebly whistling grass!

"Minona came forth in her beauty, with downcast look and tearful eye.
Her hair was flying slowly with the blast that rushed unfrequent from
the hill. The souls of the heroes were sad when she raised the tuneful
voice. Oft had they seen the grave of Salgar, the dark dwelling of
white-bosomed Colma. Colma left alone on the hill with all her voice of
song! Salgar promised to come; but the night descended around. Hear the
voice of Colma, when she sat alone on the hill!

"_Colma_. It is night: I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The
wind is heard on the mountain. The torrent is howling down the rock. No
hut receives me from the rain: forlorn on the hill of winds!

"Rise, moon, from behind thy clouds! Stars of the night, arise I Lead
me, some light, to the place where my love rests from the chase alone!
His bow near him unstrung, his dogs panting around him! But here I must
sit alone by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the wind roar
aloud. I hear not the voice of my love! Why delays my Salgar; why the
chief of the hill his promise? Here is the rock, and here the tree;
here is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here.
Ah! whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly from my father,
with thee from my brother of pride. Our race have long been foes: we
are not foes, O Salgar!

"Cease a little while, O winds! stream, be thou silent awhile! Let my
voice be heard around; let my wanderer hear me! Salgar! it is Colma who
calls. Here is the tree and the rock. Salgar, my love, I am here! Why
delayest thou thy coming? Lo! the calm moon comes forth. The flood is
bright in the vale; the rocks are gray on the steep. I see him not on
the brow. His dogs come not before him with tidings of his near
approach. Here I must sit alone!

"Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love and my brother? Speak
to me, O my friends! To Colma they give no reply. Speak to me: I am
alone! My soul is tormented with fears. Ah, they are dead! Their swords
are red from the fight. Oh, my brother! my brother! why hast thou slain
my Salgar? Why, O Salgar! hast thou slain my brother? Dear were ye both
to me! what shall I say in your praise? Thou wert fair on the hill
among thousands! he was terrible in fight! Speak to me! hear my voice!
hear me, sons of my love! They are silent, silent forever! Cold, cold,
are their breasts of clay! Oh, from the rock on the hill, from the top
of the windy steep, speak, ye ghosts of the dead! Speak, I will not be
afraid! Whither are ye gone to rest? In what cave of the hill shall I
find the departed? No feeble voice is on the gale: no answer half
drowned in the storm!

"I sit in my grief: I wait for morning in my tears! Rear the tomb, ye
friends of the dead. Close it not till Colma come. My life flies away
like a dream. Why should I stay behind? Here shall I rest with my
friends, by the stream of the sounding rock. When night comes on the
hill,--when the loud winds arise, my ghost shall stand in the blast,
and mourn the death of my friends. The hunter shall hear from his
booth; he shall fear, but love my voice! For sweet shall my voice be
for my friends: pleasant were her friends to Colma.

"Such was thy song, Minona, softly blushing daughter of Torman. Our
tears descended for Colma, and our souls were sad! Ullin came with his
harp; he gave the song of Alpin. The voice of Alpin was pleasant; the
soul of Ryno was a beam of fire! But they had rested in the narrow
house: their voice had ceased in Selma! Ullin had returned one day from
the chase before the heroes fell. He heard their strife on the hill:
their song was soft, but sad! They mourned the fall of Morar, first of
mortal men! His soul was like the soul of Fingal; his sword like the
sword of Oscar. But he fell, and his father mourned; his sister's eyes
were full of tears. Minona's eyes were full of tears, the sister of
car-borne Morar. She retired from the song of Ullin, like the moon in
the west, when she foresees the shower, and hides her fair head in a
cloud. I touched the harp with Ullin: the song of mourning rose!

"_Ryno_. The wind and the rain are past; calm is the noon of day. The
clouds are divided in heaven. Over the green hills flies the inconstant
sun. Red through the stony vale comes down the stream of the hill.
Sweet are thy murmurs, O stream! but more sweet is the voice I hear. It
is the voice of Alpin, the son of song, mourning for the dead! Bent is
his head of age; red his tearful eye. Alpin, thou son of song, why
alone on the silent hill? why complainest thou, as a blast in the
wood,--as a wave on the lonely shore?

"_Alpin_. My tears, O Ryno! are for the dead,--my voice for those that
have passed away. Tall thou art on the hill; fair among the sons of the
vale. But thou shall fall like Morar; the mourner shall sit on thy
tomb. The hills shall know thee no more; thy bow shall lie in thy hall
unstrung!

"Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a roe on the desert; terrible as a meteor
of fire. Thy wrath was as the storm; thy sword in battle as lightning
in the field. Thy voice was a stream after rain, like thunder on
distant bills. Many fell by thy arm: they were consumed in the flames
of thy wrath. But when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was thy
brow! Thy face was like the sun after rain, like the moon in the
silence of night; calm as the breast of the lake when the loud wind is
laid.

"Narrow is thy dwelling now! dark the place of thine abode! With three
steps I compass thy grave, O thou who wast so great before! Four
stones, with their heads of moss, are the only memorial of thee. A tree
with scarce a leaf, long grass which whistles in the wind, mark to the
hunter's eye the grave of the mighty Morar. Morar! thou art low indeed.
Thou hast no mother to mourn thee, no maid with her tears of love. Dead
is she that brought thee forth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglan.

"Who on his staff is this? Who is this whose head is white with age,
whose eyes are red with tears, who quakes at every step? It is thy
father, O Morar! the father of no son but thee. He heard of thy fame in
war, he heard of foes dispersed. He heard of Morar's renown; why did he
not hear of his wound? Weep, thou father of Morar! Weep, but thy son
heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of the dead,--low their pillow of
dust. No more shall he hear thy voice,--no more awake at thy call. When
shall it be morn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake? Farewell,
thou bravest of men! thou conqueror in the field! but the field shall
see thee no more, nor the dark wood be lightened with the splendour of
thy steel. Thou hast left no son. The song shall preserve thy name.
Future times shall hear of thee,--they shall hear of the fallen Morar!

"The grief of all arose, but most the bursting sigh of Armin. He
remembers the death of his son, who fell in the days of his youth.
Carmor was near the hero, the chief of the echoing Galmal. Why burst
the sigh of Armin? he said. Is there a cause to mourn? The song comes
with its music to melt and please the soul. It is like soft mist that,
rising from a lake, pours on the silent vale; the green flowers are
filled with dew, but the sun returns in his strength, and the mist is
gone. Why art thou sad, O Armin, chief of sea-surrounded Gorma?

"Sad I am! nor small is my cause of woe! Carmor, thou hast lost no son;
thou hast lost no daughter of beauty. Colgar the valiant lives, and
Annira, fairest maid. The boughs of thy house ascend, O Carmor! but
Armin is the last of his race. Dark is thy bed, O Daura! deep thy sleep
in the tomb! When shalt thou wake with thy songs,--with all thy voice
of music?

"Arise, winds of autumn, arise; blow along the heath! Streams of the
mountains, roar; roar, tempests in the groves of my oaks! Walk through
broken clouds, O moon! show thy pale face at intervals; bring to my
mind the night when all my children fell.--when Arindal the mighty
fell, when Daura the lovely failed. Daura, my daughter, thou wert
fair,--fair as the moon on Fura, white as the driven snow, sweet as the
breathing gale. Arindal, thy bow was strong, thy spear was swift on the
field, thy look was like mist on the wave, thy shield a red cloud in a
storm! Armar, renowned in war, came and sought Daura's love. He was not
long refused: fair was the hope of their friends.

"Erath, son of Odgal, repined: his brother had been slain by Armar. He
came disguised like a son of the sea: fair was his cliff on the wave,
white his locks of age, calm his serious brow. Fairest of women, he
said, lovely daughter of Armin! a rock not distant in the sea bears a
tree on its side: red shines the fruit afar. There Armar waits for
Daura. I come to carry his love! She went,--she called on Armar. Naught
answered, but the son of the rock. Armar, my love, my love! why
tormentest thou me with fear? Hear, son of Arnart, hear! it is Daura
who calleth thee. Erath, the traitor, fled laughing to the land. She
lifted up her voice,--she called for her brother and her father.
Arindal! Armin! none to relieve you, Daura.

"Her voice came over the sea. Arindal, my son, descended from the hill,
rough in the spoils of the chase. His arrows rattled by his side: his
bow was in his hand, five dark-gray dogs attended his steps. He saw
fierce Erath on the shore; he seized and bound him to an oak. Thick
wind the thongs of the hide around his limbs; he loads the winds with
his groans. Arindal ascends the deep in his boat to bring Daura to
land. Armar came in his wrath, and let fly the gray-feathered shaft. It
sung, it sunk in thy heart, O Arindal, my son! for Erath the traitor
thou diest. The oar is stopped at once: he panted on the rock and
expired. What is thy grief, O Daura, when round thy feet is poured thy
brother's blood? The boat is broken in twain. Armar plunges into the
sea to rescue his Daura, or die. Sudden a blast from a hill came over
the waves; he sank, and he rose no more.

"Alone, on the sea-beat rock, my daughter was heard to complain;
frequent and loud were her cries. What could her father do? All night I
stood on the shore: I saw her by the faint beam of the moon. All night
I heard her cries. Loud was the wind; the rain beat hard on the hill.
Before morning appeared, her voice was weak; it died away like the
evening breeze among the grass of the rocks. Spent with grief, she
expired, and left thee, Armin, alone. Gone is my strength in war,
fallen my pride among women. When the storms aloft arise, when the
north lifts the wave on high, I sit by the sounding shore, and look on
the fatal rock.

"Often by the setting moon I see the ghosts of my children; half
viewless they walk in mournful conference together."


A torrent of tears which streamed from Charlotte's eyes, and gave
relief to her bursting heart, stopped Werther's recitation. He threw
down the book, seized her hand, and wept bitterly Charlotte leaned upon
her hand, and buried her face in her handkerchief: the agitation of
both was excessive. They felt that their own fate was pictured in the
misfortunes of Ossian's heroes,--they felt this together, and their
tears redoubled. Werther supported his forehead on Charlotte's arm: she
trembled, she wished to be gone; but sorrow and sympathy lay like a
leaden weight upon her soul. She recovered herself shortly, and begged
Werther, with broken sobs, to leave her,--implored him with the utmost
earnestness to comply with her request. He trembled; his heart was
ready to burst: then taking up the book again, he recommenced reading,
in a voice broken by sobs.


"Why dost thou waken me, O Spring. Thy voice woos me, exclaiming, I
refresh thee with heavenly dews; but the time of my decay is
approaching, the storm is nigh that shall wither my leaves. To-morrow
the traveller shall come,--he shall come, who beheld me in beauty: his
eye shall seek me in the field around, but he shall not find me."


The whole force of these words fell upon the unfortunate Werther. Full
of despair, he threw himself at Charlotte's feet, seized her hands, and
pressed them to his eyes and to his forehead. An apprehension of his
fatal project now struck her for the first time. Her senses were
bewildered: she held his hands, pressed them to her bosom; and, leaning
towards him with emotions of the tenderest pity, her warm cheek touched
his. They lost sight of everything. The world disappeared from their
eyes. He clasped her in his arms, strained her to his bosom, and
covered her trembling lips with passionate kisses. "Werther!" she cried
with a faint voice, turning herself away; "Werther!" and, with a feeble
hand, she pushed him from her. At length, with the firm voice of
virtue, she exclaimed, "Werther!" He resisted not, but, tearing himself
from her arms, fell on his knees before her. Charlotte rose, and with
disordered grief, in mingled tones of love and resentment, she
exclaimed, "It is the last time, Werther! You shall never see me any
more!" Then, casting one last, tender look upon her unfortunate lover,
she rushed into the adjoining room, and locked the door. Werther held
out his arms, but did not dare to detain her. He continued on the
ground, with his head resting on the sofa, for half an hour, till he
heard a noise which brought him to his senses. The servant entered. He
then walked up and down the room; and when he was again left alone, he
went to Charlotte's door, and, in a low voice, said, "Charlotte,
Charlotte! but one word more, one last adieu!" She returned no answer.
He stopped, and listened and entreated; but all was silent. At length
he tore himself from the place, crying, "Adieu, Charlotte, adieu
forever!"

Werther ran to the gate of the town. The guards, who knew him, let him
pass in silence. The night was dark and stormy,--it rained and snowed.
He reached his own door about eleven. His servant, although seeing him
enter the house without his hat, did not venture to say anything; and
as he undressed his master, he found that his clothes were wet. His hat
was afterwards found on the point of a rock overhanging the valley; and
it is inconceivable how he could have climbed to the summit on such a
dark, tempestuous night without losing his life.

He retired to bed, and slept to a late hour. The next morning his
servant, upon being called to bring his coffee, found him writing. He
was adding, to Charlotte, what we here annex.


"For the last, last time, I open these eyes. Alas! they will behold the
sun no more. It is covered by a thick, impenetrable cloud. Yes, Nature!
put on mourning; your child, your friend, your lover, draws near his
end! This thought, Charlotte, is without parallel: and yet it seems
like a mysterious dream when I repeat--This is my last day! The last!
Charlotte, no word can adequately express this thought. The last!
To-day I stand erect in all my strength,--to-morrow, cold and stark, I
shall lie extended upon the ground. To die! What is death? We do but
dream in our discourse upon it. I have seen many human beings die; but,
so straitened is our feeble nature, we have no clear conception of the
beginning or the end of our existence. At this moment I am my own,--or
rather I am thine, thine, my adored!--and the next we are parted,
severed--perhaps forever! No, Charlotte, no! How can I, how can you, be
annihilated? We exist. What is annihilation? A mere word, an unmeaning
sound, that fixes no impression on the mind. Dead, Charlotte! laid in
the cold earth, in the dark and narrow grave! I had a friend once who
was everything to me in early youth. She died. I followed her hearse; I
stood by her grave when the coffin was lowered; and when I heard the
creaking of the cords as they were loosened and drawn up, when the
first shovelful of earth was thrown in, and the coffin returned a
hollow sound, which grew fainter and fainter till all was completely
covered over, I threw myself on the ground; my heart was smitten,
grieved, shattered, rent--but I neither knew what had happened nor what
was to happen to me. Death! the grave! I understand not the words.
Forgive, oh, forgive me! Yesterday--ah, that day should have been the
last of my life! Thou angel!--for the first--first time in my
existence, I felt rapture glow within my inmost soul. She loves, she
loves me! Still burns upon my lips the sacred fire they received from
thine. New torrents of delight overwhelm my soul. Forgive me, oh,
forgive!

"I knew that I was dear to you; I saw it in your first entrancing look,
knew it by the first pressure of your hand; but when I was absent from
you, when I saw Albert at your side, my doubts and fears returned.

"Do you remember the flowers you sent me, when at that crowded assembly
you could neither speak nor extend your hand to me? Half the night I
was on my knees before those flowers, and I regarded them as the
pledges of your love; but those impressions grew fainter, and were at
length effaced.

"Everything passes away; but a whole eternity could not extinguish the
living flame which was yesterday kindled by your lips, and which now
burns within me. She loves me! These arms have encircled her waist,
these lips have trembled upon hers. She is mine! Yes, Charlotte, you
are mine forever!

"And what do they mean by saying Albert is your husband? He may be so
for this world; and in this world it is a sin to love you, to wish to
tear you from his embrace. Yes, it is a crime; and I suffer the
punishment, but I have enjoyed the full delight of my sin. I have
inhaled a balm that has revived my soul. From this hour you are mine;
yes, Charlotte, you are mine! I go before you. I go to my Father and to
your Father. I will pour out my sorrows before him, and he will give me
comfort till you arrive. Then will I fly to meet you. I will claim you,
and remain in your eternal embrace, in the presence of the Almighty.

"I do not dream, I do not rave. Drawing nearer to the grave, my
perceptions become clearer. We shall exist; we shall see each other
again; we shall behold your mother; I shall behold her, and expose to
her my inmost heart. Your mother--your image!"


About eleven o'clock Werther asked his servant if Albert had returned.
He answered, "Yes;" for he had seen him pass on horseback: upon which
Werther sent him the following note, unsealed:--


"Be so good as to lend me your pistols for a journey. Adieu."


Charlotte had slept little during the past night. All her apprehensions
were realised in a way that she could neither foresee nor avoid. Her
blood was boiling in her veins, and a thousand painful sensations rent
her pure heart. Was it the ardour of Werther's passionate embraces that
she felt within her bosom? Was it anger at his daring? Was it the sad
comparison of her present condition with former days of innocence,
tranquillity, and self-confidence? How could she approach her husband,
and confess a scene which she had no reason to conceal, and which she
yet felt, nevertheless, unwilling to avow? They had preserved so long a
silence towards each other--and should she be the first to break it by
so unexpected a discovery? She feared that the mere statement of
Werther's visit would trouble him, and his distress would be heightened
by her perfect candour. She wished that he could see her in her true
light, and judge her without prejudice; but was she anxious that he
should read her inmost soul? On the other hand, could she deceive a
being to whom all her thoughts had ever been exposed as clearly as
crystal, and from whom no sentiment had ever been concealed? These
reflections made her anxious and thoughtful. Her mind still dwelt on
Werther, who was now lost to her, but whom she could not bring herself
to resign, and for whom she knew nothing was left but despair if she
should be lost to him forever.

A recollection of that mysterious estrangement which had lately
subsisted between herself and Albert, and which she could never
thoroughly understand, was now beyond measure painful to her. Even the
prudent and the good have, before now, hesitated to explain their
mutual differences, and have dwelt in silence upon their imaginary
grievances, until circumstances have become so entangled that in that
critical juncture, when a calm explanation would have saved all
parties, an understanding was impossible. And thus if domestic
confidence had been earlier established between them, if love and kind
forbearance had mutually animated and expanded their hearts, it might
not, perhaps, even yet have been too late to save our friend.

But we must not forget one remarkable circumstance. We may observe,
from the character of Werther's correspondence, that he had never
affected to conceal his anxious desire to quit this world. He had often
discussed the subject with Albert; and between the latter and Charlotte
it had not unfrequently formed a topic of conversation. Albert was so
opposed to the very idea of such an action, that, with a degree of
irritation unusual in him, he had more than once given Werther to
understand that he doubted the seriousness of his threats, and not only
turned them into ridicule, but caused Charlotte to share his feelings
of incredulity. Her heart was thus tranquillised when she felt disposed
to view the melancholy subject in a serious point of view, though she
never communicated to her husband the apprehensions she sometimes
experienced.

Albert, upon his return, was received by Charlotte with ill-concealed
embarrassment. He was himself out of humour: his business was
unfinished; and he had just discovered that the neighbouring official,
with whom he had to deal, was an obstinate and narrow-minded personage.
Many things had occurred to irritate him.

He inquired whether anything had happened during his absence, and
Charlotte hastily answered that Werther had been there on the evening
previously. He then inquired for his letters, and was answered that
several packages had been left in his study. He thereon retired,
leaving Charlotte alone.

The presence of the being she loved and honoured produced a new
impression on her heart. The recollection of his generosity, kindness,
and affection had calmed her agitation: a secret impulse prompted her
to follow him; she took her work and went to his study, as was often
her custom. He was busily employed opening and reading his letters. It
seemed as if the contents of some were disagreeable. She asked some
questions: he gave short answers, and sat down to write.

Several hours passed in this manner, and Charlotte's feelings became
more and more melancholy. She felt the extreme difficulty of explaining
to her husband, under any circumstances, the weight that lay upon her
heart; and her depression became every moment greater, in proportion as
she endeavoured to hide her grief and to conceal her tears.

The arrival of Werther's servant occasioned her the greatest
embarrassment. He gave Albert a note, which the latter coldly handed to
his wife, saying, at the same time, "Give him the pistols. I wish
him a pleasant journey," he added, turning to the servant. These
words fell upon Charlotte like a thunder-stroke: she rose from her seat
half-fainting, and unconscious of what she did. She walked mechanically
towards the wall, took down the pistols with a trembling hand, slowly
wiped the dust from them, and would have delayed longer, had not Albert
hastened her movements by an impatient look. She then delivered the
fatal weapons to the servant, without being able to utter a word. As
soon as he had departed, she folded up her work, and retired at once to
her room, her heart overcome with the most fearful forebodings. She
anticipated some dreadful calamity. She was at one moment on the point
of going to her husband, throwing herself at his feet, and acquainting
him with all that had happened on the previous evening, that she might
acknowledge her fault, and explain her apprehension; then she saw that
such a step would be useless, as she would certainly be unable to
induce Albert to visit Werther. Dinner was served; and a kind friend
whom she had persuaded to remain assisted to sustain the conversation,
which was carried on by a sort of compulsion, till the events of the
morning were forgotten.

When the servant brought the pistols to Werther, the latter received
them with transports of delight upon hearing that Charlotte had given
them to him with her own hand. He ate some bread, drank some wine, sent
his servant to dinner, and then sat down to write as follows:


"They have been in your hands--you wiped the dust from them. I kiss
them a thousand times--you have touched them. Yes, Heaven favours my
design--and you, Charlotte, provide me with the fatal instruments. It
was my desire to receive my death from your hands, and my wish is
gratified. I have made inquiries of my servant. You trembled when you
gave him the pistols, but you bade me no adieu. Wretched, wretched that
I am,--not one farewell! How could you shut your heart against me in
that hour which makes you mine forever? Oh, Charlotte, ages cannot
efface the impression,--I feel you cannot hate the man who so
passionately loves you!"


After dinner he called his servant, desired him to finish the packing
up, destroyed many papers, and then went out to pay some trifling
debts. He soon returned home, then went out again notwithstanding the
rain, walked for some time in the count's garden, and afterwards
proceeded farther into the country. Towards evening he came back once
more, and resumed his writing.


"Wilhelm, I have for the last time beheld the mountains, the forests,
and the sky. Farewell! And you, my dearest mother, forgive me! Console
her, Wilhelm. God bless you! I have settled all my affairs! Farewell!
We shall meet again, and be happier than ever."

"I have requited you badly, Albeit; but you will forgive me. I have
disturbed the peace of your home. I have sowed distrust between you.
Farewell! I will end all this wretchedness. And oh that my death may
render you happy! Albert, Albert! make that angel happy, and the
blessing of Heaven be upon you!"


He spent the rest of the evening in arranging his papers; he tore and
burned a great many; others he sealed up, and directed to Wilhelm. They
contained some detached thoughts and maxims, some of which I have
perused. At ten o'clock he ordered his fire to be made up, and a bottle
of wine to be brought to him. He then dismissed his servant, whose
room, as well as the apartments of the rest of the family, was situated
in another part of the house. The servant lay down without undressing,
that he might be the sooner ready for his journey in the morning, his
master having informed him that the post-horses would be at the door
before six o'clock.


"Past eleven o'clock! All is silent around me, and my soul is calm. I
thank thee, O God, that thou bestowest strength and courage upon me in
these last moments! I approach the window, my dearest of friends; and
through the clouds, which are at this moment driven rapidly along by
the impetuous winds, I behold the stars which illumine the eternal
heavens. No, you will not fall, celestial bodies: the hand of the
Almighty supports both you and me! I have looked for the last time upon
the constellation of the Greater Bear: it is my favourite star; for
when I bade you farewell at night, Charlotte, and turned my steps from
your door, it always shone upon me. With what rapture have I at times
beheld it! How often have I implored it with uplifted hands to witness
my felicity! and even still--But what object is there, Charlotte, which
fails to summon up your image before me? Do you not surround me on all
sides? and have I not, like a child, treasured up every trifle which
you have consecrated by your touch?

"Your profile, which was so dear to me, I return to you; and I pray you
to preserve it. Thousands of kisses have I imprinted upon it, and a
thousand times has it gladdened my heart on departing from and
returning to my home.

"I have implored your father to protect my remains. At the corner
of the churchyard, looking towards the fields, there are two
lime-trees,--there I wish to lie. Your father can, and doubtless will,
do thus much for his friend. Implore it of him. But perhaps pious
Christians will not choose that their bodies should be buried near the
corpse of a poor, unhappy wretch like me. Then let me be laid in some
remote valley, or near the highway, where the priest and Levite may
bless themselves as they pass by my tomb, whilst the Samaritan will
shed a tear for my fate.

"See, Charlotte, I do not shudder to take the cold and fatal cup, from
which I shall drink the draught of death. Your hand presents it to me,
and I do not tremble. All, all is now concluded: the wishes and the
hopes of my existence are fulfilled. With cold, unflinching hand I
knock at the brazen portals of Death.

"Oh that I had enjoyed the bliss of dying for you! how gladly would I
have sacrificed myself for you, Charlotte! And could I but restore
peace and joy to your bosom, with what resolution, with what joy, would
I not meet my fate! But it is the lot of only a chosen few to shed
their blood for their friends, and by their death to augment a thousand
times the happiness of those by whom they are beloved.

"I wish, Charlotte, to be buried in the dress I wear at present: it has
been rendered sacred by your touch. I have begged this favour of your
father. My spirit soars above my sepulchre. I do not wish my pockets to
be searched. The knot of pink ribbon which you wore on your bosom the
first time I saw you, surrounded by the children--Oh, kiss them a
thousand times for me, and tell them the fate of their unhappy friend!
I think I see them playing around me. The dear children! How warmly
have I been attached to you, Charlotte! Since the first hour I saw you,
how impossible have I found it to leave you! This ribbon must be buried
with me: it was a present from you on my birthday. How confused it all
appears! Little did I then think that I should journey this road! But
peace! I pray you, peace!

"They are loaded--the clock strikes twelve. I say amen. Charlotte,
Charlotte! farewell, farewell!"


A neighbor saw the flash, and heard the report of the pistol; but as
everything remained quiet, he thought no more of it.

In the morning, at six o'clock, the servant went into Werther's room
with a candle. He found his master stretched upon the floor, weltering
in his blood, and the pistols at his side. He called, he took him in
his arms, but received no answer. Life was not yet quite extinct. The
servant ran for a surgeon, and then went to fetch Albert. Charlotte
heard the ringing of the bell; a cold shudder seized her. She wakened
her husband and they both rose. The servant, bathed in tears, faltered
forth the dreadful news. Charlotte fell senseless at Albert's feet.

When the surgeon came to the unfortunate Werther, he was still lying on
the floor; and his pulse beat, but his limbs were cold. The bullet,
entering the forehead over the right eye, had penetrated the skull. A
vein was opened in his right arm; the blood came, and he still
continued to breathe.

From the blood which flowed from the chair, it could be inferred that
he had committed the rash act sitting at his bureau, and that he
afterwards fell upon the floor. He was found lying on his back near the
window. He was in full-dress costume.

The house, the neighbourhood, and the whole town were immediately in
commotion. Albert arrived. They had laid Werther on the bed. His head
was bound up, and the paleness of death was upon his face. His limbs
were motionless; but he still breathed, at one time strongly, then
weaker,--his death was momently expected.

He had drunk only one glass of the wine. "Emilia Galotti" lay open upon
his bureau.

I shall say nothing of Albert's distress or of Charlotte's grief.

The old steward hastened to the house immediately upon hearing the
news; he embraced his dying friend amid a flood of tears. His eldest
boys soon followed him on foot. In speechless sorrow they threw
themselves on their knees by the bedside, and kissed his hands and
face. The eldest, who was his favourite, hung over him till he expired;
and even then he was removed by force. At twelve o'clock Werther
breathed his last. The presence of the steward, and the precautions he
had adopted, prevented a disturbance; and that night, at the hour of
eleven, he caused the body to be interred in the place which Werther
had selected for himself.

The steward and his sons followed the corpse to the grave. Albert was
unable to accompany them. Charlotte's life was despaired of. The body
was carried by labourers. No priest attended.





                       THE BANNER OF THE UPRIGHT
                                 SEVEN


                                   BY
                            GOTTFRIED KELLER


                             TRANSLATED BY
                              MURIEL ALMON




                           BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE


Gottfried Keller was born in Zurich on July 19, 1819. His father, who
was a turner, died when his son was only five; but his energetic and
devoted mother contrived to provide Gottfried with a good elementary
education. When he was fifteen he was expelled from school for taking
part in a boyish conspiracy against a teacher, and he at once set about
becoming a painter. Finding it difficult to obtain proper instruction
in Zurich, he went in 1840 to Munich; but though the opportunities of
the Bavarian capital were important for his general development, he
returned home in 1842 without assurance of making a success in his art.
The next six years, spent at home with his mother and sister, saw his
gradual turning from painting to literature; and in 1846 he issued a
volume of poems to which little attention was paid. When he was
twenty-nine, the government of the canton gave him a scholarship of
eight hundred francs for foreign study, and with this he went to
Heidelberg, where, in spite of the confusion of the revolution of 1848,
he made friends of men like Henle the pathologist, Hettner the literary
historian, and Feuerbach the philosopher, all of whom had a profound
effect upon his thinking. From Heidelberg he went to Berlin, where he
hoped to equip himself as a dramatist; and there in 1854-5 he published
his great autobiographical novel, "Green Henry." This work was
appreciated by his friends and brought him some money, though at the
time no very wide reputation, and after six years of semi-starvation in
the Prussian capital he again went home to his mother's house. "The
People of Seldwyla," a collection of admirable short stories, was
issued in 1856, but still he made no great popular success.

But at last fortune favored him when, in 1861, he was appointed Clerk
of the Canton of Zurich, a position he filled efficiently for fifteen
years. In 1872 appeared his "Seven Legends," the whimsical humor and
mock realism of which brought general recognition. Five years later
came the historical stories called "Zurich Novels"; in 1881 "The
Epigram"; in 1883 "Collected Poems," establishing his place as a lyric
poet of high rank; and in 1886 "Martin Salander," a novel of
contemporary Switzerland. His genius was now generally recognized both
at home and abroad; and when he died on July 15, 1890, he stood at the
head of German letters. He was never married.

Keller was a writer of great independence, and cannot be classed with
any of the schools. The closeness of his observation and his fidelity
in rendering both the good and the bad sides of life ally him with the
realists; but his imagination was too much alive to allow of his being
properly described by their label. He knew the Swiss of his own time
intimately, and he has portrayed them in their homely provincialism as
well as in their sturdy self-respect and love of freedom.

"The Banner of the Upright Seven," one of the stories from "The People
of Seldwyla," is an excellent example of the faculty which made him the
greatest of German humorists. The story has genuine sentiment, but
sentiment restrained as always in his books; it has sympathy for
youthful ambition and youthful love, as well as for the political
enthusiasm of the delightful old fellows whose name it bears; but both
sentiment and sympathy are overshadowed by the rich humor which
pervades the whole. Pure Swiss it no doubt is, but its appeal is to all
hearts open to wholesome human affection and aspirations.

                                                    W. A. N.




                     CRITICISMS AND INTERPRETATIONS



                                   I
                          By John Firman Coar


Schiller has been criticised for letting the Swiss peasants in "William
Tell" speak as they do. What peasants, it is asked, would utter such
thoughts? The peasants and simple burghers of the life that Keller
studied and depicted is the reply. To a German these peasants seem
curiously unreal. But Keller was no idealist when he depicted peasant
and burgher life. His people speak as they think and they think as they
speak, and they do both as Keller knew them to do it in everyday life.
Theirs was the inestimable benefit of democratic government and
democratic culture. A compact nationality, self-educated to the duties
and privileges of citizenship, leaders in the widest possible
dissemination of knowledge as the best guaranty of civic progress and
justice--could Keller, a Swiss, depict the life of this people as
anything else than a civic and intellectual democracy?

This perspective gives to situations, characters, and actions their
true proportions. They are supremely real. His individuals are not
equal in civic worth and intellectual capacity, but shade off in
wonderfully fine lines, thereby enhancing the effect. Paragons and
deep-dyed villains do not challenge our credulity, nor are we wearied
by the persistent greetings of familiar faces in new garments. One of
the triumphs of Keller's art is the ever new form in which humanity
presents itself. And this is the glory of his social democracy, that it
recognizes the inviolable right of individuality, since it founds state
and society upon the achievement of individual worth. Ethic manhood is
something that neither state nor society can impart. It lies in the
power of the individual to make or unmake his life, and he alone can
solve the secret of his personality. Easier it is for him to do so amid
surroundings that open his heart to the great glory of life, but still
he alone can do so. That is Keller's doctrine.

Keller grew to manhood in surroundings which were as nearly identical
with Schiller's philosophic ideal of freedom as human conditions can
well be. The Switzerland of his manhood days was the best possible
justification of the ideal picture that Schiller drew in "William
Tell." Therefore the optimism of Keller is so sturdy, so free from
sentimentality, and so thoroughly human. His poetry is the noblest
consummation of Heine's gospel of the divine beauty of life.

Keller believed with all his soul in the self-redemption of society,
and used the word society in its broadest signification. And his belief
was vitalized by that which he saw in Swiss life. The germs of the past
were bearing fruit in the present, and in the present the germs of a
future harvest were swelling. He was not one of those complacent
optimists who cannot discern with critical eye and whose complacency
deadens the best impulses and stands in the way of energetic striving.
Swiss life in his stories is by no means a paradise. His words to B.
Auerbach (June 25, 1860) betoken the attitude he took toward this life,
as they also reveal the genuine democracy of his artistic striving:
"Here in Switzerland we have, to be sure, many good qualities, and in
respect to public character, evidently at present an honest purpose to
acquire respectable and inspiriting forms of living, and the people is
proving itself plastic (mobile), happy, and buoyant; but all is not
gold that glitters by any means. However, I consider it the duty of a
poet not merely to glorify the past, but to strengthen the present, the
germs of the future, and beautify it in such a manner that people may
still be able to believe: yes, we are like that, and that is the course
of our life. If poets do this with a certain measure of kindly irony
which deprives their productions of false pathos, then I am convinced
that the people will come to be in fact and in appearance what it
good-naturedly imagines itself to be and what even now it really is in
its inmost disposition."--From "Studies in German Literature" (1903).



                                   II
                            By Calvin Thomas

Up to a dozen years before his death Keller had received little
attention in Germany; to-day there is a library of books about him, and
he is universally considered a fixed star of high magnitude. While he
was an ardent Swiss republican, and while the life that he depicts is
almost exclusively Swiss, the Germans of the empire have pretty
generally accepted him as their greatest master of prose fiction since
Goethe.

Keller was a romantic realist with the soul of a poet, the eye of a man
of science, and the temperament of an artist who loves life in all its
manifestations. But this leaves his humour out of the account, and his
humour is precisely the best part of him. In a broad sense he is
didactic--like Goethe; that is, he felt that it was his mission to
comprehend and describe the character of his Swiss countrymen, to the
end of furthering them toward higher ideals of communal life. But this
attitude never clouds his vision for the facts. He sees at every pore,
as Emerson said of Goethe. He does not select ugliness for special or
angry scrutiny, any more than he avoids it through excess of
daintiness, but takes all things as they come. What he offers is not
medicine but food--the nourishment of sane and delightful art. But no
one should go to him for an exciting narrative. His spell is not in his
plot. In "Green Henry," particularly, his pace is so very leisurely
that one sometimes wishes there were not so many little things to be
taken note of by the way.--From "A History of German Literature"
(1909).




                           THE BANNER OF THE
                             UPRIGHT SEVEN


Kaspar Hediger, master tailor of Zurich, had reached the age at which
an industrious craftsman begins to allow himself a brief hour of rest
after dinner. So it happened that one beautiful March day he was
sitting not in his manual but in his mental workshop, a small, separate
room which for years he had reserved for himself. He was glad that the
weather was warm enough for him to occupy it again. In winter neither
the old customs of his class nor his income permitted him to have an
extra room heated simply that he might sit there to read. And this was
at a time when there were already tailors who went shooting and rode
their horses daily, so closely do the gradations of culture dovetail
into one another.

Master Hediger, however, might have been proud of the appearance he
presented in his neatly kept little back room. He looked almost more
like an American settler than a tailor. A strong and intelligent face
with heavy whiskers, surmounted by a powerful, bald dome was bending
over "The Swiss Republican," while he read the leading article with a
critical expression. There were at least twenty-five well-bound folio
volumes of this "Republican" in a little walnut bookcase with a
glass door, and they contained scarcely anything that Hediger, for
twenty-five years, had not lived and fought through. The case also held
Rotteck's "Universal History," a Swiss history by Johannes Mueller, and
a handful of political brochures and such like; a geographical atlas
and a portfolio full of caricatures and pamphlets--mementoes of
bitterly passionate days--lay on the lowest shelf. The wall of the
little room was adorned with the portraits of Columbus, Zwingli,
Hutten, Washington, and Robespierre; for Hediger was not to be trifled
with and sanctioned the Reign of Terror, after it was over. Besides
these world-famous heroes, there were portraits of several progressive
Swiss to which were affixed in their own handwriting highly edifying
and discursive inscriptions, regular little essays. Leaning against the
bookcase was a well-kept, shining musket with a short side-arm hanging
on it and a cartridge-pouch in which, at all times, there were thirty
cartridges. That was his fowling-piece with which he went out, not for
hares and partridges, but for aristocrats and Jesuits, for breakers of
the constitution and traitors to the people. Until now his lucky star
had kept him from shedding any blood, owing to lack of opportunity;
nevertheless more than once he had seized his musket and hurried to the
square. That was at the time of the riots, when he kept the gun
standing between the bed and the wardrobe and would not allow it to be
moved, "for," he used to say, "no government and no battalions can
protect justice and liberty where a citizen is not able to step out of
doors and see what is going on."

While the stout-hearted master was absorbed in his article, now nodding
approvingly, now shaking his head, his youngest son Karl, a fledgling
clerk in a government office, came in.

"What do you want?" asked Master Hediger harshly, for he did not like
to be disturbed in his little den.

Karl, somewhat uncertain as to the success of his request, asked
whether he might have his father's gun and cartridge-pouch for the
afternoon as he had to go to the drill-ground.

"No use to ask, I won't hear of it!" said Hediger shortly.

"But why not? I won't hurt it," his son continued humbly and still
insistently, because he simply had to have a gun if he did not want to
be marched off to the detention room. But the old man only repeated in
a louder tone:

"Won't hear of it! I can only wonder at the persistence of these
gentlemen sons of mine who show so little persistence in other things
that not one of them has stuck to the occupation which I allowed him to
learn of his own free choice. You know that your three older brothers,
one after another, as soon as they had to begin to drill, wanted my gun
and that they none of them got it. And yet now here you come slinking
along after it. You have your own fair pay, no one to support--get your
own weapons, as becomes a man of honor. This gun doesn't leave its
place except when I need it myself."

"But it's only for a few times. You surely don't expect me to buy an
infantry rifle when I'm going to join the sharpshooters later and shall
have to get myself a carbine."

"Sharpshooters! That's good too! I should only like to know why you
feel it to be so necessary to join the sharpshooters when you've never
yet fired a single shot. In my day a man had to have burnt a good deal
of powder before he might make such an application. Nowadays a man
turns sharpshooter haphazard, and there are fellows wearing the green
coat who couldn't bring down a cat off the roof, but who, to be sure,
can smoke cigars and act the gentleman. It's no concern of mine."

"Oh," said the boy almost whimpering, "give it to me just this once.
I'll see about getting another to-morrow, but it's impossible for me to
do anything today, it's too late."

"I will not give my gun to anyone," replied Master Hediger, "who does
not know how to handle it. If you can take the lock off this gun and
take it apart properly you can have it, otherwise it stays here."

With that he hunted in a drawer for a screwdriver, handed it to his son
and pointed to the gun. In desperation Karl tried his luck and began to
loosen the screws in the lock. His father watched him scornfully and it
was not long before he cried:

"Don't let the screwdriver slip so; you'll spoil the whole thing.
Partly loosen all the screws and then take them out, it's easier that
way. There, at last!"

Karl now held the lock in his hand but didn't know what next to do with
it, so he laid it down with a sigh, already, in imagination, seeing
himself in the detention room. But old Hediger, once interested, now
picked up the lock to give his son a lesson, explaining it as he took
it apart.

"You see," he said, "first you remove the plunger-spring with this
spring-hook--like this; then comes the screw of the sear-spring, you
only unscrew that half way, then knock the sear-spring like this so
that the pin here comes out of the hole; now you take the screw out
entirely. Now the sear-spring, then the sear-pin, the sear; now then,
the bridle-screw and here the bridle-hammer; next the tumbler-pin, the
trigger, and finally the tumbler; this is the tumbler. Hand me the
neat's-foot oil out of the little cupboard there; I'll oil the screws a
bit while I have them here."

He had laid all the parts on the newspaper. Karl watched him eagerly
and handed him the little bottle, thinking that the atmosphere had
cleared. But after his father had wiped off the parts of the lock and
oiled them afresh, instead of putting them together again he threw them
promiscuously into the cover of a little box and said,

"We'll put the thing together again this evening; now I will finish
reading my paper."

Disappointed and savage, Karl went out to complain to his mother. He
stood in intense awe of the state authority whose school he was now to
enter as a recruit. He had never been punished since he had outgrown
school and not during his last years there either, and now the thing
was to begin again on a higher plane, merely because he had depended
upon his father's gun.

His mother said: "Your father is really quite right. All you four boys
earn more than he does, and that thanks to the education he gave you;
but not only do you spend all your money on yourselves, you keep on
coming all the time to annoy your father by borrowing all sorts of
things: his dress-coat, field-glass, drawing instruments, razor, hat,
gun, and sabre. The things that he takes such good care of you borrow
and bring back ruined. It seems as if the whole year round you are busy
thinking up something else to borrow from him; but he, on his part,
never asks anything of you, although you owe him your life and
everything else. Just this once more I will help you."

Hereupon she went in to Master Hediger and said: "I forgot to tell you
that Frymann the carpenter sent a message to say that the Band of Seven
would meet this evening to discuss certain matters, something
political, I think." He was at once pleasantly affected.

"Is that so?" he said, rose, and began to walk up and down; "I am
surprised that Frymann didn't come himself to speak with me first about
it, to consult me." After a few minutes he dressed quickly, put on his
hat, and left with the words,

"Wife, I am going out now at once, I must find out what it's about. I
haven't been out of the house this spring anyway, and it's such a
beautiful day to-day. Good-bye!"

"There! Now he won't be home before ten o'clock tonight," said Mrs.
Hediger laughing, and she bade Karl take the gun, be careful of it and
bring it home early.

"Take it!" lamented her son, "why he's got the lock all apart and I
can't put it together again."

"Well, I can," answered his mother and went into the little room with
her son. She turned the parts of the lock out of the cover, sorted out
the springs and screws and very skilfully began to put them together.

"Where the devil did you learn that, mother?" cried Karl, amazed.

"I learnt it in my father's house," she replied. "My father and my
seven brothers used to make me clean all their guns and rifles when
they had been shooting. I often cried as I did it, but I was finally
able to handle them like a gunsmith's apprentice. The whole village
called me 'Gunsmithy,' and I nearly always had dirty hands and a black
smudge on the tip of my nose. My brothers shot and drank us out of
house and home, so that I, poor child, was glad enough that your
father, the tailor, married me."

While she talked her dexterous fingers had really put the lock together
and fastened it to the stock. Karl hung the shining cartridge-pouch
over his shoulder, took the gun and hurried off as fast as he could go
to the drill-ground, where he arrived only just in time. Soon after six
o'clock he brought the things back again, succeeded to taking the lock
apart himself, and mixed the parts together in the box-cover.

By the time he had finished supper it had grown dark. He went to the
boat-landing, hired a boat and rowed along the shore till he came to
that part of the lake where carpenters and stone-cutters had their
yards. It was a glorious evening; a mild south wind gently rippled the
water, the full moon shone on the distant stretches of the lake and
sparkled brightly on the little waves near by, and the stars burned
brilliantly in the sky. The snow mountains, their presence felt rather
than seen, looked down on the lake like pale spectres. All industrial
litter, the petty and restless outline of the buildings, disappeared in
the darkness and were transformed by the moonlight into great calm
masses--in short, the landscape was appropriately set for the coming
scene.

Karl Hediger rowed rapidly on until he was close to a large
lumber-yard; there he softly sang the first verse of a little song a
couple of times, and then rowed slowly and easily out from the shore. A
slender girl rose from where she had been sitting among the piles of
lumber, untied a skiff, stepped into it and rowed deliberately, making
a few turns as she went, after the soft-voiced boatman. When she caught
up with him the young people greeted each other and rowed on without
stopping, gunwale to gunwale, far out into the liquid silver of the
lake. With youthful vigor they described a wide curve with several
spirals, the girl leading and the boy following with gentle strokes of
his oar, without leaving her side, and one could see that the couple
were not unpractised in rowing together. When they found themselves in
absolute silence and solitude, the young woman pulled in her oars and
stopped. That is, she shipped only one oar and continued to hold the
other over the gunwale as if playing with it, but not without a
purpose, for when Karl, who had also stopped, tried to approach quite
close to her, to board her skiff in fact, she was most skilful in
keeping his boat off by giving it a single push with her oar every now
and then. Nor did this man[oe]uvre seem to be new, for the young man
soon resigned himself and sat still in his little boat.

Now they began to chat, and Karl said:

"Dear Hermine! Now I can really turn the proverb about and say: what I
had in abundance in my youth I wish for in old age, but in vain. How
often we used to kiss when I was ten and you were seven, and now that I
am twenty I mayn't even kiss your finger-tips."

"Once for all, I never want to hear another word of those impudent
lies!" cried the girl half angrily, half laughing. "You've made it all
up and it's false, I certainly don't remember any such familiarity."

"Unfortunately!" cried Karl; "but I remember it so much the better. And
I remember too that it was you who began it and were the temptress."

"Karl, how horrid of you!" interrupted Hermine, but he went on
unrelentingly:

"You must remember how often, when we were tired helping the poor
children fill their broken baskets with shavings--and how cross it
always made your carpenters--I used to have to build a little hut out
of ends of boards, hidden away in among the big piles of lumber, a
little hut with a roof and a door and a bench in it. And then when we
sat on the little bench, with the door shut, and I might at last sit
idle a minute, who was it that used to throw her arms around my neck
and kiss me more times than I could count?"

At these words he nearly pitched into the water, for as he had tried
again to approach unnoticed as he talked, she suddenly gave his little
boat such a violent push that it almost upset. Her clear laugh rang out
as his left arm slipped into the water to the elbow and he swore.

"Just you wait," he said; "I'll pay you out for this some day!"

"There's time enough ahead," she replied, "you needn't be in too much
of a hurry, my dear sir." Then she continued somewhat more seriously,
"Father has found out about our intentions; I didn't deny them, in the
main; he won't hear of such a thing, and forbids us ever to think of it
again. So that is how we stand now."

"And do you intend to bow to your father's decree as dutifully and
unresistingly as you seem to?"

"At least I shall never do the exact opposite of his wishes, and still
less would I dare to stand in open hostility to him, for you know that
he bears a grudge a long time, and is capable of a deep, slow-consuming
anger. You know too, that, although he has been a widower for five
years, he has not married again on my account; that is something that a
daughter ought certainly to consider. And, now that we are on this
subject, I must tell you too, that, under these circumstances, I don't
think it proper for us to see each other so often. It's bad enough for
a child to be disobedient in her heart; but there would be something
hateful in our actually doing things every day that would displease our
parents if they knew about them, and so I don't want to meet you alone
oftener than once a month at the most, instead of nearly every day as
we have been doing. And for the rest just let time go on."

"Let time go on! And you really can and will let things go like this?"

"Why not? Are they so important? It is possible that we may have each
other after all, it is also possible that we may not. But the world
will go on just the same, perhaps we will forget each other of our own
accord, for we are still young; in any case, it doesn't seem to me that
we've any reason to make a great to-do."

The seventeen-year-old beauty delivered this speech in an apparently
cold and matter-of-fact tone, at the same time picking up her oars and
heading for the shore. Karl rowed beside her full of anxiety and
apprehension, and no less full of vexation at Hermine's words. She was
half glad to know that the hot-headed fellow had something to worry
about, but at the same time, the conversation had made her, too,
pensive, and particularly the separation of four weeks which she had
imposed on herself.

Thus Karl finally succeeded in taking her by surprise and bringing his
boat up against hers with a sudden pull. In an instant he held her
slender body in his arms, and drew her part way towards him, so that
they both leaned over the deep water, their boats tipped away over
threatening to overturn at the slightest movement. Hence the girl was
helpless and had to submit when Karl pressed seven or eight passionate
kisses on her lips. Then gently and carefully he righted her and her
boat. She stroked her hair back out of her face, seized her oars,
panted, and, with tears in her eyes, cried angrily and threateningly:

"Just wait, you scamp, till I hold the reins! Heaven knows, I'll make
you feel that you've got a wife!"

With that she rowed rapidly, without looking round at him again,
towards her father's yard and home.

Karl, however, filled with triumph and bliss, called after her, "Good
night, Miss Hermine Frymann; that tasted good."

Mrs. Hediger had told her husband nothing but the truth when she caused
him to go out. She had merely saved up the message to use when she
thought best, and then had done so at the right moment. A meeting
really was held, a meeting of the Band of Seven, or of the Staunch, or
of the Upright, or of the Lovers of Liberty, as they interchangeably
called themselves. They were simply a circle of seven old and tried
friends, all master-craftsmen, patriots, arch-politicians and stern
domestic tyrants after the pattern of Master Hediger. Born, one and
all, in the previous century, they, as children, had seen the downfall
of the old regime, and then for many years had lived through the storms
and birth-pangs of the new period, until, with the clearing of the
political atmosphere in the late forties, Switzerland once more came
into power and unity. Several of them came from the common domains, the
former subject-land of the Swiss Confederates, and they remembered how,
as peasant children, they had been obliged to kneel by the roadside
when a coach with Confederate barons and the court-usher came driving
by. Others were distant relatives or connections of captive or executed
revolutionaries; in short, they were all filled with an unquenchable
hatred of all aristocracy, which, since the downfall of the latter, had
merely turned to bitter scorn. But when later the same thing reappeared
in democratic garb, and, combined with the old usurpers of power, the
priests, stirred up a struggle that lasted for several years, there was
added to their hatred of the aristocracy a hatred of the "blackcoats";
indeed their belligerent temper now turned not only against lords and
priests, but even against their own kind, against entire masses of the
excited populace. This demanded of them in their old age an unexpected,
composite expenditure of power, which test, however, they stood
bravely.

These seven men were anything but insignificant. In all popular
assemblies, meetings and such like, they helped to form a solid centre,
stuck to their posts indefatigably, and were ready day and night to do
for their party errands and business which could not be trusted to paid
workers, but only to those who were absolutely reliable. The party
leaders often consulted them and took them into their confidence, and
if a sacrifice was required, the seven men were always the first to
contribute their mite. For all this they desired no other reward but
the triumph of their cause, and their clear conscience; never did one
of them put himself forward, or strive for his own advantage or aspire
to an office, and their greatest honor was, on occasion, to shake the
hand of this or that "famous Confederate"; but he must be the right
sort and "clean above the loins" as they put it.

These stout-hearted citizens had grown accustomed to one another
through decades of intimacy, called one another by their Christian
names, and finally came to form a strong private society, but without
any other statutes than those they bore in their hearts. They met twice
a week, and as, even in this small band, there were two inn-keepers,
the meetings were held alternately at their houses. Those were very
pleasant and informal times; quiet and grave as the Seven were in
larger assemblies, they were equally noisy and merry among themselves;
none of them made any pretences, and none beat round the bush;
sometimes they all talked at once, sometimes they listened attentively
to one of their number, according to their humor and mood. Not only
politics was the subject of their conversations, but also their
domestic life. If one of them was in trouble and anxiety, he laid
before the others whatever oppressed him; the cause was discussed, and
its remedy was made a common matter; if one of them felt himself
injured by another, he would bring his complaint to the Seven, who
would sit in judgment and admonish the offender. During these
proceedings they were alternately very passionate, or very quiet and
dignified, or even ironical. Twice, traitors, crooked fellows, had
sneaked in among them, been recognized and in solemn assembly condemned
and turned out, that is, beaten black and blue by the fists of the
doughty greybeards. If a real misfortune overtook the party to which
they were attached that entirely eclipsed any domestic misfortune, they
would hide singly in the darkness and shed bitter tears.

The most eloquent and prosperous among them was Frymann, the carpenter,
a veritable Croesus with an imposing establishment. The most
impecunious was Hediger, the tailor; but his opinion was only second in
importance to Frymann's. His political fanaticism had long since lost
him his best customers; nevertheless he had educated his sons well, and
so had no means left. The other five men were well situated; they
listened more than they talked when important matters were under
discussion by the Band of Seven, but made up for that by the
weightiness of their words at home, and among their neighbors.

To-day there were really important transactions on hand, which Frymann
and Hediger had already discussed. The period of unrest, of struggle
and of political effort, was past for these stout-hearted citizens, and
their long experiences seemed for once to have come to an end with the
conditions that they had attained. "All's well that ends well," they
might say, and they felt themselves to be victorious and content. And
so, as the shades of evening were falling on their political life, they
felt that they might indulge in a crowning festivity, and, as the Band
of Seven, attend in a body the first national shooting match to be held
since the adoption of the new constitution of 1848, which was to take
place at Aarau the following summer.

Now most of them had long since become members of the Swiss Shooting
Association, and they all, except Hediger, who contented himself with
his musket, possessed good rifles, with which in former years they had
sometimes gone shooting on Sunday. Singly, they had also already
attended other festivals, so that there seemed to be nothing so very
unusual in their present purpose. But a spirit of outward pomp had
taken possession of some of them, and the proposal made was really
nothing less than that they should appear in Aarau with their own
banner, bringing a handsome trophy as a gift.

When the little company had drunk a few glasses of wine and were in
good spirits, Frymann and Hediger came out with the proposal, which
somewhat surprised their modest fellow-members nevertheless, so that
they wavered irresolutely for some minutes. For the idea of attracting
so much attention and marching out with a banner did not quite appeal
to them. But as they had long since forgotten how to refuse their
support to any bold stroke or undertaking with a real meaning, they
resisted only long enough for the speakers to paint to them in glowing
colors the banner as a symbol, and their procession as a triumph of
true and tried friendship, and to show them that the appearance of
seven old greybeards such as they, with a banner of friendship, would
certainly make good sport. Only a little banner should be made, of
green silk, with the Swiss coat of arms and a fitting inscription.

Once the question of the banner was settled, the trophy was taken up;
its value was fixed fairly easily at about two hundred francs, old
style. But the choice of the object itself caused a lengthier and
almost heated discussion. Frymann opened the general inquiry and
invited Kuser, the silversmith, as a man of taste, to give his opinion.
Kuser gravely drank a good draught, coughed, thought a while, and said
it was fortunate that he just happened to have a beautiful silver cup
in his shop, which, if that were agreeable to the others, he could
thoroughly recommend, and would let them have at the very lowest price.
Hereupon followed a general silence broken only by brief remarks such
as "That might do!" or "Why not?" Then Hediger asked whether anyone
else wished to propose anything. Whereupon Syfrig, the skilful smith,
took a swallow, plucked up courage, and said:

"If it is agreeable to you all, I will also express an idea now. I have
forged a very practical plough of solid iron, which, as you know, won
praise at the agricultural exhibition. I am prepared to part with this
fine piece of work for two hundred francs, although that would not pay
for the labor of making it; but it is my opinion that this tool and
symbol of agriculture would be the kind of prize that would most
suitably represent the common people. Not that I wish to reflect on
other proposals."

During this speech Buergi, the crafty cabinet-maker, had also been
thinking the matter over, and when again a short silence ensued and the
silversmith began to pull a long face, the cabinet-maker unburdened
himself thus:

"An idea has occurred to me too, dear friends, which would probably
give rise to a great deal of fun. Years ago I had an order from a
couple from out of town who were about to be married, for a double
canopy bed of the finest walnut, with bird's-eye maple veneer; the
young couple hung round my workshop every day measuring the length and
the breadth, and billing and cooing before the journeymen and
apprentices, minding neither their jokes nor their insinuations. But
when the time came for the wedding they suddenly parted, hating each
other as a cat hates a dog, not a soul knew why; one went this way, one
went that, and the bedstead was left standing as immovable as a rock.
At cost price it's worth a hundred and eighty francs, but I'll gladly
lose eighty and let it go for a hundred. Then we can have a mattress
made for it and set it up in the trophy hall, fully made up, with the
inscription: 'For a single Confederate, as an encouragement!' How's
that?"

Merry laughter rewarded this idea; only the smiles of the silversmith
and the blacksmith were faint and wry; but Pfister, the inn-keeper,
immediately raised his hearty voice and said with his accustomed
frankness:

"Well gentlemen, if it's the programme for each of us to bring his own
pig to market, then I know of something better than anything yet
proposed. I have in my cellar a well-sealed cask of '34 claret,
so-called Swiss blood, which I bought myself in Basle more than twelve
years ago. You are all so temperate and modest in your demands, that I
have never ventured to tap the wine, and yet I have two hundred francs
tied up in it, for there are just a hundred measures. I will give you
the wine for what it cost, and reckon the cask as cheaply as possible,
glad if I can only make room for something that will sell better, and
may I never leave this place if such a gift wouldn't do us honor."

This speech, during which the three who had made their suggestions had
already began to murmur, was scarcely ended, when Erismann, the other
inn-keeper, took the floor and said:

"If this is the way it's going, I won't be left behind either, but am
ready to declare that I think I have the best thing for our purpose,
and that is my young milch cow, a thoroughbred Oberland, that I am just
ready to sell if I can find a good purchaser. If we tie a bell round
the neck of this handsome animal, a milking stool between her horns,
adorn her with flowers--"

"And put her under a glass globe in the trophy hall!" interrupted
Pfister, irritated; and with that, one of those thunderstorms broke
that sometimes made the meetings of the Seven tempestuous, but only to
be succeeded by sunshine that was all the brighter for what had passed.
They all talked at once, defended their own proposals, attacked those
of the others and accused one another of selfish motives. For they
always came right out with what they thought, and settled matters by
means of the plain truth, not by dissimulation and covering up, as a
kind of false culture often leads men to do.

When the noise had become almost deafening Hediger tapped his glass
loudly, and, raising his voice, said:

"Men! Don't get excited but let us proceed calmly to our goal. As
trophies there have been suggested a cup, a plough, a complete canopy
bed, a cask of wine and a cow. Permit me to examine your proposals more
closely. Your cup, my dear Ruedi, I know well; it is a fixture in your
shop, has been there in your show window for years and years; in fact,
I believe it was once your masterpiece. Nevertheless, its antiquated
form would forbid our choosing it and presenting it as new. Your
plough, Chueri Syfrig, seems to be not absolutely practical after all,
otherwise you would certainly have sold it three years ago. But we must
bear in mind that our prize ought to give real pleasure to whoever wins
it. Your canopy bed, on the contrary, Henry, is a novel and certainly a
delightful idea, and it would undoubtedly occasion remarks of a very
popular character. But to carry it out properly, would require plenty
of fine bedding and that would exceed the sum we have fixed by too much
for only seven people. Your 'Swiss blood' Lienert Pfister is good, and
it will be still better if you will give us a cheaper price, and
finally tap the cask for us so that we can have it to drink on our
anniversaries. Finally, against your cow, Felix Erismann, there is
nothing to be said except that she kicks over the pail regularly
whenever she is milked. That is why you want to sell her; for, to be
sure, that is not a pleasing habit. But what do you think? Would it be
right if some honest young peasant won the animal, took it joyfully
home to his wife, who would joyfully start to milk it, and then would
see the sweet, frothy milk upset on the ground? Think of the poor
woman's disgust, vexation, and disappointment, and of the embarrassment
of the good marksman after this scene had been repeated two or three
times. Yes, my dear friends, don't take it amiss, but it must be said:
all our proposals have the common fault of thoughtlessly and hastily
seeking to make the honor of the fatherland a source of profit and
calculation. What if the same thing has been done thousands of times by
high and low, we, in our circle, have not done it, and we wish so to
continue. So let every man bear the cost of the gift without ulterior
motive, so that it may really be a trophy of honor!"

The five profit-seekers who had hung their heads in shame, now cried in
one voice, "Well said! Kaspar has spoken well," and they demanded that
he himself should propose something. But Frymann took the floor and
said:

"It seems to me that a silver cup is more suitable than anything else
to be given as a trophy. It retains its value, cannot be used up, and
is a handsome reminder of happy days and of the valiant men of the
house. The house in which a silver cup is preserved can never quite
decay, and who can say whether much else is not also preserved for the
sake of such a memorial. And is not art given the opportunity by
fashioning ever new and pleasing forms, to increase the variety of
these vessels, and thus to exercise its creative power and to bear a
ray of beauty into the most distant valley, so that gradually a vast
treasure of precious prize-cups will accumulate in our fatherland,
precious alike in form and metal? And how fitting it is that these
treasures, scattered over the whole country, cannot be made to serve
the common uses of every-day life, but in their pure brilliance, in
their chaste forms, continue to keep the higher things before our eyes,
and thus seem to hold fast the idea of unity and the sunlight of days
ideally spent. Away then with the trash that is beginning to pile up in
our trophy-halls, a prey to moths and to the most ordinary uses, and
let us hold fast to the venerable old drinking-cup! Truly, if I were
living in the days when all that is Swiss was drawing to its end, I
could not imagine a more uplifting crowning festivity than to gather
together the thousands and tens of thousands of cups of all sorts and
shapes belonging to all the clubs, societies and individuals, in all
their radiance of by-gone days, with all their memories, and to drink a
last toast to the declining fatherland--"

"Hush, churlish guest! What unworthy thoughts!" cried the Upright and
Staunch, and shuddered. But Frymann continued:

"As it becomes a man in the vigor of his prime sometimes to think of
death, so, too, in a meditative hour he may turn his gaze on the
certain end of his fatherland, that he may love its present all the
more fervently, for everything is transitory and subject to change on
this earth. Have not much greater nations than we perished? Or would
you linger on like the Wandering Jew who cannot die, serving in turn
all the new nations as they arise, he who buried the Egyptians, the
Greeks, and the Romans? No, a nation that knows that a time will come
when it will no longer be makes all the more intense use of its days,
lives so much the longer, and leaves a glorious memory; for it will not
rest until it has brought to light and exercised the capabilities that
lie within it, like a man who knows no rest until he has set his house
in order before he leaves this life. That, in my opinion, is the chief
thing. Once a nation has performed its task, what do a few longer or
shorter days of existence matter? New figures are already waiting at
the portals of their time. And so I must confess that once a year,
during some sleepless night, or on quiet paths, I fall a prey to such
thoughts, and try to imagine what the nation will be like that will
some day hold sway in these mountains after we are gone. And each time
I return to my work with greater energy, as if I could thus hasten the
work of my nation so that that people of the future will walk over our
graves with respect.

"But away with these thoughts and back to our joyful prospects! I would
suggest that we order a new cup from our master silversmith, on which
he promises to make no profit, but to give as much value as possible.
For this purpose let us have an artist make a good design which shall
depart from the ordinary meaningless pattern, but because of our
limited means let him pay more attention to the proportions, to the
form and simple grace of the whole, than to rich ornamentation and,
after this design, Master Kuser will furnish us with a pleasing and
substantial piece of work."

This proposal was accepted and the business disposed of. Frymann,
however, immediately took the floor again and began:

"Now that we have settled these matters of general interest, my
friends, permit me to bring up another special question, and to make a
complaint that we may adjust it together in friendly fashion according
to our old custom. You know that our good friend, Kaspar Hediger, is
the father of four lively boys whose desire to marry as youngsters
makes the whole-neighborhood unsafe. In fact, three of them already
have wives and children, although the eldest is not yet twenty-seven.
There remains the youngest, just turned twenty, and what is he doing?
Running after my only daughter and turning her head. Thus these
diabolical marriage-fiends have penetrated into the circle of intimate
friendship, and now threaten to cloud it. Apart from the fact that the
children are much too young, I frankly confess here that such a
marriage would be contrary, to my wishes and intentions. I have a large
business and a considerable fortune; therefore, when the time comes, I
shall seek a son-in-law who is a business man with a capital
corresponding to mine, and thus able to carry on the building
enterprises that I have in mind; for you know that I have bought up
extensive building lots, and am convinced that Zurich will grow
considerably larger. But your son, my good Kaspar, is a government
clerk, and has nothing but his scanty salary, and even if he rises it
will never be much bigger, and his income is fixed once for all with no
way of augmenting it. Let him stick to his position, he is provided for
for life, if he is economical; but he doesn't need a rich wife. A rich
official is an absurdity, taking the bread out of other people's
mouths, and I certainly would not give my money for a fellow to loaf
on, or, in his inexperience, to use for all sorts of experiments. In
addition to all this, it would go against the grain with me to have
the true and tried friendship that exists between Kaspar and me
transformed into a relationship. What, are we to burden ourselves with
family trials and mutual dependence? No, my friends, let us remain
closely united until death, but independent of each other, free and
answerable to none for our actions, and let us hear nothing of 'son's
father-in-law' and 'daughter's father-in-law' and all such titles. And
so I call upon you, Kaspar, to declare in this intimate circle of
friends that you will support me in my purpose and will oppose your
son's course. And no offense, we all know one another."

"We know one another, that is well said," said Hediger solemnly after
slowly taking a pinch of snuff. "You all know what bad luck I have had
with my sons, although they are smart and lively lads. I had them
taught everything that I wish I myself had learnt. They all knew
something of languages, could write a good composition, were splendid
at figures and had sufficient grounding in other branches of knowledge
to keep, with a little effort, from ever relapsing into complete
ignorance. Thank God, I used to think, that we are at last able to
educate our boys to be citizens who can't be made to believe that black
is white. And then I allowed each one to learn the trade he chose. But
what happened? Scarcely did they have their indentures in their pockets
and had looked about them a little, when the hammer got too heavy for
them, they thought themselves too clever for artisans and began to look
for clerical jobs. The devil knows how they did it, but the young
scamps went like hot cakes. Well, apparently they do their work
satisfactorily. One's in the post office, two are employed by railroad
companies and the fourth sits in an office and maintains that he's a
government official. After all, it's none of my business. He who
doesn't want to be a master must remain a journeyman and work under
others all his life. But, as money passes through their hands, all
these young gentlemen clerks had to give security; I have no property
myself, and so you all, in turn, furnished security for my boys,
amounting to forty thousand francs; the old tradesmen, their father's
friends, were good enough for that! And now, how do you suppose I feel?
How would I stand in your eyes if only one out of the four should take
a false step, be guilty of some indiscretion or piece of carelessness?"

"Fiddlesticks!" cried the old men, "put all such nonsense out of your
head. If they hadn't been good boys we wouldn't have done it, you can
be sure."

"I know all that," replied Hediger, "but a year is a long time, and
when it's gone there's another to come. I can assure you that it
frightens me every time one of them comes into the house with a better
cigar than usual. Will he not fall a victim to habits of luxury and
self-indulgence? If I see one of their young wives coming along in a
new dress, I fear that she is plunging her husband into difficulties
and debt. If I see one of them talking in the street to a man who lives
beyond his means, a voice within me cries, 'Will he not lead him into
some piece of folly?' In short, you see that I feel myself humble and
dependent enough, and am far from wishing to add a feeling of
obligation towards a rich kinsman, and from turning a friend into a
master and patron. And why should I want my cocky young son to feel
rich and safe, and to run round under my eyes with the arrogance that
such a fellow assumes when he has never had the slightest experience of
life? Shall I help to close the school of life to him so that he shall
early become hard-hearted, an unmannerly and insolent duffer, who
doesn't know how to earn his bread, and still has a tremendous opinion
of himself? No, rest easy, my friend, here is my hand on it. No kith
and kin for us!"

The two old men shook hands, the others laughed, and Buergi said,

"Who would believe that you two who have just spoken such wise words in
the cause of the fatherland, and have rapped us so hard on the
knuckles, would turn round and do anything so foolish. Thank Heaven,
I've still a chance to dispose of my double bed and I propose that we
give it to the young couple for a wedding present."

"Voted!" cried the other four, and Pfister, the innkeeper, added,

"And I demand that my cask of Swiss blood be drunk at the wedding,
which we shall all attend."

"And I'll pay for it if there is a wedding," shouted Frymann angrily,
"but if not, as I know for certain will be the case, you pay for the
cask, and we'll drink it at our meetings until it's gone."

"We'll take the wager," they agreed; but Frymann and Hediger pounded
the table with their fists and continued to repeat:

"No kith and kinship for us! We don't want to be kinsmen, but
independent, good friends!"

This declaration brought the eventful meeting at last to an end, and
staunch and upright the Lovers of Liberty wandered to their homes.


The next day at dinner, after the journeymen had gone, Hediger informed
his son and his wife of the solemn decision of the day before, that
from now on no romance between Karl and the carpenter's daughter would
be tolerated. Mrs. Hediger, the "Gunsmithy," was so tempted to laugh by
this decree that the last drop of wine in her glass, which she was just
about to swallow, got into her windpipe and caused a terrible fit of
coughing.

"What is there to laugh at about that?" said Master Hediger
irritatedly.

His wife answered: "Oh, I can't help laughing because the adage 'a
cobbler should stick to his last' fits your club so well. Why don't you
stick to politics instead of meddling with love affairs?"

"You laugh like a woman and talk like a woman," replied Hediger, very
much in earnest, "it is just in the family that true politics begin; we
are political friends, it is true, but in order to remain so it is
necessary that we should not mix our families up, and treat the wealth
of one as common property. I am poor and Frymann is rich, and so it
shall remain; we enjoy our inward equality so much the more. And now,
shall a marriage be the means of my sticking my finger into his house
and his affairs, and arousing jealousy and embarrassment? Far be it
from me!"

"Oh my, my, what wonderful principles!" answered Mrs. Hediger; "that's
a fine friendship when one friend won't give his daughter to the son of
the other! And since when has it meant treating wealth as common
property when prosperity is brought into a family through marriage? Is
it a reprehensible policy when a fortunate son succeeds in winning a
rich and beautiful girl, because he thus attains to property and
prominence, and is able to assist his aged parents and brothers, and
help them to a place in the sun? For where once good fortune has
entered it easily spreads, and without doing any damage to the one, the
others can skilfully throw out their hooks in his shade. Not that I am
looking for a life of luxury! But there are very many cases in which it
is right and proper that a man who has become rich should be consulted
by his poor relatives. We old people shall need nothing more; on the
other hand, the time might come perhaps, when one or another of Karl's
brothers might venture on a promising enterprise, or make a fortunate
change if someone would lend him the means. And one or another of them
will have a talented son who would rise to great things, if there was
money enough to send him to the university. One might perhaps become a
popular physician, another a prominent lawyer or even a judge, another
an engineer or an artist, and all of them, once they had got so far,
would find it easy to marry well, and so at last would form a
respected, numerous, and happy family. What could be more natural than
to have a prosperous uncle who, without harming himself, could throw
open the doors of the world to his industrious but poor relatives? For
how often does it happen that, owing to the presence in a family of one
fortunate member, all the others get a taste of the world and grow
wise? And will you drive in the bung on all these things and seal good
fortune at its source?"

Hediger gave a laugh, full of annoyance, and cried,

"Castles in the air! You talk like the peasant woman with her milk
pail! I see a different picture of the man who has become rich among
his poor relatives. He, it is true, denies himself nothing and has
always thousands of ideas and desires which he gratifies, and which
lead him to spend money on thousands of occasions. But let his parents
and his brothers come to him, down he sits at his account book, looking
important and vexed, sighs, and says, with his pen between his teeth:
'Thank God that you haven't the trouble and burden of administering
such a fortune. I'd rather herd goats than watch a pack of spiteful and
procrastinating debtors! No money coming in from any of them, and all
of them trying to get out of paying and slip through my fingers. Day
and night you have to be on the lookout that you are not cheated right
and left. And if ever you do get a scoundrel by the collar, he sets up
such a howl that you have to let him go in a hurry, or be decried as a
usurer and a monster. Every official paper, every notice of days of
expiration, every announcement, every advertisement has to be read over
and over, or you will miss some petition or overlook some term. And
there's never any money on hand. If someone repays a loan, he lays his
money bag on the table in all the taverns in town and announces with a
swagger that he's paid, and before he's out of the house there are
three others waiting to borrow the money, one of whom even wants it
without giving security! And then the demands made on you by the
community, the charitable institutions, public enterprises,
subscription lists of all kinds--they can't be avoided, your position
demands it; but I can tell you, you often don't know whether you are
standing on your head or your heels. This year I'm harder pressed even
than usual; I've had my garden improved and a balcony built on to the
house, my wife has been wanting to have it done for a long time, and
now here are the bills. My physician has advised me a hundred times to
keep a saddle horse--I can't even think of it, for new expenses keep
coming up to prevent. Look there, see the little winepress, of the most
modern construction, that I had built so that I could press out the
Muscatel grapes that I grow on trellises--God knows, I can't pay for it
this year. Well, my credit is still good, thank Heaven.'

"That is the way he talks with a cruel boast underlying all his words
and thus so intimidates his poor brothers and his old father that they
say nothing about their request, and take themselves off again after
admiring his garden and his balcony and his ingenious wine-press. And
they go to strangers for help and gladly pay higher interest simply to
avoid listening to so much chatter. His children are handsomely and
expensively dressed, and tread the streets daintily; they bring their
poor cousins little presents and come twice a year to invite them to
dinner, and that is a great lark for the rich children; but when the
guests lose their shyness and even begin to be noisy, their pockets are
filled with apples and they are sent home. There they tell all that
they have seen and what they had to eat and everything is criticized;
for rancor and envy fill the hearts of the poor sisters-in-law who
flatter the prosperous member of the family notwithstanding, and are
eloquent in their praise of her fine clothes. Finally some misfortune
overtakes the father or the brothers and, whether he will or not, the
rich man has to step into the breach for the sake of the family
reputation. And he does so without much persuasion; but now the bond of
brotherly equality and love is completely severed. The poorer brothers
and their children are now the servants and slave-children of the
master; year in, year out they are nagged at and corrected, they have
to wear coarse clothing and eat black bread in order to make up a small
part of the damage. The children are sent to orphan asylums and schools
for the poor, and if they are strong enough they have to work in the
master's house and sit at the lower end of the table in silence."

"Phew!" cried Mrs. Hediger, "what a tale! And do you really think that
your own son here would be such a scoundrel? And has Fate ordained that
just his brothers should meet with misfortunes that would make them his
servants? They, who have always managed to take care of themselves till
now? No, for the honor of our own blood I believe that a rich marriage
would not turn all our heads like that, but that, on the contrary, my
view would prove to be right."

"I don't mean to assert," replied Hediger, "that it would be just that
way with us; but in our family too we should introduce outward
differences and in time they would be followed by inward inequality; he
who aspires to wealth, aspires to rise above his equals--"

"Bosh!" interrupted his wife, taking up the table cloth and shaking it
out the window; "has Frymann, who actually owns the property that we
are quarrelling about, grown any different from the rest of you? Aren't
you of one mind and one heart and always putting your heads together?"

"That's different," cried her husband, "entirely different. He didn't
get his property by scheming, nor win it in the lottery, but acquired
it slowly franc by franc through the toil of forty years. And then we
are not brothers, he and I, and are not concerned in each other's
affairs, and that's the way we want it to continue, that's the point.
And finally, he is not like other people, he is still one of the
Staunch and Upright. But don't let us keep on considering only these
petty personal affairs. Fortunately there are no tremendously rich
people among us, prosperity is fairly well distributed; but let men
with many millions spring up, men with political ambition, and you'll
see how much mischief they do. There is the well-known spinner-king; he
really has millions and is often accused of being an indifferent
citizen and a miser, because he doesn't concern himself with public
matters. On the contrary, he is a good citizen who consistently lets
everyone go his own way, governs himself, and lives like any other man.
But let this goldbug be a politically ambitious genius, give him some
amiability, pleasure in ostentation and love of all sorts of theatrical
pomp, let him build palaces and institutions and then see what harm he
would do in the community, and how he would ruin the character of the
people. There will come a time when, in our country, as elsewhere,
large masses of money will accumulate without having been honestly
earned and saved; then it will be for us to show our teeth to the
devil; then it will be seen whether the bunting of our flag is made of
fast colors and strong thread. To put it briefly, I don't see why a son
of mine should stretch out his hand for another's goods, without having
done a stroke to earn them. That's a fraud as much as anything is!"

"It's a fraud that's as old as the world," said his wife, laughing,
"for two people who love each other to want to marry. All your long and
high-sounding words won't change that. Moreover, you are the only one
to be made a fool of; for Master Frymann is wisely trying to prevent
your children from becoming equal to his. But the children will have a
policy of their own and will carry it out if there's anything in the
affair, and that I don't know."

"Let them," said Master Hediger; "that's their business; mine is, not
to favor anything of the sort, and in any case to refuse my consent as
long as Karl is a minor."

With this diplomatic declaration and the latest number of the
"Republican" he withdrew to his study. Mrs. Hediger, on the contrary,
now wanted to get hold of her son and satisfy her curiosity by calling
him to account; but she suddenly discovered that he had made off, as
the whole discussion seemed to him to be absolutely superfluous and
useless, and he did not care, in any case, to talk over his love
affairs with his parents.

So much the earlier did he get into his little boat that evening and
row out to where he had been on many previous evenings. But he sang his
little song once and twice, and even through to the last verse without
anyone showing herself, and after rowing up and down in front of the
lumber yard for more than an hour in vain, he went back puzzled and
depressed, and thought his affair was really in a bad way. On the
following four or five evenings he had the same experience, and then
gave up trying to meet the faithless girl, as he took her to be; for
although he remembered her resolution only to see him once in four
weeks, he thought that to be merely the preparation for a final
rupture, and fell into indignant sadness. Hence the practice period for
the sharpshooter recruits, which was just about to begin, came at a
very welcome time. On several afternoons beforehand he went out to the
range with an acquaintance who was a marksman to get at least a little
practice, and be able to show the number of hits necessary for his
application. His father looked on at this rather scornfully, and
unexpectedly came to the range himself to dissuade his son in time from
carrying out his foolish purpose, if, as he supposed, Karl knew nothing
about shooting.

But he happened to get there just as Karl, with half a dozen misses
behind him, was making a number of rather good shots.

"You needn't tell me," said Hediger astonished, "that you've never shot
before; you've secretly spent many a franc on it, that's sure."

"I have shot secretly, that's true, but at no cost. Do you know where,
father?"

"I thought as much!"

"Even as a boy I often watched the shooting, listened to what the men
said about it, and for years have so longed to do it that I used to
dream about it, and after I had gone to bed I used to spend hours
aiming at a target, and in that way I've fired hundreds of good shots."

"That's capital! At that rate, they'll order whole companies of
riflemen into bed in the future, and put them through such a mental
drill; that'll save powder and shoe leather."

"It's not so ridiculous as it sounds," said the experienced marksman
who was teaching Karl, "it is certain that, of two riflemen who are
equally gifted as regards eye and hand, the one who is accustomed to
reflection will outstrip the other. Pulling the trigger requires an
inborn knack and there are very peculiar things about it as there are
about all exercises."

The oftener and the better Karl shot, the more did old Hediger shake
his head; the world seemed to him to be turned upside down, for he
himself had only attained to what he was and knew how to do by industry
and strenuous practice; even his principles, which people often pack
into their minds as easily and numerously as herrings, had only been
acquired by persevering study in his little back room. Now, however, he
no longer ventured to interfere, and departed, not without inward
satisfaction at numbering among his sons one of his country's
sharpshooters; and by the time he had reached home he was resolved to
make Karl a well-fitting uniform of good cloth. "Of course, he will
have to pay for it," he said to himself, but he knew in his heart that
he never asked his sons to repay anything, and that they never offered
to do so. That is wholesome for parents, and enables them to reach a
good old age when they can see how their children in turn are merrily
fleeced by their grandchildren, and so it goes down from father to son,
and all survive and enjoy good appetites.

Karl now had to go into barracks for several weeks, and developed into
a good-looking and trained soldier who, although he was in love and
neither saw nor heard anything of his sweetheart, nevertheless
attentively and cheerfully performed his duties as long as the daylight
lasted; and at night the conversation and jokes of his comrades gave
him no chance to brood. There were a dozen of them, young fellows from
different districts, who exchanged the tricks and jokes of their homes
and continued to make the most of them long after the lights were out
and until midnight came on. There was only one from the city besides
Karl, and the latter knew him by name. He was a few years older than
Karl and had already served as a fusileer. A bookbinder by trade, he
had not done a stroke of work for a long time, but lived on the
inflated rents of old houses which he cleverly managed to buy without
capital. Sometimes he would sell one again to some simpleton at an
exorbitant price, then if the purchaser could not hold it he would
pocket the forfeit and the paid instalments and again take possession
of the house, at the same time raising the rents once more. He was also
skilful in making slight changes in the construction of the dwellings,
thus enlarging them by the addition of a tiny chamber or little room,
so that he might again raise the rent. These alterations were by no
means practical or planned for convenience, but quite arbitrary and
stupid; he knew, too, all the bunglers among the artisans, who did the
worst and cheapest work and with whom he could do as he liked. When he
could think of absolutely nothing else to do, he would have the outside
of one of his old buildings whitewashed and ask a still higher rent. By
these methods he enjoyed a good annual income without doing an hour's
actual work. His errands and appointments did not take long, and he
would spend as much time in front of other people's buildings as before
his own reconstructed shanties, play the expert and give advice about
everything. In all other matters he was the stupidest fellow in the
world. Hence he was considered a shrewd and prosperous young man who
would make an early success in life, and he denied himself nothing. He
considered himself too good for an infantry private and had wanted to
become an officer. But there he had failed owing to his laziness and
ignorance, and now by obstinate and importunate persistence he had got
into the sharpshooters.

Here he sought to force himself into a position of respect, without
exerting himself, solely with the aid of his money. He was forever
inviting the non-commissioned officers and his comrades to eat and
drink with him, and thought that by clumsy liberality he could obtain
privileges and freedom. But he only succeeded in making himself a
laughing-stock, though, to be sure, he did enjoy a sort of indulgence,
in that the others soon gave up trying to make anything out of him and
let him go his own way as long as he did not bother the rest.

A single recruit attached himself to him and acted as his servant,
cleaned his arms and clothes and spoke in his defence. This was the
tight-fisted son of a rich peasant, who had always a frightful appetite
for food and drink whenever he could satisfy it at another's expense.
He thought heaven would be his reward if he could carry back home all
his shining silver and still be able to say he had lived merrily during
his service and caroused like a true sharpshooter; at the same time he
was jolly and good-natured and entertained his patron, who had much
less voice than he, with his thin falsetto in which, from behind his
bottle, he sang all sorts of popular country songs very oddly indeed;
for he was a merry miser. And so Ruckstuhl, the young extortioner, and
Spoerri, the young skinflint, lived on in glorious friendship. The
former always had meat and wine before him and did as he chose, and the
latter left him as little as possible, sang and cleaned his boots and
did not even scorn the tips that the other gave.

Meanwhile the others made fun of them and agreed among themselves that
they would not tolerate Ruckstuhl in any company. This did not apply to
his factotum, however, for, strangely enough, he was a good shot, and
anyone who knows his business is welcome in the army whether he be a
Philistine or a scamp.

Karl was foremost in making fun of the pair; but one night he lost his
desire to joke, when the wine-gladdened Ruckstuhl boasted to his
follower, after the room had grown quiet, of what a fine gentleman he
was and of how he soon expected to marry a rich wife, the daughter of
the carpenter Frymann, whom, if he read the signs aright, he could not
fail to get.

Karl's peace of mind was now gone, and the next day, as soon as he had
a free hour, he went to his parents to find out, by listening, what was
going on. But as he did not care to introduce the subject himself, he
heard nothing of Hermine until just before he went, when his mother
told him she had wanted to be remembered to him.

"Why, where did you see her?" he asked as indifferently as he could.

"Oh, she comes to the market every day now with the maid to learn how
to buy supplies. She always asks me for advice when we meet and then we
make the rounds of the market and find a lot to laugh at; for she's
always in good spirits."

"Oh, ho!" said Hediger, "so that's why you stay out so long sometimes!
And it's match-making that you are up to? Do you think it's fitting for
a mother to behave like that, running around with people who are
forbidden to her son, and carrying messages?"

"Forbidden people! Nonsense! Haven't I known the dear child since she
was a baby and I carried her in my arms? And now I'm not to associate
with her! And why shouldn't she ask to be remembered to the people in
our house? And why shouldn't a mother take such a message? And may not
a mother be allowed to make a match for her child? It seems to me that
she's the very person to do it! But we never talk about such things, we
women are not half so keen about you ill-mannered men, and if Hermine
takes my advice she won't marry anyone."

Karl did not wait for the end of the conversation, but went his way;
for she had sent him a message and there had been no mention of any
suspicious news. Only he did tap his forehead, puzzled by Hermine's
good spirits, for it was not like her to laugh so much. He finally
decided it was a sign in his favor and she had been merry because she
had met his mother. So he resolved to keep quiet, have faith in the
girl, and let things take their course.

A few days later Hermine came to visit Mrs. Hediger, bringing her
knitting with her, and there was so much cordiality, talking, and
laughing that Hediger, cutting out a frock coat in his workshop, was
almost disturbed and wondered what old gossip could be there. Still, he
did not pay much attention to it till finally he heard his wife go to a
cupboard and begin to rattle the blue coffee set. For the "Gunsmithy"
was making as good a pot of coffee as she had ever brewed; she also
took a good handful of sage leaves, dipped them in an egg-batter and
fried them in butter, thus making so-called little mice, since the
stems of the leaves looked like mouse-tails. They rose beautifully and
made a heaping dish full, the fragrance of which, together with that of
the fresh coffee ascended to Master Hediger above. When, finally, he
heard her pounding sugar he became highly impatient to be called to the
table; but he would not have gone one moment earlier, for he belonged
to the Staunch and Upright. As he now entered the room he saw his wife
and the graceful "forbidden person" sitting in close friendship behind
the coffee-pot and, moreover, it was the blue-flowered coffee-pot;
and besides the little mice there was butter on the table and the
blue-flowered pot full of honey; it was not real honey, to be sure, but
only cherry-jam, about the color of Herrnine's eyes; and it was
Saturday too, a day on which all respectable middle-class women scrub
and scour, clean and polish, and never cook a bite that's fit to eat.

Hediger looked very critically at the whole scene and his greeting was
rather stern; but Hermine was so charming and at the same time so
resolute that he sat there as if muzzled and ended by going himself to
get a "glass of wine" out of the cellar and even drawing it from the
small keg. Hermine responded to this mark of favor by declaring that
she must have a plate of mice kept for Karl, as he probably didn't get
very good things to eat in the barracks. She took her plate and pulled
out the finest mice by their tails with her own dainty fingers and kept
on piling them up till at last Karl's mother herself cried that it was
enough. Hermine then put the plate beside her, looked at it with
satisfaction from time to time, and occasionally picked out a piece and
ate it, saying that she was Karl's guest now; after which she would
conscientiously replace the plunder from the dish.

Finally it got to be too much for the worthy Hediger; he scratched his
head and, urgent though his work was, hastily put on his coat and
hurried forth to seek the father of the little sinner.

"We must look out," he said to him; "your daughter and my old woman are
sitting at home in all their glory, hand in glove, and it all looks
mighty suspicious to me; you know women are the very devil."

"Why don't you chase the young scallywag off?" said Frymann, annoyed.

"I chase her off? Not I; she's a regular witch! Just come along
yourself and attend to her."

"Good, I'll come along with you and make the girl thoroughly understand
how she's to behave."

When they got there, however, instead of Miss Hermine they found Karl,
the sharpshooter, who had unbuttoned his green waistcoat and was
enjoying his mice and what wine there was left all the more because his
mother had just happened to mention that Hermine was going rowing on
the lake again that evening as it would be bright moonlight and she
hadn't been on the lake for a month.

Karl started out on the lake all the earlier because he had to be back
in barracks at the sound of "taps," blown in heavenly harmonies by the
Zurich buglers on beautiful spring and summer evenings. It was not yet
quite dark when he reached the lumber yard; but alas, Master Frymann's
skiff was not floating in the water as usual; it lay bottom up, on two
blocks, about ten yards from the shore.

Was that a hoax, or a trick of the old man's, he wondered and,
disappointed and angry, he was just about to row off when the great,
golden moon rose out of the woods on Mt. Zurich and at the same time
Hermine stepped out from behind a blossoming willow that hung full of
yellow cattails.

"I didn't know that our boat was being freshly painted," she whispered,
"so I'll have to come into yours, row fast!" And she sprang lightly in,
and sat down at the other end of the skiff which was scarcely seven
feet long. They rowed out till they were beyond the range of any spying
eye and Karl began at once to call Hermine to account as regarded
Ruckstuhl, telling her of the latter's words and acts.

"I know," she said, "that this cavalier wants to marry me and that, in
fact, my father is not disinclined to consent; he has already spoken of
it."

"Is he possessed of the devil to want to give you to such a vagabond
and loafer? What's become of his weighty principles?"

Hermine shrugged her shoulders and said: "Father is full of the idea of
building a number of houses and speculating with them; for that reason,
he wants a son-in-law who can be of assistance to him in such matters,
particularly in speculating, and who will know that he is working for
his own advantage in furthering the whole enterprise. He has in mind
that he wants someone with whom he can take pleasure in working and
scheming, as he would have done with a son of his own, and now this
fellow appears to him to have just that kind of talent. All he needs,
father says, to make him a practical expert, is a thorough business
life. Father knows nothing of the foolish way he lives because he
doesn't watch other people's doings and never goes anywhere except to
his old friends. In short, as to-morrow is Sunday, Ruckstuhl has been
invited to dine with us, to strengthen the acquaintance, and I'm afraid
that he will plunge right into a proposal. Besides, I've heard that
he's a wretched flatterer and an impudent fellow when he's trying to
grab something that he wants."

"Oh well," said Karl, "you'll easily out-trump him."

"And I'll do it too; but it would be better if he didn't come at all
and left my papa in the lurch."

"Of course that would be better; but it's a pious wish, he'll take good
care not to stay away."

"I've thought of a plan, though it's rather a queer one to be sure.
Couldn't you lead him into doing something foolish to-day or early
to-morrow morning so that you'd both be sent to the guard-room for
twenty-four or forty-eight hours?"

"You're very kind to want to send me to the lock-up for a couple of
days just to spare you a refusal. Won't you do it cheaper?"

"It's necessary that you should share his suffering so that we may not
have too much on our consciences. As for my refusal, I don't want it to
come to the point where I shall have to say yes or no to the fellow;
it's bad enough that he should talk about me in the barracks. I don't
want him to get a step beyond that."

"You're right, sweetheart! Nevertheless I think the rascal will have to
be locked up alone; a scheme is beginning to dawn on me. But enough of
that, it's a pity to waste our precious time and the golden moonlight.
Doesn't it remind you of anything?"

"What should it remind me of?"

"Of the fact that we haven't seen each other for four weeks and that
you can hardly expect to set foot ashore again to-night unkissed."

"Oh, so you would like to kiss me?"

"Yes, even I; but there's no hurry, I know you can't escape. I want to
enjoy the anticipation a few minutes longer, perhaps five, or six at
the most."

"Oh, indeed! Is that the way you repay my confidence in you, and do you
really care much about it? Wouldn't you consider a bargain?"

"Not though you spoke with the eloquence of an angel, not for a minute!
There's no way out of it for you to-night, my lady."

"Then I will also make a declaration, my dear sir. If you so much as
touch me with the tips of your fingers to-night against my will, it's
all over between us and I will never see you again; I swear it by
Heaven and my own honor. For I am in earnest."

Her eyes sparkled as she spoke. "That will take care of itself,"
replied Karl, "I'm coming soon now, so keep still."

"Do as you like," said Hermine curtly and was silent.

But whether it was that he thought her capable of keeping her word, or
whether he himself did not want her to break her vow, he stayed
obediently in his seat and gazed at her with shining eyes, peering to
see by the moonlight if the corners of her mouth were not twitching and
she were not laughing at him.

"Then I shall have to console myself with the past again and let my
memories compensate me," he began after a brief silence; "who would
believe that those stern and firmly closed lips knew how to kiss so
sweetly years ago!"

"You mean to begin on your shameless inventions again, do you? But let
me tell you that I won't listen to such irritating nonsense any
longer."

"Be calm! Just this once more we will direct our gaze back to those
golden hours and more particularly to the last kiss that you gave me; I
remember the circumstances as clearly and distinctly as if it were
to-day, and I am sure that you do too. I was thirteen and you about ten
and it was several years since we had kissed each other, for we felt
very old and grown-up. But there was to be a pleasant ending after
all--or was it the lark, the herald of the morn? It was a beautiful
Whitmonday--"

"No, Ascension--" interrupted Hermine, but broke off in the middle of
the word.

"You are right, it was a glorious Ascension Day in the month of May and
we were on an excursion with a party of young people, we two being the
only children among them; you stuck close to the big girls and I to the
older boys and we disdained to play with each other or even to talk.
After we had walked hither and yon we sat down in a bright grove of
tall trees and began to play forfeits; for evening was coming on and
the party did not want to go home without a few kisses. Two of them
were condemned to kiss each other with flowers in their mouths without
dropping them. After they, and the couple that tried it after them, had
failed, you suddenly came running up to me without a trace of
embarrassment, with a lily-of-the-valley in your mouth, stuck another
between my lips and said, 'Try it!' Sure enough, both blossoms fell to
join their sisters on the ground, but, in your eagerness, you kissed me
all the same. It felt as if a beautiful, light-winged butterfly had
alighted, and involuntarily I put up two finger-tips to catch it. The
others thought I wanted to wipe my lips and laughed at me."

"Here we are at the shore," said Hermine and jumped out. Then she
turned round again pleasantly to Karl.

"Because you sat so still and treated my word with the respect due to
it," she said, "I will, if necessary, go out with you again before four
weeks have passed and will write you a note to say when. That will be
the first writing I have ever confided to you."

With that she hurried to the house. Karl rowed rapidly to the public
landing so as not to miss the blast of the worthy buglers that pierced
the mild air like a jagged razor.

On his way through the street he encountered Ruckstuhl and Spoerri who
were slightly tipsy; greeting them pleasantly and familiarly, he
grasped the former by the arm and began to praise and flatter him.

"What the devil have you been up to again? What new trick have you been
planning, you schemer? You're certainly the grandest sharpshooter in
the whole canton, in all Switzerland, I _should_ say."

"Thundering guns!" cried Ruckstuhl, highly flattered that someone else
besides Spoerri should make up to him and compliment him, "it's a shame
that we have to turn in so soon. Haven't we time to drink a bottle of
good wine together?"

"Sst! We can do that in our room. It's the custom among the
sharpshooters anyway to take in the officers, at least once during
their service and secretly carouse in their room all night. We're only
recruits, but we'll show them that we're worthy of the carbine."

"That would be a great lark! I'll pay for the wine as sure as my name
is Ruckstuhl! But we must be sly and crafty as serpents, or we'll do
for ourselves."

"Don't worry, we're just the boys for this sort of thing. We'll turn in
quite quietly and innocently and make no noise."

When they reached the barracks their room-mates were all in the canteen
drinking a night-cap. Karl confided in a few of them, who passed the
tidings on, and so each of them provided himself with a few bottles
which, one after the other, they carried out unnoticed and hid under
their cots. In their room they quietly went to bed at ten o'clock to
wait till the rounds had been made to see if the lights were out. They
then all got up again, hung coats over the windows, lighted the lights,
brought out the wine and began a regular drinking bout. Ruckstuhl felt
as if he were in paradise, for they all drank to him and toasted him as
a great man. His ardent desire to be considered somebody in military as
well as in civil life without doing anything to deserve it made him
stupider than he naturally was. When he and his henchman seemed to have
been put completely out of business, various drinking feats were
carried out. One of the men, while standing on his head, had to drink a
ladle of wine which someone else held to his lips; another, seated in a
chair, with a bullet suspended from the ceiling swinging round his
head, had to drink three glasses before the bullet touched his head; a
third had some other trick to perform, and on all who failed some droll
penalty was imposed. All this was done in perfect silence; whoever made
a noise also did penance, and they were all in their nightshirts so
that, if surprised, they could crawl quickly into bed. Now as the time
approached when the officer would make his rounds through the
corridors, the two friends were also assigned a drinking-feat. Each was
to balance a full glass on the flat of his sword and hold it to the
other's mouth and each had to drain the glass so held without spilling
a drop. They drew their short-swords with a swagger and crossed the
blades with the glasses on them; but they trembled so that both glasses
fell off and they did not get a drop. They were, therefore, sentenced
to stand guard outside the door, in "undress uniform," for fifteen
minutes, and this prank was admiringly said to be the boldest ever
carried out in those barracks within the memory of man. Their
haversacks and short-swords were hung crosswise over their shirts, they
were made to put on their shakoes and blue leggings, but no shoes, and
thus, their rifles in their hands, they were led out and posted one on
either side of the door. They were scarcely there before the others
bolted the door, removed all traces of the carousal, uncovered the
windows, put out the lights and slipped into bed as if they had been
asleep for hours. In the meantime the two sentries marched up and down
in the gleam of the corridor-lamp, their rifles on their shoulders, and
looked about them with bold glances. Spoerri, filled with bliss because
he had been able to get drunk at no expense, grew quite reckless and
suddenly began to sing, and that hastened the steps of the officer on
duty who was already on the way. As he approached they tried to slip
quickly into the room; but they couldn't open the door and before they
could think of anything else to do the enemy was upon them. Now
everything whirled through their heads in a mad dance. In their
confusion each placed himself at his post, presented arms and cried,
"Who goes there?"

"In the name of all that's holy, what does this mean? What are you
doing there?" cried the officer on duty, but without receiving a
sufficient answer, for the two clowns could not get out a sensible
word. The officer quickly opened the door and looked into the room, for
Karl who had been straining his ears, had hopped hastily out of bed,
pushed back the bolt and as hastily hopped in again. When the officer
saw that everything was dark and quiet and heard nothing but puffing
and snoring, he cried, "Hallo there, men!"

"Go to the devil!" cried Karl, "and get to bed, you drunkards!" The
others also pretended that they had been wakened and cried,

"Aren't those beasts in bed yet? Turn them out, call the guard!"

"He's here, I'm he," said the officer, "one of you light a light,
quick."

This was done, and when the light fell on the two buffoons peals of
laughter came from under all the bedclothes as if the entire company
were taken utterly by surprise. Ruckstuhl and Spoerri joined crazily in
the laughter and marched up and down holding their sides, for their
minds had now taken a tack in a different direction. Ruckstuhl
repeatedly snapped his fingers in the officer's face and Spoerri stuck
out his tongue at him. When the derided officer saw that there was
nothing to be done with the joyful pair, he took out his pad and wrote
down their names. Now, as ill-luck would have it, he happened to live
in one of Ruckstuhl's houses and had not yet paid the rent--due at
Easter which was just over--it might be because he was not in funds or
because he had been too busy while on military duty to attend to it. In
any case, Ruckstuhl's evil genius suddenly hit on this fact and,
reeling towards the officer, he laughed foolishly and stuttered,

"P-pay your d-debts fir-firsht, m-mister, before you t-ta-take down
peo-people's namesh. You know!"

Spoerri laughed still louder, lurched and staggered back like a crab
and, shaking his head, piped shrilly,

"P-p-pay your d-debts, mister, that-tha-that is well s-said."

"Four of you get up," said the officer quietly, "and take these men to
the guard-house, see that they're well locked up at once. In about
three days we'll see if they have slept this off yet. Throw their
cloaks over their shoulders and let them take their trousers on their
arms. March!"

"T-t-t-trousers," shouted Ruckstuhl, "th-that's what we need; there's
sh-sh-shtill s-something left to fa-fall out--if-you-shake-them."

"If you sh-sh-shake them, mister," repeated Spoerri and both of them
swung their trousers about till the coins jingled in the pockets. So
they marched off with their escort, laughing and shouting, through the
corridors and down the stairs and soon disappeared in a cellar-like
room in the basement, whereupon it grew quiet.


The following day at noon. Master Frymann's table was more elaborately
set than usual. Hermine filled the cut-glass decanters with the vintage
of '46, put a shining glass at every place, laid a handsome napkin on
every plate, and cut up a fresh loaf from the bakery at the sign of the
Hen where they baked an old-fashioned kind of bread for high days and
holidays, the delight of all the children in Zurich and of the women
who sat gossiping over their afternoon coffee-cups. She also sent an
apprentice, dressed in his Sunday best, to the pastry-cook's to fetch
the macaroni pie and the coffee cake, and finally she arranged the
dessert on a small side table: little curled cookies, and wafers, the
pound cake, the little "cocked hats," and the conical raisin loaf.
Frymann, pleasantly affected by the beautiful Sunday weather,
interpreted his daughter's zeal to mean that she did not intend
seriously to resist his plans, and he said to himself with amusement,
"They're all like that! As soon as an acceptable and definite
opportunity offers itself they make haste to seize it by the forelock!"

According to ancient custom Mr. Ruckstuhl was invited for twelve
o'clock sharp. When, at a quarter past, he was not yet there, Frymann
said,

"We will begin; we must accustom this cavalier to punctuality from the
start."

And when the soup was finished and Ruckstuhl had still not arrived the
master called in the apprentices and the maidservant who were eating by
themselves that day and had already half done, and said to them:

"Sit down and eat with us, we don't want to sit staring at all this
food. Pitch in and enjoy yourselves,


           'Whoever late to dinner comes
            Must eat what's left or suck his thumbs.'"


There was no need to ask them a second time, and they were jolly and in
good spirits, and Hermine was the merriest of all, and her appetite
grew better and better the more annoyed and displeased her father
became.

"The fellow seems to be a boor!" he growled to himself, but she heard
it and said:

"He probably couldn't get leave; we mustn't judge him too hastily."

"Not get leave! Are you ready to defend him already? Why shouldn't he
get leave if he cares anything about it?"

He finished his meal in the worst of humors and, contrary to his habit,
went at once to a coffee-house simply that he should not be at home if
the negligent suitor should finally come. Towards four o'clock, instead
of joining the Seven as usual, he came home again, curious to see
whether Ruckstuhl had put in an appearance. As he came through the
garden, there sat Mrs. Hediger with Hermine in the summer-house, as it
was a warm spring day, and they were drinking coffee and eating the
"cocked hats" and the raisin loaf and seemed to be in high spirits. He
said good afternoon to Mrs. Hediger, and although it annoyed him to see
her there, he asked her at once whether she had no news from the
barracks, and if all the sharpshooters had not perhaps gone on an
excursion.

"I think not," said Mrs. Hediger, "they were at church this morning and
afterwards Karl came home to dinner; we had roast mutton and that is a
dish he never deserts."

"Did he say nothing about Mr. Ruckstuhl or mention where he had gone?"

"Mr. Ruckstuhl? Yes, he and another recruit are in close confinement
for getting dreadfully intoxicated and insulting their superiors; they
say it was a most laughable scene."

"The devil take him!" said Frymann and straightway departed. Half an
hour later he was saying to Hediger:

"Now it's your wife who is sitting with my daughter in the garden and
rejoicing with her that my plan for a marriage has been wrecked."

"Why don't you drive her away? Why didn't you growl at her?"

"How can I, in view of our old friendship? You see, how these
confounded affairs are already confusing our relations with one
another. Therefore let us stand firm! No kinship for us!"

"No kinship indeed!" corroborated Hediger, and shook his friend by the
hand.


July, and with it the National Shooting Match of 1849, was now scarcely
a fortnight distant. The Seven held another meeting; for the cup and
banner were finished and had to be inspected and approved. The banner
was raised aloft and set up in the room, and in its shadow there now
took place the stormiest session that had ever stirred the Upright
Seven. For the fact suddenly became apparent that a banner carried in a
presentation procession involves a speaker, and it was the choice of
the latter that nearly wrecked the little boat with its crew of seven,
Each in turn was chosen thrice, and thrice did each in turn most
decisively decline. They were all indignant that none would consent,
and it made each of them angry to think that just he should be picked
out to bear this burden and do this unheard-of thing. As eagerly as
other men come forward when it's a question of taking the floor and
airing their view's, just so timidly did these men avoid speaking in
public, and each plead his unfitness, and declared that he had never in
his life done anything of the kind and never would. For they still
believed speechmaking to be an honorable art requiring both talent and
study, and they cherished an unreserved and honest respect for good
orators who could touch them, and accepted everything that such a man
said as true and sacred. They distinguished these orators sharply from
themselves and imposed upon themselves the meritorious duty of
attentive listeners, to consider conscientiously, to agree or to
reject, and this seemed to them a sufficiently honorable task.

So when it appeared that no speaker was procurable by vote, a tumult
and general uproar arose, in which each tried to convince another that
he was the man who should sacrifice himself. They picked out Hediger
and Frymann in particular and vigorously assaulted them. They, however,
resisted forcibly, and each tried to shift it to the other till Frymann
called for silence and said:

"My friends! We have made a thoughtless mistake and now we cannot fail
to see that, after all, we had better leave our banner-at home; so let
us quickly decide to do that and attend the festival without any fuss."

Heavy gloom settled down on them at these words.

"He's right!" said Kuser, the silversmith.

"There's nothing else for us to do," added Syfrig, the ploughmaker.

But Buergi cried: "We can't do that; people know what we intend to do
and that the banner is made. If we give it up the story will go down to
history."

"That's true, too," said Erismann, the innkeeper, "and our old
adversaries, the reactionaries, will know how to make the most of the
joke."

Their old bones thrilled with terror at such an idea, and once again
the company attacked the two most gifted members; they resisted anew
and finally threatened to withdraw.

"I am a simple carpenter and will never make a laughing stock of
myself," cried Frymann, to which Hediger rejoined:

"Then how can you expect me, a poor tailor, to do it? I should bring
ridicule on you all and harm myself, all to no purpose. I propose that
one of the innkeepers should be urged to undertake it; they are most
accustomed to crowds than any of the rest of us."

But the innkeepers protested vehemently, and Pfister suggested the
cabinet-maker because he was a wit and a joker.

"Joker! Not much!" cried Buergi, "do you call it a joke to address the
president of a national festival in the presence of a thousand people?"

A general sigh was the answer to this remark which made them realize
the difficulties of the task more vividly than ever.

After this several members rose one by one from the table, and there
was a running in and out and a whispering together in the corners.
Frymann and Hediger alone remained seated, with gloomy countenances,
for they divined that a fresh and deadly assault on them was being
planned. Finally, when they were all assembled again, Buergi stood up
before these two and said:

"Kaspar and Daniel! You have both so often spoken to our satisfaction
here, in this circle, that either of you, if he only will, can
perfectly well make a short, public address. It is the decision of the
society that you shall draw lots between you and that the result shall
be final. You must yield to a majority of five to two."

Renewed clamor supported these words; the two addressed, looked at each
other and finally bowed humbly to the decision, each in the hope that
the bitter lot might fall to the other. It fell to Frymann who, for the
first time, left a meeting of the Lovers of Liberty with a heavy heart,
while Hediger rubbed his hands with delight--so inconsiderate does
selfishness make the oldest of friends.

Frymann's pleasure in the approaching festival was now at an end and
his days were darkened. He thought constantly of his speech without
being able to find a single idea, because he kept seeking for something
remote instead of seizing upon what lay near at hand and using it as he
would have among his friends. The phrases in which he was accustomed to
address them seemed homely to him, and he hunted about in his mind for
something out of the ordinary and high-sounding, for a political
manifesto, and he did so not from vanity but from a bitter sense of
duty. Finally he began to cover a sheet of paper with writing, not
without many interruptions, sighs, and curses. With infinite pains he
wrote two pages, although he had intended to compose only a few lines;
for he could not find a conclusion, and the tortured phrases clung to
one another like sticky burrs and held the writer fast in a confused
tangle.

With the folded paper in his waistcoat pocket he went worriedly about
his business, occasionally stepping behind some shed to read it again
and shake his head. At last he confided in his daughter and read the
draft to her to see what effect it made. The speech was an accumulation
of words that thundered against Jesuits and aristocrats, richly larded
with such expressions as "freedom," "human rights," "servitude," and
"degradation"; in short it was a bitter and labored declaration of war,
in which there was no mention of the Seven and their little banner, and
moreover, the composition was clumsy and confused, whereas he usually
spoke easily and correctly.

Hermine said it was a very strong speech, but it seemed to her somewhat
belated, as the Jesuits and aristocrats had been conquered at last, and
she thought a bright and pleasant declaration would be more appropriate
since the people were contented and happy.

Frymann was somewhat taken aback and although, even as an old man, the
fire of passion was still strong within him, he rubbed his nose and
said:

"You may be right, but still you don't quite understand it. A man
must use forcible language in public and spread it on thick, like a
scene-painter, so to speak, whose work, seen close to, is a crude daub.
Still, perhaps I can soften an expression here and there."

"That will be better," continued Hermine, "for there are so many
'therefores' in it. Let me look at it a minute. See, 'therefore' occurs
in nearly every other line."

"It's the very devil," he cried, took the paper from her hand and tore
it into a hundred pieces. "That's the end of it! I can't do it and I
won't make a fool of myself."

But Hermine advised him not to try to write anything, to wait until
just about an hour before the presentation and then to settle on some
idea and make a brief speech about it on the spur of the moment, as if
he were at home.

"That will be best," he replied, "then if it's a failure, at least I
have made no false pretenses."

Nevertheless he could not help beginning at once to turn over and
torture the idea in his mind without succeeding in giving it form; he
went about preoccupied and worried, and Hermine watched him with great
satisfaction.

The festival week had come before they knew it, and one morning in the
middle of it, the Seven started for Aarau before daybreak in a special
omnibus drawn by four horses. The new banner fluttered brightly from
the box; on its green silk shone the words, "Friendship in Freedom!"
and all the old men were joyful and gay, serious and merry by turns,
and Frymann alone appeared to be depressed and dubious.

Hermine was already staying with friends in Aarau, for her father
rewarded her perfect housekeeping by taking her with him on all his
jaunts; and more than once she had adorned the joyful circle of
greybeards like a rosy hyacinth. Karl, too, was already there; although
his military service had made demands enough on his time and his money,
yet at Hermine's invitation he had gone to the festival on foot, and
oddly enough had found quarters near where she was staying; for they
had their affair to attend to, and no one could say whether they might
not be able to make favorable use of the festival. Incidentally, he
also wanted to shoot and, in accordance with his means, carried
twenty-five cartridges with him; these he intended to use, no more and
no fewer.

He had soon scented the arrival of the Upright Seven and followed them
at a distance as, with their little banner, they marched in close order
to the festival grounds. The attendance was larger on that day than on
any other in the week, the streets were full of people in their best
clothes, going and coming; large and small rifle clubs came along with
and without bands; but none was as small as that of the Seven. They
were obliged to wind their way through the crowd but, taking short
paces, they kept in step nevertheless; their fists were closed and
their arms hung straight at their sides in military fashion. Frymann
marched ahead with the banner, looking as if he were being led to
execution. Occasionally he looked from side to side to see if no escape
were possible; but his companions, glad that they were not in his
shoes, encouraged him and called out to him bracing and pithy words.
They were already nearing the festival grounds; the crackling
rifle-fire already sounded close by, and high in the air the national
marksmen's flag flew in sunny solitude and its silk now stretched out
quiveringly to all four corners, now snapped gracefully above the
people's heads, now hung down sanctimoniously, close to the staff, for
a moment--in short, it indulged in all the sport that a flag can think
of in a whole long week, and yet the sight of it stabbed the bearer of
the little green banner to the heart.

Karl, seeing the merry flag and stopping to watch it a moment, suddenly
lost sight of the little group and when he looked all round for it he
could not discover it anywhere; it seemed as if the earth had swallowed
it. Quickly he pressed through to the spot and then back to the
entrance of the grounds and looked there; no little green banner rose
from the throng. He turned to go back again, and in order to get ahead
faster he took a side way along the street. There stood a little
tavern, the proprietor of which had planted a few lean evergreens in
front of the door, put up a few tables and benches and spread a piece
of canvas above the whole, like a spider that spins her web close to a
large pot of honey, so as to catch a fly now and then. Through the
dirty window of this little house Karl happened to see the shining gilt
tip of a flag-pole; in he went at once and behold, there, in the
low-ceilinged room, sat his precious old men as if blown there by a
thunderstorm. They lay and lounged this way and that on chairs and
benches and hung their heads, and in the centre stood Frymann with the
banner and said:

"That's enough! I won't do it! I'm an old man and don't want to bear
the stigma of folly and a nickname for the rest of my days."

And with that he stood the banner in a corner with a bang. No answer
followed until the pleased innkeeper came and placed a huge bottle of
wine in front of the unexpected guests, although they had been too
upset to order anything. Hediger filled a glass, stepped up to Frymann
and said:

"Come, old friend and comrade, take a swallow of wine and brace up."

But Frymann shook his head and spoke not another word. They sat in
great distress, greater than they had ever known; all the riots,
counter-revolutions, and reactions that they had experienced were
child's play compared to this defeat at the gates of paradise.

"Then in God's name, let us turn round and drive home again," said
Hediger who feared that even now fate might turn against him. At that
Karl, who until now had stood on the threshold, stepped forward and
said gaily:

"Gentlemen, give me the banner! I will carry it and speak for you, I
don't mind doing it."

They all looked up in astonishment and a ray of relief and joy flashed
across their faces; but old Hediger said sternly:

"You! How did you come here? And how can an inexperienced young shaver
like you speak for us old fellows?"

But from all sides came cries of "Well done! Forward unfalteringly!
Forward with the lad!" And Frymann himself gave him the banner, for a
heavy weight had fallen from his heart and he was glad to see his old
friends saved from the distress into which he had led them. And forward
they went with renewed zest; Karl led, bearing the banner grandly
aloft, and in the rear the innkeeper looked sadly after the vanishing
mirage that had for a moment deceived him. Hediger alone was now gloomy
and unhappy, for he did not doubt that his son would lead them deeper
into the mire than ever. But they had already entered the grounds; the
Grisons were just marching off, a long brown procession, and, passing
them and in time to their music, the old men marched through the crowd,
keeping step as perfectly as they had ever done. Again they had to mark
time when three fortunate shots who had won cups crossed their path
with buglers and followers; but all that, together with the loud noise
of the shooting, only increased their festive intoxication and finally
they uncovered their heads at the sight of the trophy-temple which
blazed with treasures, and from the turrets of which a host of flags
fluttered showing the colors of all the cantons, towns, districts and
parishes. In their shade stood several gentlemen in black and one of
them held a brimming silver goblet in his hand ready to receive the
arrivals.

The seven venerable heads floated like a sunlit cake of ice in the dark
sea of the crowd, their scanty white hair fluttered in the gentle east
wind and streamed in the same direction as the red and white flag high
above them. By reason of their small number and their advanced age they
attracted general attention, people smiled not without respect, and
everyone was listening as the youthful standard-bearer stepped forward
and in a fresh clear voice delivered this address:

"Beloved Countrymen! Here we come with our little banner, eight of us
all told, seven greybeards with a young standard-bearer. As you see,
each carries his rifle, without claiming to be a remarkably good shot;
to be sure, none of us would miss the target and sometimes one of us
hits the bull's eye, but if that should occur you can swear that he
didn't mean to. So, as far as the silver is concerned that we shall
carry away from your trophy-hall, we might just as well have stayed at
home.

"Nevertheless, although we are not eminent marksmen, we couldn't keep
away; we have come not to win trophies, but to present a modest little
cup, an almost immodestly joyful heart, and a new banner that trembles
in my hand with eagerness to fly from your fortress of flags. But we
shall take our little banner home with us again, it is only here to
receive its consecration. See, what it bears in golden letters:
'Friendship in Freedom'! Yes, it is friendship personified so to speak,
that we bring to this festival, friendship based on patriotism,
friendship rooted in the love of liberty. Friendship it was that
brought together these seven hoary heads that glisten here in the
sunlight, thirty, no forty years ago, and it has held them together
through every storm, in good and evil days. It is a society that has no
name, no president and no statutes; its members neither bear titles nor
hold offices, it is unmarked timber from the forest depths of the
nation, and it now steps forth for a moment into the sunlight of the
national holiday only to return presently to its place, to rustle and
roar with thousands of other tree-tops in the hidden forest-dusk of the
people, where only a few can know and call each other by name, and yet
all are familiar and acquainted.

"Look at them, these old sinners! None of them stands in the odor of
particular sanctity! Rarely is one of them seen at church! They do not
speak well of ecclesiastical matters. But here, beneath the open sky, I
can confide something strange to you, my countrymen: as soon as their
fatherland is in danger they begin quite gradually to believe in God;
first each one cautiously in his own heart, then ever more boldly, till
one betrays his secret to another and they then, all together,
cultivate a remarkable theology, the first and only doctrine of which
is: 'God helps him who helps himself! On days of rejoicing too, like
this, when crowds of people are assembled and a clear blue sky smiles
above them, they again fall a prey to these religious thoughts and then
they imagine that God has hung the Swiss standard aloft and made the
beautiful weather especially for us. In both cases, in the hour of
danger and in the hour of joy, they are suddenly satisfied with the
words that begin our constitution: 'In the name of God Almighty'! And
such a gentle tolerance pervades them then--cross-grained though they
are at other times--that they do not even ask whether it is the Roman
Catholic or the Protestant God of Hosts that is meant.

"In short, a child who has been given a little Noah's ark filled with
painted animals and tiny men and women, cannot be more pleased with it
than they are with their beloved little fatherland and all the
thousands of good things that are in it, from the moss-covered old pike
lying at the bottom of its lakes to the wild bird that flutters round
its icy peaks. Oh, what different kinds of people swarm here in this
little space, manifold in their occupations, in manners and customs, in
costume and language! What sly rascals and what moonstruck fools we see
running around, what noble growth and what weeds thrive here merrily
side by side, and it is all good and fine and dear to our hearts, for
it is in our fatherland.

"So, considering and weighing the value of earthly things, they grow to
be philosophers; but they can never get beyond the wonderful fact of
the fatherland. True, they traveled in their youth and have seen many
countries, not with arrogance, but honoring every land in which they
found people of worth; but their motto remained ever the same: respect
every man's mother country, but love your own!

"And how graceful and rich it is! The closer one looks at it the finer
does its warp and woof appear, beautiful and durable, a model piece of
handiwork!

"How diverting it is that there is not just one monotonous type of
Swiss, but that there are various stamps of people from Zurich and
Bern, Unterwalden and Neuenburg, the Orisons and Basle, and even two
kinds of Baslers; and that Appenzell has a history of its own and
Geneva another! This variety in unity--which God preserve--is the
proper school in which to learn friendship, and it is only where
political homogeneousness is transformed into the personal friendship
of a whole people that the highest plane has been attained; for where
the sense of citizenship fails, friendship will be successful and both
will combine to form a single virtue.

"These old men have spent their years in toil and labor; they are
beginning to feel the frailty of all flesh, it pinches one in one
place, one in another. Yet, when summer comes, they go, not to the
baths, but to the national festival. The wine of the Swiss festival is
the healing spring that refreshes their hearts, the outdoor summer life
of the nation is the air that strengthens their old nerves, surging
waves of happy fellow-countrymen are the sea that bathes their stiff
limbs and makes them active again. You will presently see their white
heads disappear in this sea. So now, fellow Helvetians, give us the cup
of welcome! Long live friendship in the fatherland! Long live
friendship in freedom!"

"Long may it live! Bravo!" rang out from all sides, and the welcoming
speaker replied to the address and saluted the old men, who made an odd
and touching appearance as they stood before him.

"Yes," he concluded, "may our festivals never become anything worse
than a school of manners for the young, and, for the old, the reward of
a clear public conscience, of faithful civic loyalty, and a fountain of
pleasure! May they ever celebrate inviolable and vigorous friendship in
our country, between district and district and between man and man! May
your nameless and statuteless society, my venerable friends, live
long!"

Again the toast was echoed all around and amid general applause the
little banner was added to the others. Hereupon the little troop of the
Seven wheeled about and made straight for the great festival hall to
refresh themselves with a good luncheon and they were scarcely there
before they all shook hands with their speaker and cried:

"Spoken from our hearts! Hediger, Kaspar! your boy is made of good
stuff, he'll turn out well, let him go his own way. Just like us, but
cleverer, we are a lot of old donkeys; but steadfast and unflinching,
stand firm, Karl!" and so on.

But Frymann was quite dumbfounded; the boy had said just what he ought
to have thought of, instead of banging away at the Jesuits. He too gave
Karl his hand in friendship and thanked him for his help in time of
need. Last of all, old Hediger came up to his son, took his hand also,
fixed his eye keenly and firmly upon him and said:

"Son, you have revealed a fine but dangerous gift. Nurse it, cultivate
it with loyalty, with a sense of duty, with modesty. Never lend it to
the false and the unjust, to the vain and the trivial; for it may
become as a sword in your hand that turns against you yourself, or
against the good as well as the evil. Or it may become a mere fool's
bauble. Therefore, look straight ahead, be modest, studious, but firm
and unswerving. As you have done us honor to-day, remember always to do
honor to your fellow-citizens, to your country, to give them joy; think
of this and so you will be best preserved from false ambition!
Unswerving! Don't think that you must always speak, let some
opportunities pass, and never speak for your own sake, but always for
some worthy cause. Study men, not in order to outwit and plunder them,
but in order to awaken and set in motion the good in them, and, believe
me, many who listen to you will often be better and wiser than you who
speak. Never use sophisms and petty hair-splitting which only move the
chaff; the heart of the people can only be stirred by the full force of
truth. Do not, therefore, court the applause of the noisy and restless,
but fix your eye unswervingly on the cool-headed and the firm."

Scarcely had he finished this speech and released Karl's hand when
Frymann seized it and said:

"Try to acquire an equal knowledge of all branches and enrich your
store of principles that you may not sink into the use of empty
phrases. After this first dash allow considerable time to pass without
thinking of such things again. If you have a good idea, never speak
just in order to air it but rather lay it aside; the opportunity will
come more than once later for you to use it in a more developed and
better form. But should someone else forestall you in uttering it, be
glad instead of annoyed, for that is a proof that you have felt and
thought something universal. Train and develop your mind and watch over
your nature and study in other speakers the difference between a mere
tongue-warrior and a man of truthfulness and feeling. Do not travel
about the country nor rush through all the streets, but accustom
yourself to understand the course of the world from your own hearth, in
the midst of tried friends; then, when it is time for action, you will
come forward with more wisdom than the hounds and tramps. When you
speak, speak neither like a facetious hostler nor like a tragic actor,
but keep your own natural character unspoilt and then speak as it
dictates. Avoid affectation, don't strike attitudes, do not look about
you like a field marshal before you begin, or, worse, as if you were
lying in wait to spring upon the audience. Never say that you are not
prepared when you are, for people will know your style and will
perceive it at once. When you have done, do not walk about collecting
compliments, or beam with self-satisfaction, but sit quietly down in
your seat and listen attentively to the next speaker. Save your harsh
phrases as you would gold, so that when, on occasion, you use them in
just indignation, it will be an event, and they will strike your
opponent like a bolt from the blue. But if you think you may ever
associate with an opponent again and work with him, beware of letting
your anger carry you into the use of extreme expressions, that the
people may not say,


           'Rascals fight, and when the fight is o'er,
            They're greater friends than e'er before'."


Thus spake Frymann, and poor Karl sat astonished and bewildered by all
these speeches and did not know whether to laugh or to be puffed up.
But Syfrig, the smith, cried:

"Now look at these two who didn't want to speak for us and can talk
like books, as you see."

"Just so," said Buergi, "but that has been the means of our gaining new
growth; we have put forth a vigorous young shoot. I move that the lad
be taken into the circle of us old fellows and from now on attend our
meetings."

"So be it!" they all cried and clinked glasses with Karl, who somewhat
unthinkingly drained his to the bottom, which lapse however the old men
let pass without a murmur in view of the excitement of the moment.

When, thanks to a good lunch, the party felt sufficiently recovered
from its adventure, the members scattered. Some went to try a few
shots, some to see the trophy-hall and other arrangements, and Frymann
went to fetch his daughter and the women whose guest she was; for they
were all to meet again for dinner at the same table which stood nearly
in the centre of the hall and not far from the platform. They took note
of its number and separated in the best of spirits and free from all
care.

Exactly at twelve o'clock the dinner guests, who were different ones
every day and numbered several thousand people, sat down at the table.
Country and city people, men and women, old and young, scholars and the
unlearned--they all sat joyfully side by side and waited for the soup,
opening bottles and cutting bread meanwhile. Not a single malicious
face, not a scream or shrill laugh was seen or heard among them,
nothing but the steady hum of a glad wedding feast magnified a
hundredfold, the tempered wave-beat of a happy and self-contained
ocean. Here a long table filled with marksmen, there a double row of
blooming country girls, at a third table a meeting of so-called "old
fellows" from all parts of the country, who had finally passed their
examinations, and at a fourth a whole "immigrated" hamlet, men and
women together. Yet these seated hosts formed only half of the
assemblage; an equally numerous crowd of spectators streamed
uninterruptedly through the aisles and spaces and circled ceaselessly
about the diners. They--praise and thanks be to God!--were the careful
and economical ones who had counted the cost and satisfied their
hunger elsewhere for even less money, that half of the nation that
always manages things so much more cheaply and frugally, while the
other half flings away money right and left; then there were also the
over-fastidious ones who did not trust the cooking and thought the
forks were too cheap; and finally there were the poor and the children,
who were involuntary spectators. But the former made no unkind remarks
and the latter displayed neither torn clothes nor jealous looks; on the
contrary, the thrifty ones took pleasure in the spendthrifts, and the
super-refined who thought the dishes of green peas in July ridiculous,
walked about as good-humoredly as the poor who found their fragrance
most tempting. Here and there, to be sure, a piece of culpable
selfishness appeared as, for instance, when some tight-fisted young
peasant succeeded in slipping unseen into a vacated place and eating
away with the rest without having paid; and, what was still worse in
the eyes of those who love order and discipline, this reprehensible act
did not even result in an altercation and forcible ejection.

The head festival-host stood in front of the broad kitchen door and
blew on a hunting horn the signal for a course to be served, whereupon
a company of waiters rushed forward and dispersed to the right, to the
left and straight ahead, executing a well practised man[oe]uvre. One of
them found his way to the table at which sat the Upright and Staunch,
among them Karl, Hermine, and her friends, cousins or whatever they
were. The old men were just listening eagerly to one of the principal
speakers who had mounted the platform after a loud roll on the drum.
There they sat, grave and composed, with forks laid down, stiff and
upright, all their seven heads turned towards the platform. But they
blushed like young girls and looked at each other when the speaker
began with a phrase from Karl's speech, told of the coming of the seven
greybeards, and made that the starting-point for his own speech. Karl
alone heard nothing, for he was joking quietly with the women, until
his father nudged him and expressed his disapproval. As the orator
finished amid great applause, the old men looked at one another again;
they had been present at many assemblies, but for the first time they
themselves had been the subject of a speech and they dared not look
around, so embarrassed were they, though at the same time more than
happy. But, as the way of the world is, their neighbors all around did
not know them, nor suspect what prophets were in their midst, and so
their modesty was not offended. With all the greater satisfaction did
they press one another's hands after each of them had gently rubbed his
own to himself, and their eyes said: Forward unswervingly! That is the
sweet reward of virtue and enduring excellence!

After this Kuser cried: "Well, we have to thank our young Master Karl
for this pleasure. I think we shall have to promise him Buergi's canopy
bed after all and lay a certain doll in it for him. What do you think,
Daniel Frymann?"

"And I am afraid," said Pfister, "that he is going to lose his bet and
will have to buy my Swiss blood."

But Frymann suddenly frowned and said:

"A clever tongue alone isn't always rewarded with a wife! At least in
my house a skilful hand has to go with it. Come, my friends, don't let
us try to include in our jokes things that don't rightly belong there."

Karl and Hermine were blushing and looking away into the crowd with
embarrassment. Just then came the boom of the cannon-shot that
announced the recommencement of the shooting and for which a long line
of marksmen were waiting, rifle in hand. Immediately their rifle-fire
crackled all down the line; Karl rose from the table saying that he too
now wanted to try his luck, and betook himself to the range.

"And at least I want to watch him even if I can't have him," cried
Hermine jestingly, and followed him, accompanied by her friends.

But it happened that the women lost sight of one another in the crowd
and at last Hermine was left alone with Karl and went with him
faithfully from target to target. He began at the extreme end where
there was no crowd and, although he shot with no particular
earnestness, made two or three hits in succession. Turning round to
Hermine who stood behind him he said laughing:

"That's doing pretty well!" She laughed too, but only with her eyes,
while her lips said earnestly:

"You must win a cup."

"I can't do that," answered Karl, "to get twenty-five numbers I should
have to use at least fifty cartridges and I only have twenty-five with
me."

"Oh," she said, "there's powder and lead enough for sale here."

"But I don't want to buy any more; that would make the cup a pretty
expensive prize! Some fellows, to be sure, do spend more money on
powder than the trophy is worth, but I'm not such a fool."

"You're very high-principled and economical," she said almost tenderly,
"I like that. But it's the best fun of all to accomplish with a little
just as much as the others with their elaborate preparations and
terrible exertions. So pull yourself together and win with your
twenty-five cartridges. If I were a marksman I'd make myself succeed."

"Never! Such a thing never occurs, you little goose!"

"That's because you are all only Sunday marksmen. Go ahead, begin and
try it."

He shot again and got a number and then a second. Again he looked at
Hermine and she laughed still more with her eyes and said still more
earnestly:

"There, you see! It can be done, now go ahead."

He looked at her steadily, and could scarcely withdraw his gaze, for he
had never seen her eyes look as they did now; there was a stern and
tyrannical gleam in the smiling sweetness of her glance, two spirits
spoke eloquently out of its radiance: one was her commanding will, but
with that was fused the promise of reward and out of that fusion arose
a new mysterious being. "Do my will, I have more to give than you
suspect," said those eyes, and Karl gazed into them searchingly and
eagerly until he and the girl understood each other, there, surrounded
by the tumult and surge of the festival. When he had satisfied his eyes
with this radiance, he turned again, aimed calmly and scored once more.
Now he himself began to feel that it was possible; but as people were
beginning to gather about him, he went away and sought a quieter and
emptier range, and Hermine followed him. There he again made several
hits without wasting a shot; and so he began to handle his cartridges
as carefully as gold coins, and Hermine accompanied every one with
avaricious, shining eyes as it disappeared into the barrel; but each
time, before Karl took his aim without haste or agitation, he looked
into the beautiful face beside him. As soon as people began to notice
his luck and collect round him, he went on to another range; nor did he
stick the checks he received in his hatband, but gave them to his
companion to keep; she held the whole little pack and never did a
marksman have a more beautiful number-bearer. Thus he actually did
fulfill her wish and made such fortunate use of his twenty-five
cartridges that not one of them struck outside the prescribed circle.

They counted over the checks and found this rare good fortune
confirmed.

"I've done it once, but I'll never be able to again as long as I live,"
said Karl, "and it's you who are responsible, with your eyes. I am only
wondering what all else you intend to accomplish with them!"

"Wait and see," she answered, and now her lips laughed too.

"Now go back to the party," he said, "and ask them to come and fetch me
from the trophy-hall, so that I may have an escort, as there is no one
else with me, or do you want to march with me?"

"I'd almost like to," said she, but hurried away nevertheless.

The old men were sitting deep in pleasant conversation; most of the
crowd in the hall had changed but they stuck fast to their table and
let life surge about them. Hermine went up to them laughing and cried:

"Karl wants you to come and get him; he's won a cup!"

"What! How's that?" they cried and rejoiced loudly; "so that's what
he's up to?"

"Yes," said an acquaintance who had just come up, "and, moreover, he
won the cup with twenty-five shots, that doesn't happen every day! I
was watching the young couple and saw how they did it."

Master Frymann looked at his daughter in astonishment. "You didn't
shoot too, did you? I hope not. Women sharpshooters are all right in
general, but not in particular."

"Don't be alarmed," said Hermine, "I didn't shoot, I only ordered him
to shoot straight."

Hediger, however, paled with wonder and satisfaction to think that he
should have a son gifted with eloquence, and famous in the use of arms,
who would go forth with deeds and actions from his obscure tailor-shop
into the world. Inwardly he began to sing small, and decided that he
would no longer try to act the guardian. But now they all started for
the trophy-temple where they really found the young hero, standing
beside the buglers, the shining cup already in his hand, waiting for
them. And so to the tune of a merry march off they went with him to the
festival hall to christen the cup, as the saying goes, and again their
steps were short and firm, their fists were clenched and they looked
triumphantly about them. Arrived again at their headquarters, Karl
filled the cup, set it in the middle of the table and said,

"I herewith dedicate this cup to the Band of Seven, that it may never
leave their banner."

"Accepted!" they shouted. The cup began to go the round and new
merriment rejuvenated the old men, who had now been in good spirits
since dawn. The evening sun streamed in under the countless beams of
the hall and gilded thousands of faces already transfigured with
pleasure, while the resounding tones of the orchestra filled the room.
Hermine sat in the shadow of her father's broad shoulders, as modest
and quiet, as if she couldn't count three. But golden lights from the
sun, falling across the cup before her and flashing on its golden
lining and the wine, played about her rosy and glowing face and danced
with every movement of the wine when the old men in the heat of
discussion pounded on the table; and then one could not tell whether
she herself was smiling or only the playing lights. She was now so
beautiful that young men, looking about the hall, soon discovered her.
Merry groups settled themselves near her in order to keep her in sight
and people asked one another: "Where is she from? Who is the old man?
Doesn't anyone know him?" "She's from St. Gallen; they say she's a
Thurgovian," answered one. "No, all the people at that table are from
Zurich," said another. Wherever she looked, merry young fellows raised
their hats in respectful admiration and she smiled modestly and without
affectation. But when a long procession of young men passed the table
and all took off their hats she had to cast down her eyes, and still
more when a handsome student from Berne suddenly appeared beside her,
cap in hand, and with courteous audacity said that he had been sent by
thirty friends who were sitting at the fourth table from there, to
inform her, with her father's permission, that she was the most
charming girl in the hall. In short, everyone did regular homage to
her, the sails of the old men swelled with new triumph, and Karl's fame
was almost obscured by Hermine's. But he too was to come to the front
once more.

For a stir and a crush arose in the middle aisle caused by two cowherds
from Entlibuch who were pushing their way through the throng. They were
regular bumpkins with short pipes in their mouths, their Sunday jackets
under their brawny arms, little straw hats on their big heads and
shirts fastened together across their chests with silver buckles in the
shape of hearts. The one who went ahead was a clodhopper of fifty and
rather tipsy and unruly; for he wanted to try feats of strength with
every man he saw and kept trying to hook his clumsy fingers into
everything, at the same time blinking pleasantly, or at times
challenging, with his little eyes. So his advance was everywhere marked
by offense and confusion. Directly behind him, however, came the
second, a still more uncouth customer of eighty, with a shock of short
yellow curls, and he was the father of the fifty-year-old. He guided
his precious son with an iron hand, without ever letting his pipe go
out, by saying from time to time:

"Laddie, keep quiet! Orderly, laddie, orderly!" and at the same time
pushing and pulling him in accordance with his words. So he steered him
with able hand through the angry sea until, just as they reached the
table of the Seven, a dangerous stoppage occurred, as a group of
peasants came up who wanted to call the quarrelsome fellow to account
and attack him from both sides. Fearing that his laddie might do some
fiendish damage, the father looked about for a place of refuge and saw
the old men. "He'll be quiet among these old baldpates," he growled to
himself, grasped his son with one fist in the small of his back and
steered him in between the benches, while with the other he fanned the
air behind him to keep off the irritated pursuers, for several of them
had already been properly pinched, in all haste.

"With your permission, gentlemen," said the octogenarian to the younger
old men, "let me sit down here a minute so that I can give my laddie
another glass of wine. Then he will grow sleepy and be as quiet as a
little lamb."

So he wedged himself into the party with his offspring, and the son
really did look about him meekly and respectfully. But presently he
said:

"I want to drink out of the little silver mug over there."

"Will you be quiet, or I'll knock the senses out of you before you can
turn round," said his father. But when Hediger pushed the full cup
towards him he said: "Well, then, if the gentlemen will allow it, take
a drink, but don't guzzle it all."

"That's a lively youngster you've got there, my good man," said
Frymann, "how old is he?"

"Oh," replied the father "around New Year's he'll be about fifty-two;
at least he was screaming in his cradle in 1798 when the French came,
drove away my cows and burnt my house. But because I took a couple of
them and knocked their heads together, I had to fly, and my wife died
of misery in the meantime. That's why I have to bring up my boy alone."

"Didn't you get a wife for him who could have helped you?"

"No, he's still too clumsy and wild; it won't do, he smashes everything
to pieces."

In the meantime the youthful ne'er-do-well had drained the fragrant
cup. He filled his pipe and looked round the circle blinking most
happily and peacefully. Thus he discovered Hermine and the womanly
beauty that radiated from her suddenly rekindled ambition in his heart
and the desire to show his strength. As his eye fell simultaneously on
Karl who was sitting opposite him, he invitingly stretched out his
crooked middle finger across the table.

"Stop that, Sonny! Has Satan got into you again?" cried his father
wrathfully, and was about to take him by the collar, but Karl told him
to let the other be and hooked his middle finger into that of the young
bear and then they tried, each to pull the other over to him.

"If you hurt the young gentleman or sprain his finger," warned the old
father, "I'll take you by the ears so that you'll feel it for three
weeks."

The two hands now wavered for a considerable time over the centre of
the table; Karl soon ceased laughing and grew crimson in the face, but
at last he gradually drew the arm and shoulder of his opponent
perceptibly towards his side of the table and with that the victory was
won.

The man from Entlibuch looked at him quite bewildered and downcast, but
not for long; his old father, now enraged at his defeat, boxed his
ears, and much ashamed he looked at Hermine; then he suddenly began to
cry and said, sobbingly:

"And now at least I want a wife!"

"Come, come," said his papa, "you're ready for bed now." He grasped him
by the arm and marched him off.

After the departure of this odd pair, a silence fell on the old men and
they wondered anew at Karl's deeds and achievements.

"That's entirely due to gymnastics," he said modestly; "they give you
training, strength, and knack for such things and almost anyone can
learn to do them who is not a born weakling."

"That is true," said Hediger, his father, and, after some reflection he
continued enthusiastically: "Therefore let us forever and ever praise
the new era which is again beginning to train men to be men and which
commands not only the country gentleman and the mountain herdsman but
the tailor's son as well to train his limbs and develop his body so
that it can do something."

"That is true," said Frymann also awaking from meditation, "and we too
have all taken part in the struggle to bring on this new era. And
to-day, as far as our old heads are concerned, we, with our little
banner, are celebrating the final result, the command 'Cease firing!'
and the rest we leave to the young ones. But now, no one has ever been
able to say of us that we stuck obstinately to our errors and
misunderstandings. On the contrary, we have always striven to keep our
minds open to all that was rational, true, and beautiful; and so I
herewith frankly and openly take back my declaration in regard to the
children and invite you, Friend Kaspar, to do the same. For what better
memorial of this day could we found, plant, and establish than a living
line, springing directly from the loins of our friendship, a family
whose children will preserve and transmit the principles and the
unswerving faith of the Upright Seven? Well then, let Buergi bring his
canopy-bed that we may equip it. I will lay in it grace and womanly
purity; you, strength, resolution and skill, and with that, forward
with the waving green banner, because they are young. It shall be left
to them and they shall keep it after we are gone. So do not resist
longer, old Hediger, but give me your hand as my kinsman."

"Accepted," said Hediger solemnly, "but on the condition that you don't
give the boy any money to spend on foolishness and heartless
ostentation. For the devil goeth about seeking whom he may devour."

"Accepted," cried Frymann, and Hediger continued:

"Then I greet you as my kinsman, and the Swiss blood may be tapped for
the wedding."

All the Seven now rose and Hermine's hand was laid in Karl's amid great
jubilation.

"Good luck! There's a betrothal, that's the way it ought to be!" cried
some of those sitting near, and at once a throng of people came up to
clink glasses with the young couple. As if by arrangement the orchestra
struck up, but Hermine managed to slip out of the crowd without letting
go of Karl's hand, and he led her out of the hall to the festival
grounds where already nocturnal silence reigned. They walked round the
fortress of flags and as no one was near they stood still. The flags
waved with animation and whispered together but they could not discover
the little banner of friendship, for it had disappeared in the folds of
a huge neighbor and was well taken care of. But overhead in the
starlight the Swiss flag snapped in its constant solitude and the sound
of the bunting could plainly be heard. Hermine put her arms round her
betrothed's neck, kissed him of her own accord, and said tenderly and
with emotion:

"But now we must see that we order our life aright. May we live just as
long as we are good and competent, and not a day longer!"

"Then I hope to live long, for I feel that life will be good with you,"
said Karl and kissed her again; "but what do you think now about who
shall rule? Do you really want to hold the reins?"

"As tight as I can. In the meantime, law and a constitution will surely
develop between us and it will be a good one whatever it is."

"And I will guarantee the constitution and claim the first chance to be
godfather," suddenly rang out a strong bass voice.

Hermine craned her neck and seized Karl's hand; but he went nearer and
saw one of the sentries of the Aargau sharpshooters standing in the
shadow of a pillar. The metal on his equipment gleamed in the dark. Now
the two young men recognized each other and the sentry was a tall,
fine-looking fellow, the son of a peasant. Karl and Hermine sat down on
the steps at his feet and chatted with him for a good half hour before
they returned to their party.





                      THE RIDER ON THE WHITE HORSE

                                   BY
                             THEODOR STORM


                             TRANSLATED BY
                         MARGARETE MUeNSTERBERG




                           BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE


Hans Theodor Woldsen Storm, usually known as Theodor Storm, was born in
the small coast town of Husum in Schleswig-Holstein on September 14,
1817. His father was an attorney whose family had for generations been
tenants of the old mill in Westermuehler, and his mother's family were
of the local aristocracy. Influences from his ancestry on both sides
and from the country in which he was brought up played an important
part in the formation of his sentiments and character.

Storm was educated at schools in Husum and Luebeck, and studied law at
Kiel and Berlin. At Kiel he formed a friendship with the historian
Theodor Mommsen and his brother Tycho, and the three published together
in 1843 "Songs by Three Friends." In spite of his interest in
literature, Storm went on with his legal career, and began practice in
his native town. There in 1846 he married his cousin Konstanze Esmarch,
and settled down to a happy domestic life.

When Storm was born, Schleswig and Holstein were independent duchies,
ruled by the king of Denmark; but when they were forcibly incorporated
into the kingdom of Denmark, Storm, who was a strong German in
sentiment, felt forced to leave his home, and in 1853 became assistant
judge in the circuit court in Potsdam. The bureaucratic society of the
Prussian town was uncongenial, and three years later he was glad to be
transferred to Heiligenstadt in Thuringia. In 1864 Schleswig-Holstein
was conquered by Prussia, and though Storm was disappointed that it did
not regain its independence, it was at least once more German, and he
returned to Husum as "Landvogt," or district magistrate, in 1865, and
lived there till 1880. The last eight years of his life he spent at a
country house in the neighboring village of Hademarschen, where he died
July 4, 1888. Konstanze had died in 1865, and he married as his second
wife Dorothea Jensen. Both marriages brought him much happiness.

Storm began his literary career as a lyric poet, and his work in this
field gives him a high place among the best in a kind in which German
literature is very rich. His story writing began with "Immensee"
(1849), perhaps his best known work. His early prose shared some of the
quality of his poetry in that it sought rather to convey a mood than
describe action; but, as his talent matured, incident and character
stood out more and more distinctly.

The progress can be traced from "Immensee" through "At the Castle" and
"At the University" to the objective narrative of "In the Village on
the Heath" and "At Cousin Christian's." In "Eekenhof" and "Hans and
Heinz Kirsch" he is frankly realistic, and the complete evolution from
his early subjectivity is seen in the dramatic depicting of human
struggles in "The Sons of the Senator," "Renate," and, last and
greatest of his works, "The Rider on the White Horse."

In this masterpiece, Storm exhibits a man's will in conflict, on one
side, with unintelligent conservatism among his fellowmen and, on the
other, with the forces of nature. The figure of the dike-master emerges
from the double struggle with a fine impressiveness; and the tragedy
which finally engulfs him and his family is profoundly moving. At the
same time we are given a vivid picture of the landscape of the
low-lying coast of the North Sea, with the ever-present menace of the
flood tide; and the sternness of the action is tempered with glimpses
of humor and a picture of warm affection. Here Storm's art reached a
pitch which places him beside the masters of the short novel.

                                                    W. A. N.




                      CRITICISM AND INTERPRETATION

                             By Adolf Stern


Within his special North German world, Storm's view extends back
through the decades and centuries. It reaches also, from the humblest
classes of the people, whose solidity and peculiar virtues he
understands as well as anyone, up to the circles of the most liberal
and profound culture. But the class that stands out most conspicuously
is the bourgeoisie, with their moderate means and their traditional
eagerness to assure to their children circumstances as good as their
own or better; among them his novels are usually laid; and among them
he finds his richest and most original characters. All these people are
deeply rooted in the soil of the family, of the home in the narrower
sense; with all of them the memories of childhood, the earliest
surroundings, play a more important part than would be the case with
people of the same type of mind and the same social position from
another region. With all of them a conservative element is predominant,
which makes itself felt in all their doings, their way of seeing
things, their habits. Men and women appear to be in the peculiar
bondage of a convention more formal than severe; they seem possessed by
a feeling of responsibility towards a conception of life which
dominates them, a conception which does not, to be sure, exclude free
will, a noble passion or warm affection, but which recognizes such and
admits them to their world only under special conditions, watchfully,
carefully, and with reserve. They are more dependent on the opinion of
their environment than the more careless and indifferent children of
other stocks. But though all the characters which Storm likes to
portray are wonderfully and apparently inextricably overgrown with
tradition and custom, yet they are, on the other hand, strong
individualities, independent to the point of stubbornness, and fully
conscious of their right to their own inner life. In these natures so
honestly sober, testing and weighing so sensibly, living in such
well-established order, there reigns secretly a powerful imagination, a
longing and a determination to win, each for himself, a piece of life
after his heart's desire. They are all ready under certain
circumstances to enter into the sharpest conflict, even into the most
irreconcilable struggle with all the conventions, as soon as they feel
their inmost being seized by such a yearning. They have little
inclination to yield to their imaginations in the things of everyday
life, or to urge their desires beyond the usual. But sometimes in
decisive moments they are carried away, they become conscious of the
ardor and at the same time of the strength of their hearts, for once
they must follow the call of their feelings which tells them they are
free and have to work out their own salvation. It is among such natures
that there is scope for the strong and deep passion of love, for that
faithful affection that gives no outward sign--we stand on the shore
whence rose the song of Gudrun in the gray days of old.

Of course, not every one of these peculiar and silent characters is
victorious in the strife with the hard, stubborn, conventional world,
nor does their struggle for their highest good always lead to a tragic
ending. Storm's eye rests too serenely and securely on the object; he
is an artist filled with too deep a sympathy with life to deceive
himself sentimentally about the fatal chain of human destiny, about
guilt and error, about the secret relation between weakness and its
results in life, about the places in the way which we cannot pass. He
is a better, even a keener, realist than many who call themselves by
that name, and has looked deeper into the eye of Nature than those who
imagine that their microscope has laid bare to them every eyelid of the
eternal mother.--From "Studien zur Litteratur der Gegenwart" (1895).




                      THE RIDER ON THE WHITE HORSE


What I am about to tell I learned nearly half a century ago in the
house of my great-grandmother, old Madame Fedderson, widow of the
senator, while I was sitting beside her armchair, busy reading a
magazine bound in blue pasteboard--I don't remember whether it was a
copy of the "Leipzig" or of "Pappes Hamburger Lesefruechte." I still
remember with a shudder how meanwhile the light hand of the past
eighty-year-old woman glided tenderly over the hair of her
great-grandson. She herself and her time are buried long ago. In vain
have I searched for that magazine, and therefore I am even less able to
vouch for the truth of the statements in it than I am to defend them if
anyone should question them; but of so much I can assure anyone, that
since that time they have never been forgotten, even though no outer
incident has revived them in my memory.


It was in the third decade of our century, on an October
afternoon--thus began the story-teller of that time--that I rode
through a mighty storm along a North Frisian dike. For over an hour I
had on my left the dreary marshland, already deserted by all the
cattle; on my right, unpleasantly near me, the swamping waters of the
North Sea. I saw nothing, however, but the yellowish-grey waves that
beat against the dike unceasingly, as if they were roaring with rage,
and that now and then bespattered me and my horse with dirty foam;
behind them I could see only chaotic dusk which did not let me tell sky
and earth apart, for even the half moon which now stood in the sky was
most of the time covered by wandering clouds. It was ice cold; my
clammy hands could scarcely hold the reins, and I did not wonder that
the croaking and cackling crows and gulls were always letting
themselves be swept inland by the storm. Nightfall had begun, and
already I could no longer discern the hoof of my horse with any
certainty. I had met no human soul, heard nothing but the screaming of
the birds when they almost grazed me and my faithful mare with their
long wings, and the raging of the wind and water. I cannot deny that
now and then I wished that I were in safe quarters.

It was the third day that this weather had lasted, and I had already
allowed an especially dear relative to keep me longer than I should
have done on his estate in one of the more northern districts. But
to-day I could not stay longer. I had business in the city which was
even now a few hours' ride to the south, and in spite of all the
persuasions of my cousin and his kind wife, in spite of the Perinette
and Grand Richard apples still to be tried, I had ridden away.

"Wait till you get to the sea," he had called after me from his house
door. "You will turn back. Your room shall be kept for you."

And really, for a moment, when a black layer of clouds spread
pitch-darkness round me and at the same time the howling squalls were
trying to force me and my horse down from the dike, the thought shot
through my head: "Don't be a fool! Turn back and stay with your friends
in their warm nest." But then it occurred to me that the way back would
be longer than the way to my destination; and so I trotted on, pulling
the collar of my coat up over my ears.

But now something came toward me upon the dike; I heard nothing, but
when the half moon shed its spare light, I believed that I could
discern more and more clearly a dark figure, and soon, as it drew
nearer, I saw that it sat on a horse, on a long-legged, haggard, white
horse; a dark cloak was waving round its shoulders, and as it flew past
me, two glowing eyes stared at me out of a pale face.

Who was that? What did that man want? And now it came to my mind that I
had not heard the beating of hoofs or any panting of the horse; and yet
horse and rider had ridden close by me!

Deep in thought over this I rode on, but I did not have much time to
think, for straightway it flew past me again from behind; it seemed as
if the flying cloak had grazed me, as if the apparition, just as it had
done the first time, had rushed by me without a sound. Then I saw it
farther and farther away from me, and suddenly it seemed as if a shadow
were gliding down at the inland side of the dike.

Somewhat hesitating, I rode on behind. When I had reached that place,
hard by the "Koog," the land won from the sea by damming it in, I saw
water gleam from a great "Wehl," as they call the breaks made into the
land by the storm floods which remain as small but deep pools.

In spite of the protecting dike, the water was remarkably calm; hence
the rider could not have troubled it. Besides, I saw nothing more of
him. Something else I saw now, however, which I greeted with pleasure:
before me, from out of the "Koog," a multitude of little scattered
lights were glimmering up to me; they seemed to come from some of the
rambling Frisian houses that lay isolated on more or less high mounds.
But close in front of me, half way up the inland side of the dike lay a
great house of this kind. On the south side, to the right of the house
door, I saw all the windows illumined, and beyond, I perceived people
and imagined that I could hear them in spite of the storm. My horse had
of himself walked down to the road along the dike which led me up to
the door of the house. I could easily see that it was a tavern, for in
front of the windows I spied the so-called "ricks," beams resting on
two posts with great iron rings for hitching the cattle and horses that
stopped there.

I tied my horse to one of these and left him to the servant who met me
as I entered the hall.

"Is a meeting going on here?" I asked him, for now a noise of voices
and clicking glasses rose clearly from the room beyond the door.

"Aye, something of the sort," the servant replied in Plattdeutsch, and
later I learned that this dialect had been in full swing here, as well
as the Frisian, for over a hundred years; "the dikemaster and the
overseers and the other landholders! That's on account of the high
water!"

When I entered, I saw about a dozen men sitting round a table that
extended beneath the windows; a punch bowl stood upon it; and a
particularly stately man seemed to dominate the party.

I bowed and asked if I might sit down with them, a favor which was
readily granted.

"You had better keep watch here!" I said, turning to this man; "the
weather outside is bad; there will be hard times for the dikes!"

"Surely," he replied, "but we here on the east side believe we are out
of danger. Only over there on the other side it isn't safe; the dikes
there are mostly made more after old patterns; our chief dike was made
in the last century. We got chilly outside a while ago; and you," he
added, "probably had the same experience. But we have to hold out a few
hours longer here; we have reliable people outside, who report to us."
And before I could give my order to the host, a steaming glass was
pushed in front of me.

I soon found out that my pleasant neighbour was the dikemaster; we
entered into conversation, and I began to tell him about my strange
encounter on the dike. He grew attentive, and I noticed suddenly that
all talk round about was silenced.

"The rider on the white horse," cried one of the company and a movement
of fright stirred the others.

The dikemaster had risen.

"You don't need to be afraid," he spoke across the table, "that isn't
meant for us only; in the year '17 it was meant for them too; may they
be ready for the worst!"

Now a horror came over me.

"Pardon me!" I said. "What about this rider on the white horse?"

Apart from the others, behind the stove, a small, haggard man in a
little worn black coat sat somewhat bent over; one of his shoulders
seemed a little deformed. He had not taken part with a single word in
the conversation of the others, but his eyes, fringed as they were with
dark lashes, although the scanty hair on his head was grey, showed
clearly that he was not sitting there to sleep.

Toward him the dikemaster pointed:

"Our schoolmaster," he said, raising his voice, "will be the one among
us who can tell you that best--to be sure, only in his way, and not
quite as accurately as my old housekeeper at home, Antje Vollmans,
would manage to tell it."

"You are joking, dikemaster!" the somewhat feeble voice of the
schoolmaster rose from behind the stove, "if you want to compare me to
your silly dragon!"

"Yes, that's all right, schoolmaster!" replied the other, "but stories
of that kind are supposed to be kept safest with dragons."

"Indeed!" said the little man, "in this we are not quite of the same
opinion." And a superior smile flitted over his delicate face.

"You see," the dikemaster whispered in my ear, "he is still a little
proud; in his youth he once studied theology and it was only because of
an unhappy courtship that he stayed hanging about his home as
schoolmaster."

The schoolmaster had meanwhile come forward from his corner by the
stove and had sat down beside me at the long table.

"Come on! Tell the story, schoolmaster," cried some of the younger
members of the party.

"Yes, indeed," said the old man, turning toward me. "I will gladly
oblige you; but there is a good deal of superstition mixed in with it,
and it is quite a feat to tell the story without it."

"I must beg you not to leave the superstition out," I replied. "You can
trust me to sift the chaff from the wheat by myself!"

The old man looked at me with an appreciative smile.

Well, he said, in the middle of the last century, or rather, to be more
exact, before and after the middle of that century, there was a
dikemaster here who knew more about dikes and sluices than peasants and
landowners usually do. But I suppose it was nevertheless not quite
enough, for he had read little of what learned specialists had written
about it; his knowledge, though he began in childhood, he had thought
out all by himself. I dare say you have heard, sir, that the Frisians
are good at arithmetic, and perhaps you have heard tell of our Hans
Mommsen from Fahntoft, who was a peasant and yet could make
chronometers, telescopes, and organs. Well, the father of this man who
later became dikemaster was made out of this same stuff--to be sure,
only a little. He had a few fens, where he planted turnips and beans
and kept a cow grazing; once in a while in the fall and spring he also
surveyed land, and in winter, when the northwest wind blew outside and
shook his shutters, he sat in his room to scratch and prick with his
instruments. The boy usually would sit by and look away from his primer
or Bible to watch his father measure and calculate, and would thrust
his hand into his blond hair. And one evening he asked the old man why
something that he had written down had to be just so and could not be
something different, and stated his own opinion about it. But his
father, who did not know how to answer this, shook his head and said:

"That I cannot tell you; anyway it is so, and you are mistaken. If you
want to know more, search for a book tomorrow in a box in our attic;
someone whose name is Euclid has written it; that will tell you."

The next day the boy had run up to the attic and soon had found the
book, for there were not many books in the house anyway, but his father
laughed when he laid it in front of him on the table. It was a Dutch
Euclid, and Dutch, although it was half German, neither of them
understood.

"Yes, yes," he said, "this book belonged to my father; he understood
it; is there no German Euclid up there?"

The boy, who spoke little, looked at his father quietly and said only:
"May I keep it? There isn't any German one."

And when the old man nodded, he showed him a second half-torn little
book.

"That too?" he asked again.

"Take them both!" said Tede Haien; "they won't be of much use to you."

But the second book was a little Dutch grammar, and as the winter was
not over for a long while, by the time the gooseberries bloomed again
in the garden it had helped the boy so far that he could almost
entirely understand his Euclid, which at that time was much in vogue.

I know perfectly well, sir, the story teller interrupted himself, that
this same incident is also told of Hans Mommsen, but before his birth
our people here have told the same of Hauke Haien--that was the name of
the boy. You know well enough that as soon as a greater man has come,
everything is heaped on him that his predecessor has done before him,
either seriously or in fun.

When the old man saw that the boy had no sense for cows or sheep and
scarcely noticed when the beans were in bloom, which is the joy of
every marshman, and when he considered that his little place might be
kept up by a farmer and a boy, but not by a half-scholar and a hired
man, inasmuch as he himself had not been over-prosperous, he sent his
big boy to the dike, where he had to cart earth from Easter until
Martinmas. "That will cure him of his Euclid," he said to himself.

And the boy carted; but his Euclid he always had with him in his
pocket, and when the workmen ate their breakfast or lunch, he sat on
his upturned wheelbarrow with the book in his hand. In autumn, when the
tide rose higher and sometimes work had to be stopped, he did not go
home with the others, but stayed and sat with his hands clasped over
his knees on the seaward slope of the dike, and for hours watched the
sombre waves of the North Sea beat always higher and higher against the
grass-grown scar of the dike. Not until the water washed over his feet
and the foam sprayed his face did he move a few feet higher, only to
stay and sit on. He did not hear the splash of the water, or the scream
of the gulls or strand birds that flew round him and almost grazed him
with their wings, flashing their black eyes at his own; nor did he see
how night spread over the wide wilderness of water. The only thing he
saw was the edge of the surf, which at high tide was again and again
hitting the same place with hard blows and before his very eyes washing
away the grassy scar of the steep dike.

After staring a long time, he would nod his head slowly and, without
looking up, draw a curved line in the air, as if he could in this way
give the dike a gentler slope. When it grew so dark that all earthly
things vanished from his sight and only the surf roared in his ears,
then he got up and marched home half drenched.

One night when he came in this state into the room where his father was
polishing his surveying instruments, the latter started. "What have you
been doing out there?" he cried, "You might have drowned; the waters
are biting into the dike to-day."

Hauke looked at him stubbornly.

"Don't you hear me? I say, you might have drowned!"

"Yes," said Hauke, "but I'm not drowned!"

"No," the old man answered after a while and looked into his face
absently--"not this time."

"But," Hauke returned, "our dikes aren't worth anything."

"What's that, boy?"

"The dikes, I say."

"What about the dikes?"

"They're no good, father," replied Hauke.

The old man laughed in his face. "What's the matter with you, boy? I
suppose you are the prodigy from Luebeck."

But the boy would not be put down. "The waterside is too steep," he
said; "if it happens some day as it has happened before, we can drown
here behind the dike too."

The old man pulled his tobacco out of his pocket, twisted off a piece
and pushed it behind his teeth. "And how many loads have you pushed
to-day?" he asked angrily, for he saw that the boy's work on the dike
had not been able to chase away his brainwork.

"I don't know, father," said the boy; "about as many as the others did,
or perhaps half a dozen more; but--the dikes have got to be changed!"

"Well," said the old man with a short laugh, "perhaps you can manage to
be made dikemaster; then you can change them."

"Yes, father," replied the boy.

The old man looked at him and swallowed a few times, then he walked out
of the door. He did not know what to say to the boy.

Even when, at the end of October, the work on the dike was over, his
walk northward to the farm was the best entertainment for Hauke Haien.
He looked forward to All Saints' Day, the time when the equinoctial
storms were wont to rage--a day on which we say that Friesland has a
good right to mourn--just as children nowadays look forward to
Christmas. When an early flood was coming, one could be sure that in
spite of storm and bad weather, he would be lying all alone far out on
the dike; and when the gulls chattered, when the waters pounded against
the dike and as they rolled back swept big pieces of the grass cover
with them into the sea, then one could have heard Hauke's furious
laughter.

"You aren't good for anything!" he cried out into the noise. "Just as
the people are no good!" And at last, often in darkness, he trotted
home from the wide water along the dike, until his tall figure had
reached the low door under his father's thatch roof and slipped into
the little room.

Sometimes he had brought home a handful of clay; then he sat down
beside the old man, who now humoured him, and by the light of the thin
tallow candle he kneaded all sorts of dike models, laid them in a flat
dish with water and tried to imitate the washing away by the waves; or
he took his slate and drew the profiles of the dikes toward the
waterside as he thought they ought to be.

He had no idea of keeping up intercourse with his schoolmates; it
seemed, too, as if they did not care for this dreamer. When winter had
come again and the frost had appeared, he wandered still farther out on
the dike to points he had never reached before, until the boundless
ice-covered sand flats lay before him.

During the continuous frost in February, dead bodies were found washed
ashore; they had lain on the frozen sand flats by the open sea. A young
woman who had been present when they had taken the bodies into the
village, stood talking fluently with old Haien.

"Don't you believe that they looked like people!" she cried; "no, like
sea devils! Heads as big as this," and she touched together the tips of
her outspread and outstretched hands, "coal-black and shiny, like newly
baked bread! And the crabs had nibbled them, and the children screamed
when they saw them." For old Haien this was nothing new.

"I suppose they have floated in the water since November!" he said
indifferently.

Hauke stood by in silence, but as soon as he could, he sneaked out on
the dike; nobody knew whether he wanted to look for more dead, or if he
was drawn to the places now deserted by the horror that still clung to
them. He ran on and on, until he stood alone in the solitary waste,
where only the winds blew over the dike where there was nothing but the
wailing voices of the great birds that shot by swiftly. To his left was
the wide empty marshland, on the other side the endless beach with its
sand flats now glistening with ice; it seemed as if the whole world lay
in a white death.

Hauke remained standing on the dike, and his sharp eyes gazed far away.
There was no sign of the dead; but when the invisible streams on the
sand flats found their way beneath the ice, it rose and sank in
streamlike lines.

He ran home, but on one of the next nights he was out there again. In
places the ice had now split; smoke-clouds seemed to rise out of the
cracks, and over the whole sand-stretch a net of steam and mist seemed
to be spun, which at evening mingled strangely with the twilight. Hauke
stared at it with fixed eyes, for in the mist dark figures were walking
up and down that seemed to him as big as human beings. Far off he saw
them promenade back and forth by the steaming fissures, dignified, but
with strange, frightening gestures, with long necks and noses. All at
once, they began to jump up and down like fools, uncannily, the big
ones over the little ones, the little ones over the big ones--then they
spread out and lost all shape.

"What do they want? Are they ghosts of the drowned?" thought Hauke.
"Hallo!" he screamed out aloud into the night; but they did not heed
his cry and kept on with their strange antics.

Then the terrible Norwegian sea spectres came to his mind, that an old
captain had once told him about, who bore stubby bunches of sea grass
on their necks instead of heads. He did not run away, however, but dug
the heels of his boots faster into the clay of the dike and rigidly
watched the farcical riot that was kept up before his eyes in the
falling dusk. "Are you here in our parts too?" he said in a hard voice.
"You shall not chase _me_ away!"

Not until darkness covered all things did he walk home with stiff, slow
steps. But behind him he seemed to hear the rustling of wings and
resounding screams. He did not look round, neither did he walk faster,
and it was late when he came home. Yet he is said to have told neither
his father nor anyone else about it. But many years after he took his
feeble-minded little girl, with whom the Lord later had burdened him,
out on the dike with him at the same time of day and year, and the same
riot is said to have appeared then out on the sand flats. But he told
her not to be afraid, that these things were only the herons and crows,
that seemed so big and horrible, and that they were getting fish out of
the open cracks.

God knows, the schoolmaster interrupted himself, there are all sorts of
things on earth that could confuse a Christian heart, but Hauke was
neither a fool nor a blockhead.

As I made no response, he wanted to go on. But among the other guests,
who till now had listened without making a sound, only filling the low
room more and more thickly with tobacco smoke, there arose a sudden
stir. First one, then another, then all turned toward the window.
Outside, as one could see through the uncurtained glass, the storm was
driving the clouds, and light and dark were chasing one another; but it
seemed to me too as if I had seen the haggard rider whiz by on his
white horse.

"Wait a little, schoolmaster," said the dikemaster in a low voice.

"You don't need to be afraid, dikemaster," laughed the little narrator.
"I have not slandered him and have no reason to do so"--and he looked
up at him with his small clever eyes.

"All right," said the other. "Let your glass be filled again!" And when
that had been done and the listeners, most of them with rather anxious
faces, had turned to him again, he went on with his story:

Living thus by himself and liking best to associate only with sand and
water and with scenes of solitude, Hauke grew into a long lean fellow.
It was a year after his confirmation that his life was suddenly
changed, and this came about through the old white Angora cat which old
Trin Jans's son, who later perished at sea, had brought her on his
return from a voyage to Spain. Trin lived a good way out on the dike in
a little hut, and when the old woman did her chores in the house, this
monster of a cat used to sit in front of the house door and blink into
the summer day and at the peewits that flew past. When Hauke went by,
the cat mewed at him and Hauke nodded; both knew how each felt toward
the other.

Now it was spring and Hauke, as he was accustomed to do, often lay out
on the dike, already farther out near the water, between beach pinks
and the fragrant sea-wormwood, and let the strong sun shine on him. He
had gathered his pockets full of pebbles up on the higher land the day
before, and when at low tide the sand flats were laid bare and the
little gay strand snipes whisked across them screaming, he quickly
pulled out a stone and threw it after the birds. He had practiced this
from earliest childhood on, and usually one of the birds remained lying
on the ground; but often it was impossible to get at it. Hauke had
sometimes thought of taking the cat with him and training him as a
retriever. But there were hard places here and there on the sand; in
that case he ran and got his prey himself. On his way back, if the cat
was still sitting in front of the house door, the animal would utter
piercing cries of uncontrollable greed until Hauke threw him one of the
birds he had killed.

To-day when he walked home, carrying his jacket on his shoulder, he was
taking home only one unknown bird, but that seemed to have wings of gay
silk and metal; and the cat mewed as usual when he saw him coming. But
this time Hauke did not want to give up his prey--it may have been an
ice bird--and he paid no attention to the greed of the animal. "Wait
your turn!" he called to him. "To-day for me, to-morrow for you; this
is no food for a cat!"

As the cat came carefully sneaking along, Hauke stood and looked at it:
the bird was hanging from his hand, and the cat stood still with its
paw raised. But it seemed that the young man did not know his cat
friend too well, for, while he had turned his back on it and was just
going on his way, he felt that with a sudden jerk his booty was torn
from him, and at the same time a sharp claw cut into his flesh. A rage
like that of a beast of prey shot into the young man's blood; wildly he
stretched out his arm and in a flash had clutched the robber by his
neck. With his fist he held the powerful animal high up and choked it
until its eyes bulged out among its rough hairs, not heeding that the
strong hind paws were tearing his flesh. "Hello!" he shouted, and
clutched him still more tightly; "let's see which of us two can stand
it the longest!"

Suddenly the hind legs of the big cat fell languidly down, and Hauke
walked back a few steps and threw it against the hut of the old woman.
As it did not stir, he turned round and continued his way home.

But the Angora cat was the only treasure of her mistress; he was her
companion and the only thing that her son, the sailor, had left her
after he had met with sudden death here on the coast when he had wanted
to help his mother by fishing in the storm. Hauke had scarcely walked
on a hundred steps, while he caught the blood from his wounds on a
cloth, when he heard a shrill howling and screaming from the hut. He
turned round and, in front of it, saw the old woman lying on the
ground; her grey hair was flying in the wind round her red head scarf.

"Dead!" she cried; "dead!" and raised her lean arm threateningly
against him: "A curse on you! You have killed her, you good for nothing
vagabond; you weren't good enough to brush her tail!" She threw herself
upon the animal and with her apron she tenderly wiped off the blood
that was still running from its nose and mouth; then she began her
screaming again.

"When will you be done?" Hauke cried to her. "Then let me tell you,
I'll get you a cat that will be satisfied with the blood of mice and
rats!"

Then he went on his way, apparently no longer concerned with anything.
But the dead cat must have caused some confusion in his head, for when
he came to the village, he passed by his father's house and the others
and walked on a good distance toward the south on the dike toward the
city.

Meanwhile Trin Jans, too, wandered on the dike in the same direction.
In her arms she bore a burden wrapped in an old blue checkered
pillowcase, and clasped it carefully as if it were a child; her grey
hair fluttered in the light spring wind. "What are you lugging there,
Trina?" asked a peasant who met her. "More than your house and farm,"
replied the old woman, and walked on eagerly. When she came near the
house of old Haien, which lay below, she walked down to the houses
along the "akt," as we call the cattle and foot paths that lead
slantingly up and down the side of the dike.

Old Tede Haien was just standing in front of his door, looking at the
weather. "Well, Trin!" he said, when she stood panting in front of him
and dug her crutch into the ground, "What are you bringing us in your
bag?"

"First let me into the room, Tede Haien! Then you shall see!" and her
eyes looked at him with a strange gleam.

"Well, come along!" said the old man. What did he care about the eyes
of the stupid woman!

When both had entered, she went on: "Take that old tobacco box and
those writing things from the table. What do you always have to write
for, anyway? All right; and now wipe it clean!"

And the old man, who was almost growing curious, did everything just as
she said. Then she took the blue pillowcase at both ends and emptied
the carcass of the big cat out on the table. "There she is!" she cried;
"your Hauke has killed her!" Thereupon she began to cry bitterly; she
stroked the thick fur of the dead animal, laid its paws together, bent
her long nose over its head and whispered incomprehensible words of
tenderness into its ears.

Tede Haien watched this. "Is that so," he said; "Hauke has killed her?"

He did not know what to do with the howling woman.

She nodded at him grimly. "Yes, yes, God knows, that's what he has
done," and she wiped the tears from her eyes with her hand, crippled by
rheumatism. "No child, no live thing any more!" she complained. "And
you know yourself how it is after All Saints' Day, when we old people
feel our legs shiver at night in bed, and instead of sleeping we hear
the northwest wind rattle against the shutters. I don't like to hear
it. Tede Haien, it comes from where my boy sank to death in the
quicksand!"

Tede Haien nodded, and the old woman stroked the fur of her dead
cat. "But this one here," she began again, "when I would sit by my
spinning-wheel, there she would sit with me and spin too and look at me
with her green eyes! And when I grew cold and crept into my bed--then
it wasn't long before she jumped up to me and lay down on my chilly
legs, and we both slept as warmly together as if I still had my young
sweetheart in bed!"

The old woman, as if she were waiting for his assent to this
remembrance, looked with her gleaming eyes at the old man standing
beside her at the table. Tede Haien, however, said thoughtfully: "I
know a way out for you, Trin Jans," and he went to his strong box and
took a silver coin out of the drawer. "You say that Hauke has robbed
your animal of life, and I know you don't lie; but here is a crown
piece from the time of Christian IV; go and buy a tanned lambskin with
it for your cold legs! And when our cat has kittens, you may pick out
the biggest of them; both together, I suppose, will make up for an
Angora cat feeble from old age! Take your beast and, if you want to,
take it to the tanner in town, but keep your mouth shut and don't tell
that it has lain on my honest table."

During this speech the woman had already snatched the crown and stowed
it away in a little bag that she carried under her skirts, then she
tucked the cat back into the pillowcase, wiped the bloodstains from the
table with her apron, and stalked out of the door. "Don't you forget
the young cat!" she called back.

After a while, when old Haien was walking up and down in the narrow
little room, Hauke stepped in and tossed his bright bird on to the
table. But when he saw the still recognizable bloodstain on the clean
white top, he asked as if by the way: "What's that?"

His father stood still. "That's blood that you have spilled!"

The young man flushed hotly. "Why, has Trin Jans been here with her
cat?"

The old man nodded: "Why did you kill it?"

Hauke uncovered his bleeding arm. "That's why," he said. "She had torn
my bird away from me!"

Thereupon the old man said nothing. For a time he began to walk up and
down, then he stood still in front of the young man and looked at him
for a while almost absently.

"This affair with the cat I have made all right," he said, "but look,
Hauke, this place is too small; two people can't stay on it--it is time
you got a job!"

"Yes, father," replied Hauke; "I have been thinking something of the
sort myself."

"Why?" asked the old man.

"Well, one gets wild inside unless one can let it out on a decent piece
of work!"

"Is that so?" said the old man, "and that's why you have killed the
Angora cat? That might easily lead to something worse!"

"You may be right, father, but the dikemaster has discharged his
farmhand; I could do that work all right!"

The old man began to walk up and down, and meanwhile spat out the black
tobacco. "The dikemaster is a blockhead, as stupid as a goose! He is
dikemaster only because his father and grandfather have been the same,
and on account of his twenty-nine fens. Round Martinmas, when the dike
and sluice bills have to be settled, then he feeds the schoolmaster on
roast goose and mead and wheat buns, and sits by and nods while the
other man runs down the columns of figures with his pen, and says:
'Yes, yes, schoolmaster, God reward you! How finely you calculate!' But
when the schoolmaster can't or won't, then he has to go at it himself
and sits scribbling and striking out again, his big stupid head growing
red and hot, his eyes bulging out like glass balls, as if his little
bit of sense wanted to get out that way."

The young man stood up straight in front of his father and marveled at
his talking; he had never heard him speak like that. "Yes, God knows,"
he said, "no doubt he is stupid, but his daughter Elke, she can
calculate!"

The old man looked at him sharply.

"Hallo, Hauke," he exclaimed "what do you know about Elke Volkerts?"

"Nothing, father; only the schoolmaster has told me?"

The old man made no reply; he only pushed his piece of tobacco
thoughtfully from one cheek into the other. "And you think," he said,
"that you can help in the counting there too."

"Oh, yes, father, that would work all right," the son replied, and
there was a serious twitching about his mouth.

The old man shook his head: "Well, go if you like; go and try your
luck!"

"Thanks, father!" said Hauke, and climbed up to his sleeping place in
the garret. There he sat down on the edge of the bed and pondered why
his father had shouted at him so when he had mentioned Elke Volkerts.
To be sure, he knew the slender, eighteen-year-old girl with the
tanned, narrow face and the dark eyebrows that ran into each other over
the stubborn eyes and the slender nose; but he had scarcely spoken a
word to her. Now, if he should go to old Tede Volkerts, he would look
at her more and see what there was about the girl. Right off he wanted
to go, so that no one else could snatch the position away from him--it
was now scarcely evening. And so he put on his Sunday coat and his best
boots and started out in good spirits.

The long rambling house of the dikemaster was visible from afar because
of the high mound on which it stood, and especially because of the
highest tree in the village, a mighty ash. The grandfather of the
present dikemaster, the first of the line, had in his youth planted an
ash to the east of the house door; but the first two had died, and so
he had planted a third on his wedding morning, which was still
murmuring as if of old times in the increasing wind with its crown of
foliage that was growing mightier and mightier.

When, after a while, tall, lank Hauke climbed up the hill which was
planted on both sides with beets and cabbage, he saw the daughter of
the owner standing beside the low house door. One of her somewhat thin
arms was hanging down languidly, the other seemed to be grasping behind
her back at one of the iron rings which were fastened to the wall on
either side of the door, so that anyone who rode to the house could use
them to hitch his horse. From there the young girl seemed to be gazing
over the dike at the sea, where on this calm evening the sun was just
sinking into the water and at the same time gilding the dark-skinned
maiden with its last golden glow.

Hauke climbed up the hill a little more slowly, and thought to himself:
"She doesn't look so dull this way!" Then he was at the top. "Good
evening to you!" he said, stepping up to her. "What are you looking at
with your big eyes, Miss Elke?"

"I'm looking," she replied, "at something that goes on here every
night, but can't be seen here every night." She let the ring drop from
her hand, so that it fell against the wall with a clang. "What do you
want, Hauke Haien?" she asked.

"Something that I hope you don't mind," he said. "Your father has just
discharged his hired man; so I thought I would take a job with you."

She glanced at him, up and down: "You are still rather lanky, Hauke!"
she said, "but two steady eyes serve us better than two steady arms!"
At the same time she looked at him almost sombrely, but Hauke bravely
withstood her gaze. "Come on, then," she continued. "The master is in
his room; let's go inside."

The next day Tede Haien stepped with his son into the spacious room of
the dikemaster. The walls were covered with glazed tiles on which the
visitor could enjoy here a ship with sails unfurled or an angler on the
shore, there a cow that lay chewing in front of a peasant's house. This
durable wall-covering was interrupted by an alcove-bed with doors now
closed, and a cupboard which showed all kinds of china and silver
dishes through glass doors. Beside the door to the "best room" a Dutch
clock was set into the wall behind a pane of glass.

The stout, somewhat apoplectic master of the house sat at the end of
the well-scrubbed, shining table in an armchair with a bright-coloured
cushion. He had folded his hands across his stomach, and was staring
contentedly with his round eyes at the skeleton of a fat duck; knife
and fork were resting in front of him on his plate.

"Good day, dikemaster!" said Haien, and the gentleman thus addressed
slowly turned his head and eyes toward him.

"You here, Tede?" he replied, and the devoured fat duck had left its
mark on his voice. "Sit down; it is quite a walk from your place over
here!"

"I have come, dikemaster," said Tede Haien, while he sat down opposite
the other in a corner on the bench that ran along the wall. "You have
had trouble with your hired man and have agreed with my boy to put him
in his place!"

The dikemaster nodded: "Yes, yes, Tede; but--what do you mean by
trouble? We people of the marshes, thank goodness, have something to
take against troubles!"--and he took the knife before him and patted
the skeleton of the poor duck almost affectionately. "This was my pet
bird," he added laughing smugly; "he fed out of my hand!"

"I thought," said old Haien, not hearing the last remark, "the boy had
done harm in your stable."

"Harm? Yes, Tede; surely harm enough! That fat clown hadn't watered the
calves; but he lay drunk on the hayloft, and the beasts bellowed all
night with thirst, so that I had to make up my lost sleep till noon;
that's not the way a farm can go on!"

"No, dikemaster; but there is no danger of that happening with my boy."

Hauke stood, his hands in his pockets, by the door-post, and had thrown
back his head and was studying the window frames opposite him.

The dikemaster had raised his eyes and nodded toward him: "No, no,
Tede,"--and now he nodded at the old man too; "your Hauke won't disturb
my night's rest; the schoolmaster has told me before that he would
rather sit with his slate and do arithmetic than with a glass of
whiskey."

Hauke did not hear this encouragement, for Elke had stepped into the
room and with her light hand took out the remnants from the table,
meanwhile glancing at him carelessly with her dark eyes. Then his
glances fell on her too. "By my faith," he said to himself, "she
doesn't look so dull now either!"

The girl had left the room. "You know, Tede," the dikemaster began
again, "the Lord has not granted me a son!"

"Yes, dikemaster, but don't let that worry you," replied the other,
"for they say that in the third generation the brains of a family run
out; your grandfather, we all remember, was a man who protected the
land!"

The dikemaster, after some pondering, looked quite puzzled: "How do you
mean, Tede Haien?" he said and sat up in his armchair; "I am in the
third generation myself!"

"Oh, indeed! Never mind, dikemaster; that's just what people say!" And
the lean Tede Haien looked at the old dignitary with rather mischievous
eyes.

The latter, however, spoke unconcerned: "You mustn't let old women get
nonsense like that into your head, Tede Haien; you don't know my
daughter yet--she can calculate three times better than I can! I only
wanted to say, your Hauke will be able to make some profit outside of
his field work in my room with pen and pencil, and that will do him no
harm."

"Yes, yes, dikemaster, he can do that; there you are perfectly right;"
said old Haien and then began to demand some privileges with the
contract which his son had not thought of the night before. For
instance, the latter should receive, besides his linen shirts, eight
pair of woollen stockings in addition to his wages; also he wanted to
have his son's help at his own work for eight days in spring--and more
of the sort. But the dikemaster agreed to everything; Hauke Haien
appeared to him just the right servant.

"Well, God help you, my boy," said the old man, when they had just left
the house, "if that man is to make the world clear to you!"

But Hauke replied calmly: "Never mind, father; everything will turn out
all right."

Hauke had not been wrong in his judgment. The world, or what the world
meant to him, grew clearer to his mind, the longer he stayed in this
house--perhaps all the more, the less he was helped by a wiser insight
and the more he had to depend on his own powers with which he had from
the beginning helped himself. There was someone in the house, however,
whom he did not seem to suit; that was Ole Peters, the head man, a good
worker and a great talker. The former lazy and stupid but stocky hired
man had been more to his liking, whose back he could load calmly with a
barrel of oats and whom he could knock about to his heart's content.
Hauke, who was still more silent, but who surpassed him mentally, he
could not treat in the same way; Hauke had too strange a way of looking
at him. Nevertheless he managed to pick out tasks which might have been
dangerous for the young man's yet undeveloped body; and when the head
man would say: "You ought to have seen fat Nick, he could do it without
any trouble at all," then Hauke would work with all his might and
finish the task, although with difficulty. It was lucky for him that
Elke usually could hinder this, either by herself or through her
father. One may ask what it is that binds people who are complete
strangers to each other; perhaps--well, they were both born
arithmeticians, and the girl could not bear to see her comrade ruined
by rough work.

The conflict between head man and second man did not grow less when
after Martinmas the different dike bills came in for revision.

It happened on a May evening, but the weather was like November; inside
the house one could hear the surf roar outside from behind the dike.

"Hey, Hauke," said the master of the house, "come in; now is your
chance to show if you can do arithmetic!"

"Master," Hauke replied; "I'm supposed to feed the young cattle first."

"Elke!" called the dikemaster; "where are you, Elke? Go and tell Ole to
feed the young cattle; I want Hauke to calculate!"

So Elke hurried into the stable and gave the order to the head man who
was just busy hanging the harness used during the day back in place.

Ole Peters whipped the post beside which he had been busying himself
with a bridle, as if he wanted to beat it to pieces: "The devil take
that cursed scribbler!"

She heard these words even before she had closed the stable door again.

"Well?" asked the old man, as she stepped into the room.

"Ole was willing to do it," said his daughter, biting her lips a
little, and sat down opposite Hauke on one of the roughly carved chairs
which in those days were still made at home on winter evenings. Out of
a drawer she had taken a white stocking with a red bird pattern on it,
which she was now knitting; the long-legged creatures might have
represented herons or storks. Hauke sat opposite her, deep in his
arithmetic; the dikemaster himself rested in his armchair and blinked
sleepily at Hauke's pen. On the table, as always in the house of the
dikemaster, two tallow candles were burning, and behind the windows
with their leaden frames the shutters were closed and fastened from
within; now the wind could bang against them as hard as it liked. Once
in a while Hauke raised his head and glanced for a moment at the bird
stockings or at the narrow, calm face of the girl.

Suddenly from the armchair there rose a loud snore, and a glance and
smile flew back and forth between the two young people; gradually the
breathing grew more quiet, and one could easily talk a little--only
Hauke did not know about what.

But when she raised her knitting and the birds appeared in their whole
length, he whispered across the table: "Where have you learned that,
Elke?"

"Learned what?" the girl returned.

"This bird knitting?" said Hauke.

"This? From Trin Jans out there on the dike; she can do all sorts of
things. She was servant here to my grandfather a long time ago."

"At that time I don't suppose you were born?" said Hauke.

"I think not; but she has often come to the house since then."

"Does she like birds?" asked Hauke; "I thought only cats were for her."

Elke shook her head: "Why, she raises ducks and sells them; but last
spring, when you had killed her Angora cat, the rats got into the pen
at the back of the house and made mischief; now she wants to build
herself another in front of the house."

"Is that so?" said Hauke and whistled low through his teeth, "that's
why she dragged mud and stones from the upper land. But then she will
get on to the inland road; has she a grant?"

"I don't know," said Elke. But he had spoken the last word so loud that
the dikemaster started out of his slumber.

"What grant?" he asked and looked almost wildly from one to the other.
"What about the grant?"

But when Hauke had explained the matter to him, he slapped the young
man's shoulder, laughing: "Oh, well, the inland road is broad enough;
God help the dikemaster if he has to worry about duck pens!"

It weighed on Hauke's heart that he should have delivered the old woman
and her ducks over to the rats, but he allowed himself to be quieted by
this objection. "But, master," he began again, "it might be good for
some people to be prodded a little, and if you don't want to go after
them yourself, why don't you prod the overseers who ought to look out
for order on the dike?"

"How--what is the boy saying?" and the dikemaster sat up straight, and
Elke let her fancy stocking sink down and turned an ear toward Hauke.

"Yes, master," Hauke went on, "you have already gone round on your
spring inspection; but just the same Peter Jansen hasn't weeded his lot
to this day; and in summer the goldfinches will play round the red
thistles as gaily as ever. And near by--I don't know to whom it
belongs--there is a hole like a cradle on the outer side of the dike;
when the weather is good it is always full of little children that roll
in it; but--God save us from high water!"

The eyes of the old dikemaster had grown bigger and bigger.

"And then--" said Hauke again.

"Then what more, boy?" asked the dikemaster; "haven't you finished
yet?" and it seemed as if he had already had too much of his second
man's speech.

"Yes; then, master," Hauke went on; "you know that fat Vollina, the
daughter of the overseer Harder, who always fetches her father's horse
from the fen--well, as soon as she sits with her round legs on the old
yellow mare--Get up!--why, then every time she goes diagonally up the
slope of the dike!"

Hauke did not notice until now that Elke had fixed her intelligent eyes
on him and was gently shaking her head.

He was silent, but a bang on the table from the old man's fist
thundered in his ears. "Confound it!" he cried, and Hauke was almost
frightened by the bear's voice that suddenly broke out: "to the fens!
Note down that fat creature in the fens, Hauke! That girl caught three
of my young ducks last summer! Yes, yes, put it down," he repeated,
when Hauke hesitated; "I even believe there were four!"

"Oh, father," said Elke, "wasn't it an otter that took the ducks?"

"A big otter!" cried the old man, panting; "I guess I can tell the fat
Vollina and an otter apart! No, no, four ducks, Hauke--but as for the
rest of what you have been chattering--last spring the dikemaster
general and I, after we had breakfasted together at my house, drove by
your weeds and your cradle-hole and yet couldn't see anything. But you
two," and he nodded a few times significantly at Hauke and his
daughter, "you can thank God that you are no dikemaster! Two eyes are
all one has, and one is supposed to look with a hundred. Take the bills
for the straw coverings, Hauke, and look them over; those rascals do
keep their accounts in such a shiftless way!"

Then he leaned back in his chair again, moved his heavy body a few
times and soon gave himself over to care-free slumber.

The same thing was repeated on many an evening. Hauke had sharp eyes,
and when they sat together, he did not neglect to call the old man's
attention to one or the other violation or omission in dike matters,
and as the latter could not always keep his eyes closed, unawares the
management acquired a greater efficiency and those who in other times
had gone on sinning in their old, careless ways and now, as it were,
unexpectedly felt their mischievous or lazy fingers slapped, looked
round indignantly and with astonishment to see whence these slaps had
come. And Ole, the head man, did not hesitate to spread the information
and in this way to rouse indignation among these people against Hauke
and his father, who had to bear part of the guilt. The others, however,
who were not affected or who were not concerned with the matter,
laughed and rejoiced to see that the young man had at last got the old
man going a bit. "It's only too bad," they said, "that the young fellow
hasn't enough ground under his feet; else he might make a dikemaster of
the kind we used to have--but those few acres of his old man wouldn't
do, after all!"

Next autumn, when the inspector and the dikemaster general came for the
inspection, he looked at old Tede Volkerts from top to toe, while the
latter was urging him to sit down to lunch.

"I tell you, dikemaster," he said, "I was thinking--you have actually
grown ten years younger. You have set my blood coursing with all your
proposals; if only we can get down with all that to-day!"

"Oh, we shall, we shall, your Honor," replied the old man with a smirk;
"the roast goose over there will give us strength! Yes, thank God, I am
still always well and brisk!" He looked round the room to make sure
that Hauke was not about; then he added with calm dignity: "And so I
hope I may fulfill the duties of my office a few more blessed years."

"And to this, my dear dikemaster," returned his superior, "we want to
drink this glass together."

Elke who had looked after the lunch laughed to herself as she left the
room just when the glasses were clicking. Then she took a dish of
scraps from the kitchen and walked through the stable to give them to
the poultry in front of the outside door. In the stable stood Hauke
Haien and with his pitchfork put hay into the racks of the cows that
had to be brought up here so early because of the bad weather. But when
he saw the girl come, he stuck the pitchfork into the ground. "Well,
Elke!" he said.

She stood still and nodded at him: "All right, Hauke--but you should
have been in there!"

"Do you think so? Why, Elke?"

"The dikemaster general has praised the master!"

"The master? What has that to do with me?"

"No, I mean, he has praised the dikemaster!"

The young man's face was flushed crimson: "I know very well," he said,
"what you are driving at."

"Don't blush, Hauke; it was really you whom the dikemaster general
praised!"

Hauke looked at her with a half smile. "You too, Elke!" he said.

But she shook her head: "No, Hauke; when I was helper alone, we got no
praise. And then, I can only do arithmetic; but you see everything
outdoors that the dikemaster is supposed to see for himself. You have
cut me out!"

"That isn't what I intended--least of all you!" said Hauke timidly, and
he pushed aside the head of a cow. "Come, Redskin, don't swallow my
pitchfork, you'll get all you want!"

"Don't think that I'm sorry, Hauke;" said the girl after thinking a
little while; "that really is a man's business."

Then Hauke stretched out his arm toward her. "Elke, give me your hand,
so that I can be sure."

Beneath her dark brows a deep crimson flushed the girl's face. "Why?
I'm not lying!" she cried.

Hauke wanted to reply; but she had already left the stable, and he
stood with his pitchfork in his hand and heard only the cackling and
crowing of the ducks and the hens round her outside.

In the January of Hauke's third year of service a winter festival was
to be held--"Eisboseln" they call it here. The winds had been calm on
the coast and steady frost had covered all the ditches between the fens
with a solid, even, crystal surface, so that the marked-off strips of
land offered a wide field for the throwing at a goal of little wooden
balls filled with lead. Day in, day out, a light northeast wind was
blowing: everything had been prepared. The people from the higher
land, inhabitants of the village that lay eastward above the marshes,
who had won last year, had been challenged to a match and had accepted.
From either side nine players had been picked. The umpire and the
score-keepers had been chosen. The latter, who had to discuss a
doubtful throw whenever a difference of opinion came up, were always
chosen from among people who knew how to place their own case in the
best possible light, preferably young fellows who not only had good
common sense but also a ready tongue. Among these was, above all, Ole
Peters, the head man of the dikemaster. "Throw away like devils!" he
said; "I'll do the talking for nothing!"

Toward evening on the day before the holiday a number of throwers had
appeared in the side room of the parish inn up on the higher land, in
order to decide about accepting some men who had applied in the last
moment. Hauke Haien was among these. At first he had not wanted to take
part, although he was well aware of having arms skilled in throwing;
but he was afraid that he might be rejected by Ole Peters who had a
post of honor in the game, and he wanted to spare himself this defeat.
But Elke had made him change his mind at the eleventh hour. "He won't
dare, Hauke," she had said; "he is the son of a day laborer; your
father has his cow and horse and is the cleverest man in the village."

"But if he should manage to, after all?"

Half smiling she looked at him with her dark eyes. "Then he'll get
left," she said, "in the evening, when he wants to dance with his
master's daughter." Then Hauke had nodded to her with spirit.

Now the young men who still hoped to be taken into the game stood
shivering and stamping outside the parish inn and looked up at the top
of the stone church tower which stood beside the tavern. The pastor's
pigeons which during the summer found their food on the fields of the
village were just returning from the farmyards and barns of the
peasants, where they had pecked their grain, and were disappearing into
their nests underneath the shingles of the tower. In the west, over the
sea, there was a glowing sunset.

"We'll have good weather to-morrow," said one of the young fellows, and
began to wander up and down excitedly; "but cold--cold." Another man,
when he saw no more pigeons flying, walked into the house and stood
listening beside the door of the room in which a lively babble was now
sounding. The second man of the dikemaster, too, had stepped up beside
him. "Listen, Hauke," he said to the latter; "now they are making all
this noise about you." And clearly one could hear from inside Ole
Peters's grating voice: "Underlings and boys don't belong here!"

"Come," whispered the other man and tried to pull Hauke by his sleeve
to the door of the room, "here you can learn how high they value you."

But Hauke tore himself away and went to the front of the house again:
"They haven't barred us out so that we should hear," he called back.

Before the house stood the third of the applicants. "I'm afraid there's
a hitch in this business for me," he called to Hauke; "I'm barely
eighteen years old; if they only won't ask for my birth certificate!
Your head man, Hauke, will get you out of your fix, all right!"

"Yes, out!" growled Hauke and kicked a stone across the road; "but not
in!"

The noise in the room was growing louder; then gradually there was
calm. Those outside could again hear the gentle northeast wind that
broke against the point of the church steeple. The man who listened
joined them. "Whom did they take in there?" asked the eighteen-year-old
one.

"Him!" said the other, and pointed to Hauke; "Ole Peters wanted
to make him out as a boy; but the others shouted against it.--'And his
father has cattle and land,' said Jess Hansen.--'Yes, land,' cried Ole
Peters, 'land that one can cart away on thirteen wheelbarrows!' Last
came Ole Hensen: 'Keep still!' he cried; 'I'll make things clear: tell
me, who is the first man in the village?'--Then all kept mum and seemed
to be thinking. Then a voice said: 'I should say it was the
dikemaster!'--'And who is the dikemaster?' cried Ole Hensen again; 'but
now think twice!'--Then somebody began to laugh quietly, and then
someone else too, and so on till there was nothing but loud laughter in
the room.--'Well, then call him,' said Ole Hensen; 'you don't want to
keep the dikemaster out in the cold!'--I believe they're still
laughing; but Ole Peters's voice could not be heard any more!" Thus the
young fellow ended his account.

Almost in the same instant the door of the room inside the house was
opened suddenly and out into the cold night sounded loud and merry
cries of "Hauke! Hauke Haien!"

Then Hauke marched into the house and never could hear the rest of the
story of who was the dikemaster; meanwhile no one has found out what
was going on in his head.

After a while, when he approached the house of his employers, he saw
Elke standing by the fence below, where the ascent began; the moonlight
was shimmering over the measureless white frosted pasture.

"You are standing here, Elke?" he asked.

She only nodded: "What happened?" she said; "has he dared?"

"What wouldn't he--?"

"Well, and--?"

"Yes, Elke; I'm allowed to try it to-morrow!"

"Good night, Hauke!" And she fled up the slope and vanished into the
house.

Slowly he followed her.

Next afternoon on the wide pasture that extended in the east along the
land side of the dike, one could see a dark crowd. Now it would stand
motionless, now move gradually on, down from the long and low houses
lying behind if, as soon as a wooden ball had twice shot forth from it
over the ground now freed by the bright sun from frost. The teams of
the "Eisbosler" were in the middle, surrounded by old and young, by
all who lived with them in these houses or up in those of the higher
land--the older men in long coats, pensively smoking their short pipes,
the women in shawls or jackets, some leading children by the hand or
carrying them on their arms. From the frozen ditches, which were being
crossed gradually, the pale light of the afternoon sun was gleaming
through the sharp points of the sedges. It was keen frost, but the game
went on uninterruptedly, and the eyes of all were again and again
following the flying ball, for upon it depended the honor of the whole
village for the day. The score-keepers of the two sides carried a white
stick with an iron point for the home team, a black one of the same
kind for the team of the people from the upper land. Where the ball
ended its flight, the stick was driven into the frozen ground,
accompanied, as it happened, either by silent approval or the derisive
laughter of the opposing side; and he whose ball had first reached the
goal, had won the game for his team.

Little was said by all these people; only when a capital throw had been
made, a cry from the young men or women could be heard; sometimes, too,
one of the old men would take his pipe out of his mouth and knock with
it on the shoulder of the thrower with a few cheering words: "That was
a good throw, said Zacharias, and threw his wife out of the door!" or:
"That's the way your father threw, too; God bless him in eternity!" or
some other friendly saying.

Hauke had no luck with his first throw: just as he was swinging his arm
backward in order to hurl off the ball, a cloud sailed away which had
covered the sun so that now its bright beams shot into his eyes; the
throw was too short, the ball fell on a ditch and remained stuck in the
ice.

"That doesn't count! That doesn't count! Hauke, once more!" called his
partners.

But the score-keeper of the people from the high land protested against
this: "It'll have to count; a throw is a throw!"

"Ole! Ole Peters!" cried the young folks of the marshes. "Where is Ole?
Where the devil is he?"

But there he was: "Don't scream so! Does Hauke have to be patched up
somewhere? I thought as much."

"Never mind! Hauke has to throw again; now show that your tongue is
good for something!"

"Oh, it is all right!" cried Ole and stepped up to the scorekeeper of
the other side and talked a lot of bosh. But the pointedness and
sharpness of his usually so scintillating words were absent this time.
Beside him stood the girl with the enigmatic eyebrows and looked at him
sharply with angry glances; but she was not allowed to talk, for women
had no say in the game.

"You are babbling nonsense," cried the other scorekeeper, "because you
can't use any sense for this! Sun, moon and stars are alike for us all
and always in the sky; the throw was awkward, and all awkward throws
have to count!"

Thus they talked back and forth a little while, but the end of it was
that, according to the decision of the umpire, Hauke was not allowed to
repeat his throw.

"Come on!" called the people from the upper land, and their
score-keeper pulled the black stick out of the ground, and the thrower
came forward when his number was called and hurled the ball ahead. When
the head man of the dikemaster wanted to watch the throw, he had to
pass Elke Volkerts: "For whose sake have you left your brains at home
to-day?" she whispered to him.

Then he looked at her almost grimly, and all joking was gone from his
broad face. "For your sake," he said, "for you have forgotten yours
too!"

"Go, go--I know you, Ole Peters!" the girl replied, drawing herself up
straight. But he turned his head away and pretended not to have heard.

And the game and the black and white stick went on. When Hauke's turn
to throw came again, his ball flew so far, that the goal, the great
whitewashed barrel, came clearly in sight. He was now a solidly built
young fellow, and mathematics and the art of throwing he had practised
daily in his boyhood. "Why, Hauke!" there were cries from the crowd;
"that was just as if the archangel Michael himself had thrown the
ball!" An old woman with cake and brandy pushed her way through the
crowd toward him; she poured out a glass for him and offered it to him:
"Come," she said, "we want to be friends: this to-day is better than
when you killed my cat!" When he looked at her, he recognised her as
Trin Jans. "Thank you, old lady," he said; "but I don't drink that." He
put his hand into his pocket and pressed a newly minted mark piece into
her hand: "Take that and empty your glass yourself, Trin; and so we are
friends!"

"You're right, Hauke!" replied the old woman, while she obeyed his
instructions; "you're right; that's better for an old woman like me!"

"How are your ducks getting on" he called after her, when she had
already started on her way with her basket; but she only shook her
head, without turning round, and struck the air with her old hands.
"Nothing, nothing, Hauke; there are too many rats in your ditches; God
help me, but I've got to support myself some other way!" And so she
pushed her way into the crowd and again offered her brandy and honey
cake.

The sun had at last gone down behind the dike; in his stead rose a red
violet glimmer; now and then black crows flew by and for moments looked
gilded: evening had come. But on the fens the dark mass of people were
moving still farther away from the already distant houses toward the
barrel; an especially good throw would have to reach it now. The people
of the marshes were having their turn: Hauke was to throw.

The chalky barrel showed white against the broad evening shadow that
now fell from the dike across the plain.

"I guess you'll leave it to us this time," called one of the people of
the upper land, for it was very close; they had the advantage of at
least ten feet.

Hauke's lean figure was just stepping out of the crowd; the grey eyes
in his long Frisian face were looking ahead at the barrel; in his hand
which hung down he held the ball.

"I suppose the bird is too big for you," he heard Ole Peters's grating
voice in this instant behind his ears; "shall we exchange it for a grey
pot?"

Hauke turned round and looked at him with steady eyes: "I'm throwing
for the marshes," he said. "Where do you belong?"

"I think, I belong there too; I suppose you're throwing for Elke
Volkerts!"

"Go!" shouted Hauke and stood in position again. But Ole pushed his
head still nearer to him. Then suddenly, before Hauke could do anything
against it himself, a hand clutched the intruder and pulled him back,
so that the fellow reeled against his comrades. It was not a large hand
that had done it; for when Hauke turned his head round for a moment he
saw Elke Volkerts putting her sleeve to rights, and her dark brows
looked angry in her heated face.

Now something like steely strength shot into Hauke's arm; he bent
forward a little, rocked the ball a few times in his hand; then he made
the throw, and there was dead silence on both sides. All eyes followed
the flying ball, one could hear it whizz as it cut the air; suddenly,
already far from the starting point, it was covered by the wings of a
silver gull that came flying from the dike with a scream. At the same
time, however, one could hear something bang from a distance against
the barrel.

"Hurrah for Hauke!" called the people from the marshes, and cries went
through the crowd: "Hauke! Hauke Haien has won the game!"

He, however, when all were crowding round him, had thrust his hand to
one side to seize another; and even when they called again: "Why are
you still standing there, Hauke? The ball is in the barrel!"--he only
nodded and did not budge from his place. Only when he felt that the
little hand lay fast in his, he said: "You may be right; I think myself
I have won."

Then the whole company streamed back and Elke and Hauke were separated
and pushed on by the crowd along the road to the inn which ascended
from the hill of the dikemaster to the upper land. At this point both
escaped the crowd, and while Elke went up to her room, Hauke stood in
front of the stable door on the hill and saw how the dark mass of
people was gradually wandering up to the parish tavern where a hall was
ready for the dancers. Darkness was slowly spreading over the wide
land; it was growing calmer and calmer round about, only in the stable
behind him the cattle were stirring; from up on the high land he
believed that he could already hear the piping of the clarinets in the
tavern. Then round the corner of the house he heard the rustling of a
dress, and with small steady steps someone was walking along the path
that led through the fens up to the high land. Now he discerned the
figure walking along in the twilight, and saw that it was Elke; she,
too, was going to the dance at the inn. The blood shot up to his neck;
shouldn't he run after her and go with her? But Hauke was no hero with
women; pondering over this problem, he remained standing still until
she had vanished from his sight in the dark.

Then, when the danger of catching up with her was over, he walked along
the same way until he had reached the inn by the church, where the
chattering and shouting of the crowds in front of the house and in the
hall and the shrill sounds of the violins and clarinets surged round
him and bewildered his senses. Unobserved he made his way into the
Guildhall; but it was not large and so crowded that he could not look a
step ahead of him. Silently he stood by the doorpost and looked into
the restless swarm. These people seemed to him like fools; he did not
have to worry that anyone was still thinking of the match of this
afternoon and about who had won the game only an hour ago; everybody
thought only of his girl and spun round with her in a circle. His eyes
sought only the one, and at last--there! She was dancing with her
cousin, the young dike overseer; but soon he saw her no longer, only
other girls from the marshes or the high land who did not concern him.
Then suddenly the violins and clarinets broke off, and the dance was
over; but immediately another one began. An idea shot through Hauke's
head--he wondered if Elke would keep her word and if she would not
dance by him with Ole Peters. He had almost uttered a scream at this
thought; then--yes, what should he do then? But she did not seem to be
joining in this dance, and at last it was over. Another one followed,
however, a two-step which had just come into vogue here. The music
started up madly, the young fellows rushed to their girls, the lights
flickered along the walls. Hauke strained his neck to recognise the
dancers; and there in the third couple, was Ole Peters--but who was his
partner? A broad fellow from the marshes stood in front of her and
covered her face! But the dance was raging on, and Ole and his partner
were turning out of the crowd. "Vollina! Vollina Harders!" cried Hauke
almost aloud, and drew a sigh of relief. But where was Elke? Did she
have no partner or had she rejected all because she did not want to
dance with Ole? And the music broke off again, and a new dance began;
but she was not in sight! There came Ole, still with fat Vollina in his
arms! "Well, well," said Hauke; "Jess Harders with his twenty-five
acres will soon have to retire too! But where is Elke?"

He left the doorpost and crowded farther into the hall; suddenly he was
standing in front of her, as she sat with an older girl friend in a
corner. "Hauke!" she called, looking up to him with her narrow face;
"are you here? I didn't see you dance."

"I didn't dance," he replied.

"Why not, Hauke?" and half rising she added: "Do you want to dance with
me? I didn't let Ole Peters do it; he won't come again!"

But Hauke made no move in this direction: "Thank you, Elke," he said;
"I don't know how to dance well enough; they might laugh at you; and
then--" he stopped short and looked at her with his whole heart in his
grey eyes, as if he had to leave it to them to say the rest.

"What do you mean, Hauke?" she said in a low voice.

"I mean, Elke, the day can't turn out any better for me than it has
done already."

"Yes," she said, "you have won the game."

"Elke!" he reproached her almost inaudibly.

Then her face flushed crimson: "Go!" she said; "what do you want?" and
she cast down her eyes.

But when Elke's friend was being drawn away to the dance by a young
man, Hauke said louder: "I thought Elke, I had won something better!"

A few seconds longer her eyes searched the floor; then she raised them
slowly, and a glance met his so full of the quiet power of her nature
that it streamed through him like summer air. "Do as your heart tells
you to, Hauke!" she said; "we ought to know each other!"

Elke did not dance any more that evening, and then, when both went
home, they walked hand in hand. Stars were gleaming in the sky above
the silent marshes; a light east wind was blowing and bringing severe
cold with it; but the two walked on, without many shawls or coverings,
as if it had suddenly turned spring.

Hauke had set his mind on something the fit use for which lay in the
uncertain future; but he had thought of celebrating with it quietly by
himself. So the next Sunday he went into the city to the old goldsmith
Andersen and ordered a strong gold ring. "Stretch out your finger for
me to measure!" said the old man and seized his ring-finger. "Well," he
said; "yours isn't quite so big as they usually are with you people!"
But Hauke said: "You had better measure the little finger," and held
that one toward him.

The goldsmith looked at him puzzled; but what did he care about the
notions of the young peasant fellows. "I guess we can find one among
the girls' rings" he said, and the blood shot into both of Hauke's
cheeks. But the little gold ring fitted his little finger, and he took
it hastily and paid for it with shining silver; then he put it into his
waistcoat pocket while his heart beat loudly as if he were performing a
ceremony. There he kept it thenceforth every day with restlessness and
yet with pride, as if the waistcoat pocket had no other purpose than to
carry a ring.

Thus he carried it for over a year--indeed, the ring even had to wander
into a new waistcoat pocket; the occasion for its liberation had not
yet presented itself. To be sure, it had occurred to him that he might
go straight to his master; his own father was, after all, a landholder
too. But when he was calmer, he knew very well that the old dikemaster
would have laughed at his second man. And so he and the dikemaster's
daughter lived on side by side--she, too, in maidenly silence, and yet
both as if they were walking hand in hand.

A year after that winter holiday Ole Peters had left his position and
married Vollina Harders. Hauke had been right: the old man had retired,
and instead of his fat daughter his brisk son-in-law was riding the
brown mare over the fens and, as people said, on his way back always up
the dike. Hauke was head man now, and a younger one in his place. To be
sure, the dikemaster at first did not want to let him move up. "It's
better he stays what he is," he had growled; "I need him here with my
books." But Elke had told him: "Then Hauke will go too, father." So the
old man had been scared, and Hauke had been made head man, although he
had nevertheless kept on helping the dikemaster with his
administration.

But after another year he began to talk with Elke about how his own
father's health was failing and told her that the few days in summer
that his master allowed him to help on his father's farm were not
enough; the old man was having a hard time, and he could not see that
any more. It was on a summer evening; both stood in the twilight under
the great ash tree in front of the house door. For a while the girl
looked up silently into the boughs of the tree; then she replied: "I
didn't want to say it, Hauke; I thought you would find the right thing
to do for yourself."

"Then I will have to leave your house," he said, "and can't come
again."

They were silent for a while and looked at the sunset light which
vanished behind the dike in the sea.

"You must know," she said; "only this morning I went to see your father
and found him asleep in his armchair; his drawing pen was in his hand
and the drawing board with a half-finished drawing lay before him on
the table. And when he had waked up and talked to me with effort for a
quarter of an hour, and I wanted to go, then he held me back by the
hand so full of fear, as if he were afraid it was for the last time;
but--"

"But what, Elke?" asked Hauke, when she hesitated to go on.

A few tears ran down the girl's cheeks. "I was only thinking of my
father," she said; "believe me, it will be hard for him to get on
without you." And then added, as if she had to summon her strength for
these words: "It often seems to me as if he too were getting ready for
death."

Hauke said nothing; it seemed to him suddenly, as if the ring were
stirring in his pocket. But even before he had suppressed his
indignation over this involuntary impulse, Elke went on: "No, don't be
angry, Hauke; I trust you won't leave us anyway."

Then he eagerly took her hand, and she did not draw it away. For a
while the young people stood together in the falling darkness, until
their hands slipped apart and each went his way. A gust of wind started
and rustled through the leaves of the ash tree and made the shutters
rattle on the front of the house; but gradually the night sank down,
and quiet lay over the gigantic plain.

Through Elke's persuasion, the old dikemaster had relieved Hauke of his
services, although he had not given notice at the right time, and two
new hired men were in the house. A few months later Tede Haien died;
but before he died, he called his son to his bedside: "Sit by me, my
child;" said the old man with his faint voice, "close by me! You don't
need to be afraid; he who is near me now is only the dark angel of the
Lord who comes to call me."

And his son, deeply affected, sat down close by the dark bed fixed to
the wall: "Tell me, father, what you still have to say."

"Yes, my son, there is still something," said the old man and stretched
out his hands across the quilt. "When, as a half-grown boy, you went to
serve the dikemaster, then you had the idea in your head that you
wanted to be one yourself some day. That idea I caught from you, and
gradually I came to think that you were the right man for it. But your
inheritance was too small for such an office. I have lived frugally
during your time of service--I planned to increase it."

Passionately Hauke seized his father's hands, and the old man tried to
sit up, so that he could see him. "Yes, yes, my son," he said; "there
in the uppermost drawer of the chest is a document. You know old Antje
Wohlers has a fen of five and a half acres; but she could not get on
with the rent alone in her crippled old age; so I have always round
Martinmas given the poor soul a certain sum, or more when I could; and
for that she gave her fen over to me; it is all legally settled. Now
she too is on her deathbed; the disease of our marshes, cancer, has
seized her; you won't have to pay her any more."

For a while he closed his eyes; then he spoke once more: "It isn't
much; but you'll have more then than you were accustomed to with me.
May it serve you well in your life on earth!"

With his son's words of thanks in his ears, the old man fell asleep. He
had no more cares: and after a few days the dark angel of the Lord had
closed his eyes forever, and Hauke received his inheritance.

The day after the funeral Elke came into his house. "Thanks for looking
in, Elke," Hauke greeted her.

But she replied: "I'm not looking in; I want to put things in order a
little, so that you can live decently in your house. Your father with
all his figures and drawings didn't look round much, and the death too
makes confusion. I want to make things a little livable for you."

His grey eyes looked full of confidence upon her. "All right, put
things in order!" he said; "I like it better that way too."

And then she began to clear up: the drawing board, which was still
lying there, was dusted and carried up to the attic, drawing pens and
pencil and chalk were locked away carefully in a drawer of the chest;
then the young servant girl was called in to help and the furniture was
put into different and better positions in the room, so that it seemed
as if it now had grown lighter and bigger. Smiling, Elke said: "Only we
women can do that," and Hauke in spite of his mourning for his father,
had watched her with happy eyes, and, where there was need for it, had
helped too.

And when toward dusk--it was in the beginning of September--everything
was just as she wanted it for him, she took his hand and nodded to him
with her dark eyes: "Now come and have supper with us; for I had to
promise my father to bring you; then when you go home, you can enter
your house in peace."

Then when they came into the spacious living-room of the dikemaster,
where the shutters were already closed and the two candles burning on
the table, the latter wanted to rise from his armchair, but his heavy
body sank back and he only called to his former man: "That's right,
that's right, Hauke, that you've come to see your old friends. Come
nearer, still nearer." And when Hauke had stepped up to his chair, he
took his hand into both of his own: "Now, now, my boy," he said, "be
calm now, for we all must die, and your father was none of the worst.
But Elke, now see that the roast gets on to the table; we have to get
strength. There's a great deal of work for us, Hauke! The fall
inspection is coming; there's a pile of dike and sluice bills as high
as the house; the damage to the dike of the western enclosure the other
day--I don't know where my head is, but yours, thank God, is a good bit
younger; you're a good boy, Hauke."

And after this long speech, with which the old man had laid bare his
whole heart, he let himself drop back into his chair and blinked
longingly toward the door, through which Elke was just coming in with
the roast on the platter. Hauke stood smiling beside him. "Now sit
down," said the dikemaster, "so that we won't lose time for nothing;
that doesn't taste well cold."

And Hauke sat down; it seemed to be taken for granted that he should
help to do the work of Elke's father. And when the fall inspection had
come and a few more months of the year were gone, he had indeed done
the greatest part of the work.

The story-teller stopped and looked round. The scream of a gull had
knocked against the window, and out in the hall one could hear a
stamping of feet, as if someone were taking the clay off his heavy
boots.

The dikemaster and the overseers turned their heads toward the door of
the room. "What is it?" called the first.

A strong man with a southwester on his head had stepped in.

"Sir," he said, "we both have seen it--Hans Nickels and I: the rider on
the white horse has thrown himself into the breach."

"Where did you see that?" asked the dikemaster.

"There is only the one break; in Jansen's fen, where the
Hauke-Haienland begins."

"Did you see it only once?"

"Only once; it was only like a shadow, but that doesn't mean that this
was the first time it happened."

The dikemaster had risen. "You must excuse me," he said, turning to me,
"we have to go out and see what this calamity is leading to." Then he
left the room with the messenger; the rest of the company too rose and
followed him.

I stayed alone with the schoolmaster in the large deserted room;
through the curtainless windows, which were now no longer covered by
the backs of the guests sitting in front of them, one could have a free
view and see how the wind was chasing the dark clouds across the sky.

The old man remained on his seat, with a superior, almost pitying smile
on his lips. "It is too empty here now," he said; "may I invite you to
my room? I live in this house; and believe me, I know every kind of
weather here by the dike--there is nothing for us to fear."

This invitation I accepted with thanks, for I too began to feel chilly,
and so we took a light and climbed up the stairs to a room under the
gables; there the windows also looked toward the west, but they were
covered by woollen rugs. In a bookcase I saw a small library, beside it
portraits of two old professors; before a table stood a great high
armchair. "Make yourself comfortable," said my pleasant host and threw
some pieces of peat into the still faintly glowing stove, which was
crowned by a tin kettle on top. "Only wait a little while! The fire
will soon roar; then I'll mix you a little glass of grog--that'll keep
you awake!"

"I don't need that," I said; "I won't grow sleepy, when I accompany
your Hauke upon his life-journey!"

"Do you think so?" and he nodded toward me with his keen eyes, after I
had been comfortably settled in his armchair.

Well, where did we leave off? Yes, yes; I know. Well, Hauke had
received his inheritance, and as old Antje Wohlers, too, had died of
her ailment, his property was increased by her fen. But since the
death, or rather, since the last words of his father, something had
sprung up within him, the seed of which he had carried in his heart
since his boyhood; he repeated to himself more often than enough that
he was the right man for the post if there had to be a new dikemaster.
That was it; his father, who had to know, who was the cleverest man in
the village, had added his word, like a last gift to his heritage. The
fen of the Wohlers woman, for which he had to thank his father too,
should be the first stepping-stone to this height. For, to be sure,
even with this--a dikemaster had to be able to show more real estate!
But his father had got on frugally through his lonely years; and with
what he had saved he had made himself owner of new property. This Hauke
could do too, and even more; for his father's strength had already been
spent, but he could do the hardest work for years. To be sure, even if
he should succeed along this line--on account of the sharp methods he
had brought into the administration of his old employer, he had made no
friends in the village, and Ole Peters, his old antagonist, had just
inherited property and was beginning to be a well-to-do man. A row of
faces passed before his inner vision, and they all looked at him with
hostile eyes. Then a rage against these people seized him: he stretched
out his arms as if he would clutch them, for they wanted to push him
from the office for which he alone, of all, was destined. These
thoughts did not leave him; they were always there again, and so in his
young heart there grew beside honor and love, also ambition and hate.
But these two he locked up deep within him; even Elke surmised nothing
of them.

When the new year had come, there was a wedding; the bride was a
relative of the Haiens, and Hauke and Elke were both invited. Indeed,
at the wedding dinner it happened that, because a nearer relative was
absent, they found themselves seated side by side. Their joy about this
was betrayed only by a smile that flitted over the face of each. But
Elke to-day sat with indifference in the midst of the noise of
chattering and the click of the glasses.

"Is something ailing you?" asked Hauke.

"Oh, really nothing; only there are too many people here for me."

"But you look so sad!"

She shook her head; then again she said nothing.

Then something like jealousy rose within him on account of her silence,
and secretly, under the overhanging tablecloth, he seized her hand. She
did not draw it away, but clasped it, as if full of confidence, round
his. Had a feeling of loneliness come over her, as she had to watch the
failing body of her father every day? Hauke did not think of asking her
this; but his breathing stopped, as he pulled the gold ring from his
pocket. "Will you let it stay?" he asked trembling, while he pushed the
ring on the ring-finger of the slender hand.

Opposite them at the table sat the pastor's wife; she suddenly laid
down her fork and turned to her neighbor: "My faith, look at that
girl!" she cried; "she is turning deadly pale!"

But the blood was returning into Elke's face. "Can you wait, Hauke?"
she asked in a low voice.

Clever Frisian though he was, he nevertheless had to stop and think a
few seconds. "For what?" he asked then.

"You know perfectly well; I don't need to tell you."

"You are right," he said; "yes, Elke, I can wait--if it's within a
human limit."

"Oh, God, I'm afraid, a very near one! Don't talk like that, Hauke; you
are speaking of my father's death!" She laid her other hand on her
breast; "Till then," she said, "I shall wear the gold ring here; you
shan't be afraid of getting it back in my lifetime!"

Then both smiled, and their hands pressed each other so tightly that on
other occasions the girl would have cried out aloud.

The pastor's wife meanwhile had looked incessantly at Elke's eyes,
which were now glowing like dark fire under the lace fringe of her
little gold brocade cap. But in the growing noise at the table she had
not understood a word; neither did she turn to her partner again,
for she was accustomed not to disturb budding marriages--and this
seemed to be such a case--if only for the sake of the promise of the
wedding-fee for her husband, who did the marrying.

Elke's presentiment had come true; one morning after Easter the
dikemaster Tede Volkerts had been found dead in his bed. When one
looked at his face, one could see written upon it that his end had been
calm. In the last months he had often expressed a weariness of life;
his favorite roast, even his ducks, wouldn't please him any more.

And now there was a great funeral in the village. Up on the high land
in the burying-ground round the church there was on the western side a
burial-place surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. Upright against a
weeping willow stood a broad blue tombstone upon which was hewn the
image of death with many teeth in the skeleton jaws; beneath it one
could read in large letters:


           "Ah, death all earthly things devours,
            Takes art and knowledge that was ours;
            The mortal man at rest here lies--
            God give, that blessed he may rise."


It was the burial-place of the former dikemaster Volkert Tedsen; now a
new grave had been dug in which his son, Tede Volkerts, was to be
buried. And now the funeral procession was coming up from the marshes,
a multitude of carriages from all parish villages. Upon the first one
stood the heavy coffin, and the two shining black horses of the
dikemaster's stable drew it up the sandy hill to the high land; their
tails and manes were waving in the sharp spring breeze. The graveyard
round the church was filled with people up to the ramparts; even on the
walled gate boys were perching with little children in their arms; all
wanted to see the burying.

In the house down in the marshes Elke had prepared the funeral meal in
the best parlour and the living-room. Old wine was set on the table in
front of the plates; by the plate of the dikemaster general--for he,
too, was not missing today--and of the pastor there was a bottle of
"Langkork" for each. When everything was ready, she went through the
stable in front of the yard door; she met no one on the way, for the
hired men were at the funeral with two carriages. Here she stood still
and while her mourning clothes were waving in the spring wind, she
watched the last carriages down in the village drive up to the church.
There after a while a great turmoil appeared, which seemed to be
followed by a deadly silence. Elke folded her hands; now they must be
letting the coffin into the grave: "And to dust thou shalt return!"
Inevitably, in a low voice, as if she could have heard them from up
here, she repeated the words. Then her eyes filled with tears, her
hands folded across her breast sank into her lap. "Our Father, who art
in heaven!" she prayed ardently. And when the Lord's prayer was
finished, she stood a long time motionless--she, now the mistress of
this great marsh farm; and thoughts of death and of life began to
struggle within her.

A distant rumbling waked her. When she opened her eyes, she again saw
one carriage after another drive rapidly down from the marshes and up
to her farm. She straightened herself, looked ahead sharply once more
and then went back, as she had come, through the stable into the
solemnly ordered living-rooms. Here too there was nobody; only through
the wall could she hear the bustle of the maids in the kitchen. The
festive board looked so quiet and deserted; the mirror between the
windows had been covered with white scarfs, and likewise the brass
knobs of the stove: there was nothing bright any more in the room. Elke
saw that the doors of the alcove-bed, in which her father had slept his
last sleep were open and she went up and closed them fast. Almost
absently she read the proverb that was written on them in golden
letters between roses and carnations:


           "If thou thy day's work dost aright,
            Then sleep comes by itself at night."


That was from her grandfather! She cast a glance at the sideboard; it
was almost empty. But through the glass doors she could still see the
cut-glass goblet which her father, as he used to tell with relish, had
once won as a prize when riding the ring in his youth. She took it out
and set it in front of the dikemaster general's plate. Then she went to
the window, for already she heard the carriages drive up the hill; one
after the other they stopped in front of her house, and, more briskly
than they had come, the guests leaped from their seats to the ground.
Rubbing their hands and chattering, all crowded into the room; it
was not long before they sat down at the festive board, where the
well-prepared dishes were steaming--in the best parlor the dikemaster
general and the pastor. And noise and loud talking ran along the table,
as if death had never spread its awful stillness here. Silent, with her
eyes upon her guests, Elke walked round the tables with her maids, to
see that nothing was missing at the funeral meal. Hauke Haien, too, sat
in the living-room with Ole Peters and other small landowners.

When the meal was over, the white pipes were taken out of the corner
and lighted, and Elke was again busy offering the filled coffee cups to
her guests; for there was no economy in coffee, either, on this day. In
the living-room, at the desk of the man just buried, the dikemaster
general stood talking with the pastor and the white-haired dike
overseer Jewe Manners.

"Well, gentlemen," said the former; "we have buried the old dikemaster
with honor; but where shall we get the new one? I think, Manners, you
will have to make up your mind to accept this dignity."

Old Manners smiled and lifted his little black velvet cap from his
white hair: "Mr. Dikemaster General," he said, "the game would be too
short then; when the deceased Tede Volkers was made dikemaster I was
made overseer and have been now for forty years."


"That is no defect, Manners; then you know the affairs all the better
and won't have any trouble with them."

But the old man shook his head: "No, no, your Honor, leave me where I
am, then I can run along with the rest for a few years longer."

The pastor agreed with him: "Why not give the office," he said, "to the
man who has actually managed the affairs in the last years?"

The dikemaster general looked at him: "I don't understand you, pastor!"

But the pastor pointed with his finger to the best parlor, where Hauke
in a slow serious manner seemed to be explaining something to two older
people. "There he stands," he said; "the long Frisian over there with
the keen grey eyes, the bony nose and the high, projecting forehead. He
was the old man's hired man and now has his own little place; to be
sure, he is rather young."

"He seems to be about thirty," said the dikemaster general, inspecting
the man thus presented to him.

"He is scarcely twenty-four," remarked the overseer Manners; "but the
pastor is right: all the good work that has been done with dikes and
sluices and the like in the last years through the office of dikemaster
has been due to him; the old man couldn't do much toward the end."

"Indeed?" said the dikemaster general; "and you think, he would be the
right man to move up into the office of his old master?"

"He would be absolutely the right man," replied Jewe Manners; "but he
lacks what they call here 'clay under one's feet;' his father had about
fifteen, he may well have twenty acres; but with that nobody has yet
been made dikemaster."

The pastor had already opened his mouth, as if he wanted to object,
when Elke Volkers, who had been in the room for a while, spoke to them
suddenly: "Will your Honor allow me a word?" she said to the dikemaster
general; "I am speaking only to prevent a mistake from turning into a
wrong."

"Then speak, Miss Elke," he replied; "wisdom always sounds well from
the lips of pretty girls."

"It isn't wisdom, your Honor; I only want to tell the truth."

"That too one must be able to hear, Miss Elke."

The girl let her dark eyes glance sideways, as if she wanted to make
sure that there were no superfluous ears about: "Your Honor," she began
then, and her breast heaved with a stronger motion, "my godfather, Jewe
Manners, told you that Hauke Haien owned only about twenty acres; that
is quite true in this moment, but as soon as it will be necessary,
Hauke will call his own just so many more acres as my father's, now my
own farm, contains. All that together ought to be enough for a
dikemaster."

Old Manners stretched his white head toward her, as if he had to see
who was talking there: "What is that?" he said; "child, what are you
talking about?"

But Elke pulled a gleaming gold ring on a black ribbon out of her
bodice: "I am engaged, godfather Manners," she said; "here is my ring,
and Hauke Haien is my betrothed."

"And when--I think I may ask that, as I held you at your baptism, Elke
Volkerts--when did that happen?"

"That happened some time ago; but I was of age, godfather Manners," she
said; "my father's health had already fallen off, and as I knew him, I
thought I had better not get him excited over this; now that he is with
God, he will see that his child is in safekeeping with this man. I
should have kept still about it through the year of mourning; but for
the sake of Hauke and of the diked-in land, I had to speak." And
turning to the dikemaster general, she added: "Your Honor will please
forgive me."

The three men looked at one another; the pastor laughed, the old
overseer limited himself to a "hm, hm!" while the dikemaster general
rubbed his forehead as if he were about to make an important decision.
"Yes, dear miss," he said at last, "but how about marriage property
rights here in this district? I must confess I am not very well versed
in these things at this moment in all this confusion."

"You don't need to be, your Honor," replied the daughter of the
dikemaster, "before my wedding I shall make my goods over to my
betrothed. I have my little pride too," she added smiling; "I want to
marry the richest man in the village."

"Well, Manners," said the pastor, "I think you, as godfather, won't
mind if I join the young dikemaster with the old one's daughter!"

The old man shook his head gently: "Our Lord give His blessing!" he
said devoutly.

But the dikemaster general gave the girl his hand: "You have spoken
truly and wisely, Elke Volkerts; I thank you for your firm explanations
and hope to be a guest in your house in the future, too, on happier
occasions than today. But that a dikemaster should have been made by
such a young lady--that is the wonderful part of this story!"

"Your Honor," replied Elke and looked at the kindly high official with
her serious eyes, "a true man ought to be allowed the help of his
wife!" Then she went into the adjoining parlor and laid her hand
silently in that of Hauke Haien.


Several years had gone by: in the little house of Tede Haien now lived
a vigorous workman with his wife and child; the young dikemaster Hauke
Haien lived with his wife Elke Volkerts on the farm of her father. In
summer the mighty ash tree murmured as before in front of the house;
but on the bench that now stood beneath it, the young wife was usually
seen alone in the evening, sitting with some sewing in her hands; there
was no child yet from this marriage. The husband had other things to do
than to sit in front of his house door, for, in spite of his having
helped in the old man's management before, there was still a multitude
of labors to be done which, in those other times, he had not found it
wise to touch upon; but now everything had to be cleared up gradually,
and he swept with a stiff broom. Besides that, there was the management
of the farm, enlarged by his own land, especially as he was trying to
save a second hired man. So it came about that, except on Sundays, when
they went to church, the two married people saw each other usually only
during dinner, which Hauke ate with great haste, and at the rise and
close of day; it was a life of continuous work, although one of
content.

Then a troublesome rumor started. When one Sunday, after church, a
somewhat noisy company of young landowners from the marshes and the
higher land had stayed over their cups at the inn, they talked, when it
came to the fourth and fifth glass, not about the king and the
government, to be sure--they did not soar so high in those days--but
about communal and higher officials, specially about the taxes demanded
of the community. And the longer they talked, the less there was that
found mercy in their eyes, particularly not the new dike taxes. All the
sluices and locks had always held out before, and now they have to be
repaired; always new places were found on the dike that required
hundreds of cartloads of earth--the devil take the whole affair!

"That's all on account of your clever dikemaster," cried one of the
people of the higher land, "who always goes round pondering and sticks
his finger into every pie!"

"Yes, he is tricky and wants to win the favor of the dikemaster
general; but we have caught him!"

"Why did you let him be thrust on you?" said the other; "now you have
to pay in cash."

Ole Peters laughed. "Yes, Marten Fedders, that's the way it is here,
and it can't be helped: the old one was made dikemaster on account of
his father, the new one on account of his wife." The laughter which ran
round the table showed how this sally was appreciated.

But as it had been spoken at the public table of an inn, it did not
stay there, and it was circulated in the village of the high land as
well as that of the marshes below; and so it reached Hauke. Again the
row of ill-meaning faces passed by his inner eye, and he heard the
laughter round the tavern table more jeering than it really was.
"Dogs!" he shouted, and his eyes looked grimly to the side, as if he
wanted to have these people whipped.

Then Elke laid her hand upon his arm: "Let them be; they all would like
to be what you are."

"That's just it," he replied angrily.

"And," she went on, "didn't Ole Peters better himself by marriage?"

"He did, Elke; but what he married with Vollina wasn't enough to be
dikemaster on."

"Say rather: he wasn't enough," and Elke turned her husband round so
that he had to look into the mirror, for they stood between the windows
in their room. "There is the dikemaster!" she said; "now look at him;
only he who can manage an office has it."

"You're not wrong," he replied pensively, "and yet--Well, Elke, I have
to go to the eastern lock; the gates won't close again."

He went; but he was not gone long, before the repairing of the lock was
forgotten. Another idea, which he had only half thought out and carried
round with him for years, which, however, had been pushed back by the
urgent affairs of his office, now took hold of him again and more
powerfully than before, as if he had suddenly grown wings.

Before he was really aware of It himself, he found himself on the
sea-dike a good way south toward the city; the village that lay on this
side had some time ago vanished to the left. He was still walking on,
fixing his eyes constantly on the seaward side of the broad foreland.
If some one had walked beside him, he must have seen what concentrated
mental work was going on behind those eyes. At last he stood still: the
foreland here dwindled into a narrow strip along the dike. "It will
have to work!" he said to himself. "Seven years in the office--they
shan't say any more that I am dikemaster only because of my wife."

He was still standing there, and his eyes swept sharply and
thoughtfully on all sides over the green foreland. Then he walked back
until, here too, the broad plain that lay before him ended in a narrow
strip of green pastureland. Through this, close by the dike, shot a
strong arm of the sea which divided almost the whole foreland from the
mainland and made it an island; a crude wooden bridge led to it, so
that one could go back and forth with cattle or teams of hay or grain.
It was low tide now, and the golden September sun was glistening on the
strip of wet clay, about a hundred feet broad, and on the deep channel
in the middle of it through which the sea was even now driving its
waters. "That can be damned!" said Hauke to himself, after he had
watched this playing of the water for a while. Then he looked up, and
on from the dike upon which he stood, past the channel, he drew an
imaginary line along the edge of the isolated land, round toward the
south and back again to the east over the eastern continuation of the
channel, up to the dike. But the line which he had drawn invisibly was
a new dike, new also in the construction of its outline, which as yet
existed only in his head.

"That would make dammed-in land of about a thousand acres," he said
smiling to himself; "not so large; but--"

Another calculation came into his mind: the foreland here belonged to
the community, or rather, a number of shares to the single members,
according to the size of their property in the municipality or other
legal income. He began to count up how many shares he had received from
his father and how many from Elke's father, and how many he had already
bought during his marriage, partly with a dim foreboding of future
gain, partly because of his increased sheep stock. It was a
considerable lot; for he had also bought all of Ole Peter's shares when
the latter had been disgusted because his best ram had been drowned,
once when the foreland had been partly flooded. What excellent pasture
and farm land that must make and how valuable it would be if it were
all surrounded by his new dike! Like intoxication this idea rose into
his brain; but he pressed his nails into the hollows of his hands and
forced his eyes to see clearly and soberly what lay there before him: a
great plain without a dike exposed to who knew what storms and floods
in the next years, and at its outermost edge a herd of dirty sheep now
wandering and grazing slowly. That meant a heap of work, struggle, and
annoyance for him! In spite of all that, as he was walking on the
footpath down from the dike across the fens toward his hill, he felt as
if he were carrying home a great treasure.

In the hall Elke came to meet him: "How about the lock?" she asked.

He looked down at her with a mysterious smile: "We shall soon need
another lock," he said; "and sluices and a new dike."

"I don't understand," returned Elke, as they walked into the room;
"what do you want to do, Hauke?"

"I want," he began slowly and then stopped for a second, "I want the
big foreland that begins opposite our place and stretches on westward
to be diked in and made into a solid enclosure. The high floods have
left us in peace for almost a generation now; but when one of the bad
ones comes again and destroys the growth down there--then all at once
there'll be an end to all this glory. Only the old slackway has let
things stay like this till to-day."

She looked at him with astonishment: "Why, you are scolding yourself!"
she said.

"I am, Elke; but till now there were so many other things to do."

"Yes, Hauke; surely, you have done enough."

He had sat down in the armchair of the old dikemaster, and his hands
were clutching both arms fast.

"Have you the courage for it?" his wife asked him.

"I have that, Elke," he spoke hastily.

"Don't be too hasty, Hauke; that work is a matter of life and death;
and almost all the people will be against you, they won't thank you for
your labor and trouble."

He nodded. "I know that!" he said.

"And if it will only succeed," she cried again, "ever since I was a
child I heard that the channel can't be stopped up, and that therefore
one shouldn't touch it."

"That was an excuse for the lazy ones!" said Hauke; "why shouldn't one
be able to stop up the channel?"

"That I have not heard; perhaps because it goes right through; the rush
of the water is too strong." A remembrance came over her and an almost
mischievous smile gleamed out of her serious eyes: "When I was a
child," she told, "I heard our hired men talk about it once; they said,
if a dam was to hold there, some live thing would have to be thrown
into the hole and diked up with the rest; when they were building a
dike on the other side, about a hundred years ago, a gipsy child was
dammed in that they had bought from its mother for a lot of money. But
now I suppose no one would sell her child."

Hauke shook his head: "Then it is just as well that we have none; else
they would do nothing less than demand it of us."

"They shouldn't get it!" said Elke and folded her arms across her body
as if in fear.

And Hauke smiled; but she asked again: "And the huge cost? Have you
thought of that?"

"I have, Elke; what we will get out of it will far surpass the cost;
even the cost of keeping up the old dike will be covered a good bit by
the new one. We do our own work and there are over eighty teams of
horses in the community, and there is no lack of young strong arms. At
least you shan't have made me dikemaster for nothing, Elke; I want to
show them that I am one!"

She had been crouching in front of him and looking at him full of care;
now she rose with a sigh. "I have to go back to my day's work," she
said, and gently stroked his cheek; "you do yours, Hauke."

"Amen, Hike!" he said with a serious smile; "there is work enough for
us both."

There was truly work enough for both, but the heaviest burden was now
on the man's shoulder. On Sunday afternoons, often too in the evenings,
Hauke sat together with a good surveyor, deep in calculations, drawings
and plans; when he was alone, he did the same and often did not stop
till long after midnight. Then he would slip into their common
sleeping-room--for the stuffy beds fixed to the wall in the living-room
were no longer used in Hauke's household--and his wife would lie with
her eyes closed, pretending to sleep, so that he would get his rest at
last, although she was really waiting for him with a beating heart.
Then he would sometimes kiss her forehead and say a low word of love,
and then lie down to sleep, though sleep often did not come to him
before the first crowing of the cock. In the winter storms he ran out
on the dike with pencil and paper in his hand, and stood and made
drawings and took notes while a gust of wind would tear his cap from
his head and make his long, light hair fly round his heated face. Soon,
as long as the ice did not bar his way, he rowed with a servant out
into the sea and with plumb line and rods measured the depths of the
currents about which he was not yet sure. Often enough Elke trembled
for his life, but when he was safely back, he could hardly have noticed
anything, except by the tight clasp of her hand or by the bright
lightning that gleamed from her usually so quiet eyes. "Have patience,
Elke," he said once when it seemed to him as if his wife would not let
him alone; "I have to have the whole thing clear to myself before I
propose it." Then she nodded and let him be. There were no less rides
into the city, either, to see the dikemaster general, and all these and
the labors for house and farm were always followed by work late into
the night. His intercourse with other people outside of his work and
business vanished almost entirely; even with his wife it grew less and
less. "These are bad times, and they will last long yet," said Elke to
herself and went to her work.

At last, when sun and spring winds had broken the ice everywhere, the
last work in preparation had been done. The petition to the dikemaster
general, to be seconded by a higher official, contained the proposal
that the foreland should be diked for the promoting of the general
weal, particularly of the diked-in district, as well as the ruler's
treasury, as this would receive in a few years the taxes from about a
thousand acres. This was neatly copied and put into a firm envelope
together with the corresponding drafts and plans of all the positions,
present and future, of the locks and sluices and everything else that
belonged to the project; and this was sealed with the official seal of
the dikemaster.

"Here it is, Elke," said the young dikemaster; "now give it your
blessing."

Elke laid her hand into his: "We want to stand by each other," she
said.

"Yes, we do."

Then the petition was sent into the city by a messenger on horseback.

I must call your attention to the fact, dear sir, the schoolmaster
interrupted his account, fixing his eyes pleasantly upon me, that
what I have told you up to this point I have gathered during my
activity of almost forty years in this district from the traditions
of intelligent people or from the tales of their grandchildren and
great-grandchildren. What I am about to tell you now, so that you may
find the right connection between what has gone before and the final
outcome of my story, used to be and is still the talk of the whole
marsh village, as soon as the spinning-wheels begin to whir round All
Saints' Day.

If one stood on the dike, about five or six hundred feet to the north
of the dikemaster's farm, one could, at that time, look a few thousand
feet out over the sea, and somewhat farther from the opposite shore one
could see a little island, which they called "Jeverssand," or "Jevers
Island." Our forefathers of that generation had used it as a pasture
for sheep, for at that time grass was still growing on it; but even
that had stopped, because the low island had several times been flooded
by the sea, and in midsummer too, so that the growth of grass was
stunted and made useless as a sheep pasture. So it happened that the
island had no more visitors except gulls and other birds and
occasionally a sea eagle; and on moonlight nights from the dike one
could only see the light or heavy mists pass over it. And people
believed that, when the moon shone upon the island from the east, they
could recognise a few bleached skeletons of drowned sheep and that of a
horse, although, to be sure, no one could understand how it had come
there.

It was at the end of March that the day laborer from the house of Tede
Haien and Iven Johns, the hired man of the young dikemaster, stood
beside each other at that place and without stirring stared at the
island which could scarcely be recognised in the dim moonshine; but
something out of the ordinary seemed to hold them there. The laborer
put his hands into his pockets and shuddered: "Come, Iven," he said;
"there's nothing good in that; let us go home."

The other laughed, even though horror sounded through his laughter:
"Oh, bosh, it's a live creature, a big one! Who the devil has chased it
on to the clay out there? Look, now it's stretching its neck our way!
No, it's drooping its head; it is feeding. I'd have thought, there was
nothing to feed on there! What can it be?"

"That's not our business!" replied the other. "Good night, Iven, if you
don't want to go with me; I'm going home!"

"Oh, yes; you've got a wife, you can go into your warm bed! But I've
got a lot of March air in my room!"

"Good night, then," the laborer called back, as he marched home on the
dike. The hired man looked round a few times after his fleeing
companion; but the desire to see something gruesome held him fast. Then
a dark, stocky figure came toward him on the dike from the village; it
was the servant boy of the dikemaster. "What do you want, Carsten?" the
hired man called to him.

"I?--nothing," said the boy; "but our master wants to speak to you,
Iven
Johns."

The man's eyes were drawn back to the island again. "All right, I'm
coming right off," he said.

"What are you looking at so?" asked the boy.

The man raised his arm and pointed silently to the island. "Oh, look!"
whispered the boy; "there goes a horse--a white horse--the devil must
be riding that--how can a horse get to Jevers Island?"

"Don't know, Carsten; if it's only a real horse!"

"Yes, yes, Iven; look, now it's feeding just like a horse! But who has
brought it there--we have no boats in the village big enough! Perhaps
it's only a sheep; Peter Ohm says by moonlight ten circles of peat look
like a whole village. No, look! Now it's jumping around--it must be a
horse, after all!"

Both stood silent for a while, their eyes fixed on what they saw
indistinctly going on upon yonder island. The moon stood high in the
heavens and shone upon the wide sea that was just beginning, as the
tide rose, to wash with its waters over the glistening flats of clay.
Only the low murmur of the water, not the sound of a single animal
was heard here in the vast open; on the marshes behind the dike,
too, all was deserted, and cows and oxen were still in their stalls.
Nothing stirred; only the thing that they took for a horse--a white
horse--seemed to be moving on Jevers Island. "It is growing lighter,"
the hired man broke into the silence; "I can see the white sheeps'
skeletons shimmer distinctly!"

"I too," said the boy and stretched his neck; but then, as if it came
over him suddenly, he pulled the man by the sleeve. "Iven," he gasped,
"the horse skeleton, that used to lie there too--where is that? I can't
see it!"

"I don't see it either. Strange!" said the man.

"Not so strange, Iven! Sometimes, I don't know in what nights, the
bones are supposed to rise and act as if they were alive!"

"Is that so?" said the man; "that's an old wives' story!"

"May be, Iven," said the boy.

"But I thought you were sent to get me. Come, we have to go home. It
always stays the same, anyway."

The man could not get the boy away until he had turned him round by
force and pushed him on to the way. "Listen, Carsten," said the former,
when the ghostly island lay a good way behind him, "you are supposed to
be a good sport; I believe you would like to inspect these doings
yourself."

"Yes," replied Carsten, still shuddering a little. "Yes, I'd like to do
that, Iven."

"Do you really mean that? Then," said the man after he had given his
hand to the boy emphatically, "we'll take our boat to-morrow evening;
you row to Jeverssand; I'll stay on the dike in the meantime."

"Yes," replied the boy, "that'll work! I'll take my whip with me."

"Do that."

Silently they came near the house of their employers, to which they
slowly climbed up the high hill.

At the same hour on the following night the hired man sat on the big
stone in front of the stable door, when the boy came to him, snapping
his whip. "What a strange sound!" said the former.

"I should say--take care!" returned the boy; "I have stuck nails into
the string, too."

"Then come," said the other.

As on the night before, the moon stood in the eastern sky and looked
down with a clear light. Soon both were out on the dike again and
looked over to Jevers Island, that looked like a strip of mist in the
water. "There it goes again," said the man; "I was here in the
afternoon, and then it wasn't there; but I saw the white horse skeleton
lying there distinctly!"

The boy stretched his neck: "That isn't there now, Iven," he whispered.

"Well, Carsten, how is it?" said the man. "Are you still keen on rowing
over?"

Carsten stopped to think a moment; then he struck the air with his
whip: "Go ahead and slip the mooring, Iven."

But over yonder it seemed as if the creature moving there were
stretching its neck and raising its head toward the mainland. They were
not seeing it any more; they were already walking down the dike to the
place where the boat was moored. "Now get in," said the man, after he
had slipped the mooring. "I'll wait till you are back. You'll have to
land on the eastern side; that's where one always could land." And the
boy nodded silently and rowed away into the moonlit night with his
whip; the man wandered back to the foot of the dike and climbed on to
it again at the place where they had stood before. Soon he saw how the
boat was moored at a steep, dark place, where a broad creek flowed out,
and how a stocky figure leaped ashore. Didn't it seem as if the boy
were snapping his whip? But then, too, it might be the sound of the
rising flood. Several hundred feet to the north he saw what they had
taken for a white horse; and now--yes, the figure of the boy came
marching straight up to it. Now it raised its head as if it were
startled; and the boy--now one could hear it plainly--snapped his whip.
But--what was he doing? He was turning round, he was going back the
same way he had come. The creature over there seemed to graze on
unceasingly; no sound of neighing could be heard; sometimes it seemed
as if strips of water were drawn across the apparition. The man gazed
as if spellbound.

Then he heard the arrival of the boat at the shore he was on, and soon
in the dusk he saw the boy climb toward him up the dike. "Well,
Carsten," he asked, "what was it?"

The boy shook his head. "It was nothing!" he said. "From the boat I saw
it a short way off; but then, when I was on the island--the devil knows
where that animal has hid himself! The moonlight was bright enough; but
when I came to that place there was nothing there but the pale bones of
a half dozen sheep, and a little farther away lay the horse skeleton,
too, with its white, long skull and let the moon shine into its empty
sockets."

"Hm!" replied the man; "are you sure you saw right?"

"Yes, Iven, I stood in the place; a forlorn bird that had cowered
behind the skeleton for the night flew up screaming so that I was
startled and snapped my whip after it a few times."

"And that was all?"

"Yes, Iven; I don't know any more."

"It is enough, too," said the man, then he pulled the boy toward him by
the arm and pointed over to the island. "Do you see something over
there, Carsten?"

"It's true, there it goes again."

"Again?" said the man; "I've been looking over there all the time, and
it hasn't been away at all; you went right up to the monster."

The boy stared at him; all at once horror was in his usually so pert
face, and this did not escape the man. "Come," said the latter,
"let's go home: from here it looks alive and over there is nothing but
bones--that's more than you and I can grasp. But keep quiet about it,
one mustn't talk of these things."

They turned round and the boy trotted beside him; they did not speak,
and by their side the marshes lay in perfect silence.

But when the moon had vanished and the nights were black, something
else happened.

At the time when the horse market was going on Hauke Haien had ridden
into the city, although he had had nothing to do with the market.
Nevertheless, when he came home toward evening, he brought home a
second horse. It had rough hair, however, and was lean, so that one
could count every rib and its eyes looked tired and sunken deep into
the sockets. Elke had stepped out in front of the house door to meet
her husband: "Heaven help us!" she cried, "what shall we do with that
old white horse?" For when Hauke had ridden up to the house with it and
stopped under the ash tree, she had seen that the poor creature was
lame, too.

The young dikemaster, however, jumped laughing down from his brown
horse: "Never mind, Elke; it didn't cost much, anyway."

The clever woman replied: "You know, the greatest bargain turns out to
be the most expensive."

"But not always, Elke; this animal is at most four years old; look at
it more carefully. It is starved and has been abused; our oats shall do
it good. I'll take care of it myself, so that they won't overfeed it."

Meanwhile the animal stood with bowed head; its long mane hung down its
neck. Elke, while her husband was calling the hired men, walked round
it with curious eyes; but she shook her head: "A horse like this has
never yet been in our stable."

When the servant boy came round the corner, he suddenly stood still
with frightened eyes. "Well, Carsten," called the dikemaster, "what has
struck you? Don't you like my white horse?"

"Yes--oh, yes, master, why not?"

"Then take the animal into the stable; don't feed it. I'll come myself
right off."

The boy took hold of the halter of the white horse carefully and then
hastily, as if for protection, seized the bridle of the brown horse
also put into his trust. Hauke then went into the room with his wife.
She had warm beer ready for him, and bread and butter were there, too.

He had soon finished; then he got up and walked up and down the room
with his wife. "Let me tell you, Elke," he said, while the evening glow
played on the tiles of the wall, "how I came to get the animal. I
spent about an hour at the dikemaster general's; he has good news for
me--there will be some departures, here and there, from my drawings;
but the main thing, my outline, has been accepted, and the next days
may bring the command to begin the new dike."

Elke sighed involuntarily. "After all?" she said, anxiously.

"Yes, wife," returned Hauke; "it will be hard work; but for that, I
think, the Lord has brought us together! Our farm is in such good order
now, you can take a good part of it on your own shoulders. Think ahead
ten years--then we'll own quite a different property."

During his first words she had pressed her husband's hand into hers as
a sign of assurance; but his last words could give her no pleasure.
"For whom all the property?" she said. "You would have to take another
wife then; I shall bring you no children."

Tears shot into her eyes; but he drew her close into his arms. "We'll
leave that to the Lord," he said; "but now and at that time too, we are
young enough to have joy for ourselves in the fruits of our labors."

She looked at him a long time with her dark eyes while he held her.
"Forgive me, Hauke," she said; "sometimes I am a woman in despair."

He bent down to her face and kissed her: "You are my wife and I am your
husband, Elke. And nothing can alter that."

Then she clasped her arms tightly round his neck: "You are right,
Hauke, and what comes, will come for us both." Then she freed him,
blushing. "You wanted to tell me about the white horse," she said in a
low voice.

"So I did, Elke. I told you, my head and heart were full of joy over
the good news that the dikemaster general had given me. So I was riding
back again out of the city, when on the dam, behind the harbor, I met a
shabby fellow--I couldn't tell if he was a vagabond, a tinker, or what.
This fellow was pulling the white horse after him by the halter; but
the animal raised his head and looked at me with dull eyes. It seemed
to me as if he wanted to beg me for something--and, indeed, at that
moment I was rich enough. 'Hallo, good sir,' I hailed him, 'where do
you want to go with your jade?'

"The fellow stopped, and the white horse, too. 'Sell him,' he said, and
nodded to me slyly.

"'But spare me!' I called cheerfully.

"'I think I shall!' he said; 'it's a good horse and worth no less than
a hundred dollars.'

"I laughed into his face.

"'Well,' he said, 'don't laugh so hard; you don't need to pay it. But I
have no use for it, it'll perish with me; with you it would soon look
different.'

"Then I jumped down from my brown horse and looked into the white
horse's mouth and saw that it was still a young animal. 'How much do
you want for it?' I cried, for again the horse seemed to look at me
beseechingly.

"'Sir, take it for thirty dollars,' said the fellow, 'and I'll give you
the halter to the bargain.'

"And then, wife, I took the fellow's stretched-out brown hand, which
looked almost like a claw. And so we have the white horse, and I think
a good enough bargain. The only strange thing was that, when I rode
away with the horses, I soon heard laughter behind me, and when I
turned round my head, saw the Slovak standing with his legs apart, his
arms on his back, and laughing after me like a devil.

"Oh, horror," cried Elke; "I hope that white horse will bring you
nothing from his old master. May he thrive for your good, Hauke!"

"Thrive he shall, at least as far as I can make him!" And the
dikemaster went into the stable, as he had told the boy a while ago.

But not only on the first night did he feed the white horse--from that
time on he always did it himself and did not leave the animal out of
sight. He wanted to show that he had made a first-rate bargain; anyway,
he did not want to allow any mistake. And already after a few weeks the
animal's condition improved: gradually the rough hair vanished; a
smooth, blue-spotted skin appeared, and one day when he led it round on
the place, it walked nimbly on its steady legs. Hauke thought of the
adventurous seller. "That fellow was a fool, or a knave who had stolen
it," he murmured to himself. Then soon, when the horse merely heard his
footsteps, it threw back its head and neighed to greet him; and now he
saw too that it had, what the Arabs demand of a good horse, a spare
face, out of which two fiery brown eyes were gleaming. He would lead it
into its stable and put a light saddle on it; and scarcely did he sit
on the saddle, when the animal uttered a neigh like a shout of delight.
It sped away with him, down the hill to the road and then to the dike;
but the rider sat securely, and when they had reached the top, it went
more quietly, easily, as if dancing, and thrust its head to the side of
the sea. He patted and stroked its smooth neck, but it no longer needed
these endearments, the horse seemed altogether to be one with the
rider, and after he had ridden a distance northwards out on the dike,
he turned it easily and reached the farm again.

The men stood at the foot of the hill and waited for the return of
their master. "Now, John," he cried, as he leaped down from his horse,
"you ride it to the fens where the others are; it'll carry you like a
cradle."

The white horse shook its head and neighed aloud over the sunny
marshes, while the hired man was taking off the saddle and the boy ran
with it to the harness-room; then it laid its head on its master's
shoulder and suffered him to caress it. But when the hired man wanted
to swing himself on its back, it leaped to the side with a sudden bound
and then stood motionless, turning its beautiful eyes on its master.
"Hallo, Iven," cried Hauke, "has he hurt you?" and he tried to help his
man up from the ground.

The latter was busily rubbing his hip: "No, sir, I can manage still;
but let the devil ride that white horse!"

"And me!" Hauke added, laughing. "Then bring him to the fens by the
bridle."

And when the man obeyed, somewhat humiliated, the white horse meekly
let itself be led.

A few evenings later the man and the boy stood together in front of the
stable door. The sunset gleam had vanished behind the dike, the land it
enclosed was already wrapped in twilight; only at rare intervals from
far off one could hear the lowing of a startled bull or the scream of a
lark whose life was ending through the assault of a weasel or a water
rat. The man was leaning against the doorpost and smoking his short
pipe, from which he could no longer see the smoke; he and the boy had
not yet talked together. Something weighed on the boy's soul, however,
but he did not know how to begin with the silent man. "Iven," he said
finally, "you know that horse skeleton on Jeverssand."

"What about it?" asked the man.

"Yes, Iven, what about it? It isn't there any more? neither by day nor
by moonlight; I've run up to the dike about twenty times."

"The old bones have tumbled to pieces, I suppose," said Iven and calmly
smoked on.

"But I was out there by moonlight, too; nothing is moving over there on
Jeverssand, either!"

"Why, yes!" said the man, "if the bones have fallen apart, it won't be
able to get up any more."

"Don't joke, Iven! I know now; I can tell you where it is."

The man turned to him suddenly: "Well, where is it, then?"

"Where?" repeated the boy emphatically. "It is standing in our stable;
there it has been standing, ever since it was no more on the island. It
isn't for nothing that our master always feeds it himself; I know about
it, Iven."

For a while the man puffed away violently into the night. "You're not
right in your mind, Carsten," he said then; "our white horse? If ever a
horse was alive, that one is. How can a wide-awake youngster like you
get mixed up with such an old wives' belief!"

But the boy could not be converted: if the devil was inside the white
horse, why shouldn't it be alive? On the contrary, it was all the
worse. He started, frightened, every time that he stepped into the
stable toward night, where the creature was sometimes kept in summer
and it turned its fiery head toward him so violently. "The devil take
you!" he would mutter; "we won't stay together much longer!"

So he secretly looked round for a new place, gave notice and, about All
Saints' Day, went to Ole Peters as hired man. Here he found attentive
listeners for his story of the dikemaster's devil's horse. Fat Mrs.
Vollina and her dull-witted father, the former dike overseer, Jess
Harders, listened in smug horror and afterwards told it to all who had
a grudge against the dikemaster in their hearts or who took pleasure in
that kind of thing.

In the mean time already at the end of March the order to begin on the
new dike had arrived from the dikemaster general. Hauke first called
the dike overseers together, and in the inn up by the church they had
all appeared one day and listened while he read to them the main points
from the documents that had been drawn up so far: points from his
petition from the report of the dikemaster general, and lastly the
final order in which, above all, the outline which he had proposed was
accepted, so that the new dike should not be steep like the old ones,
but slant gradually toward the sea. But they did not listen with
cheerful or even satisfied faces.

"Well, yes," said an old dike overseer, "here we have the whole
business now, and protests won't do any good, because the dikemaster
general patronises our dikemaster."

"You're right, Detlev Wiens," added a second; "our spring work is
waiting, and now a dike miles long is to be made? then everything will
have to be left undone."

"You can finish all that this year," said Hauke; "things don't move as
fast as that."

Few wanted to admit that. "But your profile," said a third, bringing up
something new; "the dike will be as broad on the outside toward the
water as other things are long. Where shall we get the material? When
shall the work be done?"

"If not this year, then next year; that will depend chiefly on
ourselves," said Hauke.

Angry laughter passed along the whole company. "But what is all that
useless labor for? The dike isn't supposed to be any bigger than the
old one;" cried a new voice; "and I'm sure that's stood for over thirty
years."

"You are right," said Hauke, "thirty years ago the old dike broke; then
backwards thirty-five years ago, and again forty-five years ago; but
since then, although it is still standing steep and senseless, the
highest floods have spared us. But the new dike is to stand in spite of
such floods for hundreds of years; for it will not be broken through;
because the gentle slope toward the sea gives the waves no point of
attack, and so you will gain safe land for yourselves and your
children, and that is why the government and the dikemaster general
support me--and, besides, that is what you ought to be aware of for
your own profit."

When the assembled were not ready on the spot to answer these words, an
old white-haired man rose with difficulty from his chair. It was Elke's
godfather, Jewe Manners, who, in response to Hauke's beseeching, had
kept his office as dike overseer.

"Dikemaster Hauke Haien," he said, "you give us much commotion and
expense, and I wish you had waited with all this until the Lord had
called me to rest; but--you are right, and only unreason can deny that.
We ought to thank God every day that He has kept us our precious piece
of foreland against storms and the force of the tide, in spite of our
idleness; now, I believe, is the eleventh hour, in which we must lend a
hand and try to save it for ourselves to the best of our knowledge and
powers, and not defy God's patience any longer. I, my friends, am an
old man; I have seen dikes built and broken; but the dike that Hauke
Haien has proposed according to his God-given insight and has carried
through with the government--that dike none of you living men will see
broken. And if you don't want to thank him yourselves, your
grandchildren some day will not deny him his laurel wreath."

Jewe Manners sat down again; he took his blue handkerchief from his
pocket and wiped a few drops from his forehead. The old man was still
known as a man of efficiency and irreproachable integrity, and as the
assembly was not inclined to agree with him, it remained silent. But
Hauke Haien took the floor, though all saw that he had grown pale.

"I thank you, Jewe Manners," he said, "for staying here and for what
you have said. You other gentlemen, have the goodness at least to
consider the building of the new dike, which indeed will be my burden,
as something that cannot be helped any more, and let us decide
accordingly what needs to be done."

"Speak!" said one of the overseers. And Hauke spread the map of the new
dike out on the table.

"A while ago someone has asked," he began, "from where we shall get the
soil? You see, as far as the foreland stretches out into the flooded
district, a strip of land is left free outside of the dike line; from
this we can take our soil and from the foreland which runs north and
south along the dike from the new enclosed land. If we have a good
layer of clay at the water side, at the inside and the middle we can
take sand. Now first we have to get a surveyor to mark off the line of
the new dike on the foreland. The one who helped me work out my plan
will be best suited for the work. Furthermore we have to order some
one-horse tipcarts at a cartwright's for the purpose of getting our
clay and other material. For damming the channel and also for the
inside, where we may have to use sand, we shall need--I cannot tell now
how many cartloads of straw for the dike, perhaps more than can be
spared in the marshes. Let us discuss then now how all this is to be
acquired and arranged. The new lock here, too, on the west side toward
the water will have to be given over to an efficient carpenter later
for repairs."

The assembly gathered round the table, looked at the map with half
attention and gradually began to talk; but it seemed as if they did it
merely so that there might be some talking. When it came to the choice
of a surveyor, one of the younger ones remarked: "You have thought it
out, dikemaster; you must know best yourself who is fit for it."

But Hauke replied: "As you are sworn men, you have to speak your own
opinion, Jacob Meyen; and if you think of something better, I'll let my
proposal fall."

"Oh, I guess it'll be all right," said Jacob Meyen.

But one of the older ones did not think that it would be so perfectly
all right. He had a nephew, a surveyor, the like of whom had never been
in the marshes, who was said to surpass the dikemaster's father, the
late Tede Haien.

So there was a discussion about the two surveyors and it was finally
decided to let both do the work together. There was similar disputing
over the carts, the furnishing of the straw and everything else, and
Hauke came home late and almost exhausted on his brown horse which he
was still riding at that time. But when he sat in the old armchair,
handed down from his self-important but more easy-going predecessor,
his wife was quickly at his side: "You look tired, Hauke, she said, and
with her slender hand pushed his hair out of his forehead.

"A little, I suppose," he replied.

"And is it getting on?"

"It'll get on;" he said with a bitter smile; "but I myself have to push
the wheels and have to be glad if they aren't kept back."

"But not by all?"

"No, Elke; your godfather, Jewe Manners, is a good man; I wish he were
thirty years younger."

When after a few weeks the dike line had been marked off and most of
the carts had been furnished, the dikemaster had gathered together in
the inn by the church all the shareholders of the land to be diked in
and also the owners of the land behind the old dike. He wanted to
present to them a plan for the distribution of the work and the cost
and to hear their possible objections; for the owners of the old land
had to bear their part of the labor and the cost because the new dike
and the new sluices would lessen the running expenses of the older
ones. This plan had been a hard piece of work for Hauke and if he had
not been given a dike messenger and a dike clerk through the mediation
of the dikemaster general, he could not have accomplished it so soon,
although again he was working well into the night. When he went to bed,
tired to death, his wife no longer waited for him with feigned sleep;
she, too, had such a full share of daily work that she lay, as if at
the bottom of a deep well, in a sleep that could not be disturbed.

Now Hauke read his plan and again spread his papers out on the
table--papers which, to be sure, had already lain for three days in the
inn for inspection. Some serious men were present, who regarded this
conscientious diligence with awe, and who, after quiet consideration,
submitted to the low charge of the dikemaster. But others, whose shares
in the new land had been sold either by themselves or their fathers or
someone else who had bought them, complained because they had to pay
part of the expenses of the new diked-in land which no longer concerned
them, not thinking that through the new work the old lands would be
less costly to keep up. Again there were others who were blessed with
shares for the new land who clamoured that one should buy these of them
for very little, because they wanted to be rid of shares that burdened
them with such unreasonable labor. Ole Peters who was leaning against
the doorpost with a grim face, shouted into the midst: "Think first and
then trust in our dikemaster! He knows how to calculate; he already had
most of the shares, then he was clever enough to get mine at a bargain,
and when he had them, he decided to dike in the new land."

After these words for a moment a deadly silence fell upon the assembly.
The dikemaster stood by the table where he had spread out his papers
before; he raised his head and looked over to Ole Peters: "You know
very well, Ole Peters," he said, "that you are libeling me; you are
doing it just the same, because you know that, nevertheless, a good
part of the dirt you are throwing at me will cling to me. The truth is
that you wanted to be rid of your shares, and that at that time I
needed them for my sheep raising. And if you want to know more I will
tell you that the dirty words which escaped your lips here at the inn,
namely that I was made dikemaster only on account of my wife--that they
have stirred me up and I wanted to show you all that I could be
dikemaster on my own account. And so, Ole Peters, I have done what the
dikemaster before me ought to have done. If you are angry, though,
because at that time your shares were made mine--you hear now, there
are enough who want to sell theirs cheaply, because the work connected
with them is too much."

There was applause from a small part of the assembled men, and old Jewe
Manners, who stood among them, cried aloud: "Bravo, Hauke Haien! The
Lord will let your work succeed!"

But they did not finish after all, although Ole Peters was silent, and
the people did not disperse till supper time. Not until they had a
second meeting was everything settled, and then only after Hauke had
agreed to furnish four teams in the next month instead of the three
that were his share.

At last, when the Whitsuntide bells were ringing through the land, the
work had begun: unceasingly the dumpcarts were driven from the foreland
to the dike line, there to dump the clay, and in the same way an equal
number was driven back to get new clay from the foreland. At the line
of the dike itself men stood with shovels and spades in order to put
the dumped clay into its right place and to smooth it. Huge loads of
straw were driven up and taken down. This straw was not only used to
cover the lighter material, like sand and loose earth, which was used
for the inside; gradually single pieces of the dike were finished, and
the sod with which they were covered was in places securely overlaid
with straw as a protection against the gnawing waves. Inspectors
engaged for the purpose walked back and forth, and when it was stormy,
they stood with wide open mouths and shouted their orders through wind
and storm. In and out among them rode the dikemaster on his white
horse, which he now used exclusively, and the animal flew back and
forth with its rider, while he gave his orders quickly and drily,
praised the workmen, or, as it happened sometimes, dismissed a lazy or
clumsy man without mercy. "That can't be helped!" he would cry; "we
can't have the dike spoiled on account of your laziness!" From far,
when he came up from the enclosed land below, they heard the snorting
of his horse, and all hands went to work more briskly. "Come on, get to
work! There's the rider on the white horse!"

During breakfast time, when the workmen sat together in masses on the
ground, with their morning bread, Hauke rode along the deserted works,
and his eyes were sharp to spy where slovenly hands had used the spade.
Then when he rode up to the men and explained to them how the work
ought to be done, they would look up at him and keep on chewing their
bread patiently; but he never heard a word of assent or even any
remark. Once at this time of day, though rather late, when he had found
the work on a part of the dike particularly well done, he rode to the
nearest assembly of breakfasting men, jumped down from his white horse
and asked cheerfully who had done such a neat day's work. But they only
looked at him shyly and sombrely and only slowly, as if against their
will, a few names were given. The man to whom he had given his horse,
which stood as meekly as a lamb, held it with both hands and looked as
if he were frightened at the animal's beautiful eyes fixed, as usual,
upon its master.

"Well, Marten," Hauke called to him; "why do you stand there as if you
had been thunderstruck?"

"Sir, your horse is so calm, as if it were planning something bad!"

Hauke laughed and took the horse by the reins himself, when immediately
it rubbed its head caressingly against his shoulder. Some of the
workmen looked shyly at horse and rider, others ate their morning meal
silently, as if all this were no concern of theirs, and now and then
threw a crumb to the gulls who had remembered this feeding place and
with their slender wings almost descended on the heads of the men. For
a while the dikemaster gazed absently at the begging birds as they
chased with their bills the bits thrown at them; then he leaped to his
saddle and rode away, without turning round to look at the men. Some of
the words that now were being spoken among them sounded to him like
derision. "What can that mean?" he spoke to himself. "Was Elke right
when she said that all were against me? These laborers and poorer
people, too, many of whom will be well off through my new dike?"

He spurred on his horse, which flew down into the enclosed land as if
it were mad. To be sure, he himself knew nothing of the uncanny glamour
with which the rider of the white horse had been clothed by his former
servant boy; but now the people should have seen him, with his eyes
staring out of his haggard face, his coat fluttering on his fiery white
horse.

Thus summer and autumn had passed and until toward the end of November
the work had been continued; then frost and snow had put a stop to the
labors and it was decided to leave the land that was to be diked in,
open. Eight feet the dike rose above the level of the land. Only where
the lock was to be made on the west side toward the water, a gap had
been left; the channel up in front of the old dike had not yet been
touched. So the flood could make its way into the enclosed land without
doing it or the new dike either any great damage. And this work of
human hands was entrusted to the great God and put under His protection
until the spring sun should make possible its completion.

In the mean time a happy event had been expected in the house of the
dikemaster: in the ninth year of his marriage a child had been born. It
was red and shrivelled and weighed seven pounds, as new-born children
should when they belong, as this one did, to the female sex; only its
crying was strangely muffled and did not please the wise woman. The
worst of all was that on the third day Elke was seized with high
childbed fever, was delirious and recognised neither her husband nor
her old helper. The unbounded joy that had come over Hauke at the sight
of his child had turned to sorrow. The doctor from the city was called,
he sat at her bedside and felt her pulse and looked about helplessly.
Hauke shook his head: "He won't help; only God can help!" He had
thought out a Christianity of his own, but there was something that
kept back his prayer. When the old doctor had driven away, Hauke stood
by the window, staring out into the wintry day, and while the patient
was screaming in her delirium, he folded his hands--he did not know
whether he did so in devotion or so as not to lose himself in his
terrible fear.

"The sea! The sea!" wailed the patient. "Hold me!" she screamed; "hold
me, Hauke!" Then her voice sank; it sounded, as if she were crying:
"Out on the sea, on the wide sea. Oh, God, I'll never see him again!"

Then he turned round and pushed the nurse from the bed; he fell on his
knees, clasped his wife and drew her to his heart: "Elke, Elke, don't
you know me? I am with you!"

But she only opened wide her eyes glowing with fever and looked about,
as if hopelessly lost.

He laid her back on her pillows; then he pressed his hands together
convulsively: "Lord, my God," he cried; "don't take her from me! Thou
knowest, I cannot live without her!" Then it seemed as if a thought
came to him, and he added in a lower voice: "I know well Thou canst not
always do as Thou wouldst--not even Thou; Thou art all-wise; Thou must
act according: to Thy wisdom. Oh Lord, speak to me through a breath!"

It seemed as if there were a sudden calm. He only heard low breathing;
when he turned to the bed, he saw his wife lying in a quiet sleep and
the nurse looking at him with horrified eyes. He heard the door move.

"Who was that?" he asked.

"Sir, the maid Ann Grethe went out; she had brought in the
warming-pan."

"Why do you look at me so in such confusion, Madame Levke?"

"I? I was frightened by your prayer; with that you can't pray death
away from anybody!"

Hauke looked at her with his penetrating eyes: "Do you, too, like our
Ann Grethe, go to the conventicle at the Dutch tailor Jantje's?"

"Yes, sir; we both have the living faith!"

Hauke made no reply. The practise of holding seceding conventicles,
which at that time was in full swing, had also blossomed out among the
Frisians. "Down-and-out" artisans and schoolmasters dismissed as
drunkards played the leading parts, and girls, young and old women,
lazy and lonely people went eagerly to the secret meetings at which
anybody could play the priest. Of the dikemaster's household Ann Grethe
and the servant boy in love with her spent their free evenings there.
To be sure, Elke had not concealed her doubtful opinion of this from
Hauke, but he had said that in matters of faith one ought not to
interfere with anyone: this could not hurt anybody, and it was better
to have them go there than to the inn for whiskey.

So he had let it be, and so he had kept silent even now. But, to be
sure, people were not silent about him; the words of his prayer were
spread from house to house. He had denied the omnipotence of God; what
was a God without omnipotence? He was a denier of God; that affair with
the devil's horse may have something in it after all!

Hauke heard nothing of all this; his ears and eyes were open only for
his wife in these days, even his child did not exist for him any more.

The old doctor came again, came every day, sometimes twice, then stayed
a whole night, again wrote a prescription and Iven Johns swiftly rode
with it to the apothecary. But finally the doctor's face grew more
cheerful, and he nodded confidentially to the dikemaster: "She'll pull
through. She'll pull through, with God's help!" And one day--whether it
was because his skill had conquered her illness or because in answer to
Hauke's prayer God had been able after all to find a way out of his
trouble--when the doctor was alone with the patient, he spoke to her,
while his old eyes smiled: "Lady, now I can safely say to you: to-day
the doctor has his gala-day; things looked very darkly for you, but now
you belong to us again, to the living!"

Then a flood of light streamed out of her dark eyes; "Hauke, Hauke,
where are you?" she cried, and when, in response to her loud cry, he
rushed into the room and to her bed, she flung her arms round his neck:
"Hauke, my husband--saved! I can stay with you!" Then the old doctor
pulled his silk handkerchief out of his pocket, wiped his forehead and
cheeks with it and nodding left the room.

On the third evening after this day a pious speaker--it was a
slippermaker who had once been dismissed by the dikemaster--spoke at
the conventicle held at the Dutch tailor's, where he explained to his
audience the attributes of God: "But he who denies the omnipotence of
God, who says: 'I know Thou canst not as Thou wouldst'--we all
know the unhappy man; he weighs like a stone on the community--he has
fallen off from God and seeks the enemy of God, the friend of sin, as
his comforter; for the hand of man has to lean upon some staff. But
you--beware of him who prays thus; his prayer is a curse!"

This too was spread from house to house. What is not spread in a small
community? And it reached Hauke's ears. He said no word about it, not
even to his wife; but sometimes he would embrace her violently and draw
her to himself: "Stay faithful, Elke! Stay faithful to me!" Then her
eyes would look up at him full of wonder. "Faithful to you? To whom
else should I be faithful?" After a short while, however, she had
understood his words. "Yes, Hauke, we are faithful to each other; not
only because we need each other." Then each went his and her way to
work.

So far all would have been well. But in spite of all the lively work, a
loneliness had spread round him, and in his heart nestled a
stubbornness and a reserved manner toward other people. Only toward his
wife he was always the same, and every evening and every morning he
knelt at the cradle of his child as if there he could find the place of
his eternal salvation. Toward servants and workmen, however, he grew
more severe; the clumsy and careless ones whom he used to instruct with
quiet reproaches were now startled by his harsh address, and sometimes
Elke had to make things right quietly where he had offended.

When spring came, work on the dike began again. The gap in the western
dike line was closed by a temporary dike half-moon shaped on the inside
and the same toward the outside, for the protection of the new lock
about to be made. And as the lock grew, so the chief dike gradually
acquired its height, which could be more and more quickly attained. The
work of directing was not any easier for the dikemaster, as in place of
Jewe Manners, Ole Peters had stepped in as dike overseer. Hauke had not
cared to attempt preventing this, but now in place of the encouraging
word and the corresponding friendly slap on the shoulder that he had
earned from his wife's old godfather, he had to cope with the
successor's secret hostility and unnecessary objections which had to be
thwarted with equally unnecessary reasons. For Ole belonged to the
important people, to be sure, but not to the clever ones in dike
matters; besides, the "scribbling hired man" of former days was still
in his way.

The brightest sky again spread over sea and marshes, and the enclosed
land was once more gay with strong cattle, the bellowing of which from
time to time interrupted the widespread calm. Larks sang continually
high in the air, but one was not aware of it until for the time of a
heartbeat the singing had ceased. No bad weather disturbed the work,
and the lock was ready with its unpainted structure of beams before it
needed the protection of the temporary dike for even one night; the
Lord seemed to favor the new work. Then Elke's eyes would laugh to
greet her husband when he came home from the dike on his white horse.
"You did turn into a good animal!" he said, and then patted the horse's
smooth neck. But when he saw the child clinging round her neck, Hauke
leaped down and let the tiny thing dance in his arms. Then, when the
white horse would fix its brown eyes on the child, he would say: "Come
here, you shall have the honor." And he would place little Wienke--for
that was her Christian name--on the saddle and lead the white horse
round in a circle on the hill. The old ash tree, too, sometimes had the
honor; he would set the child on a swinging bough and let it rock. The
mother stood in the house door with laughing eyes. But the child did
not laugh; her eyes, between which there was a delicate little nose,
looked a little dully into the void, and her little hands did not try
to seize the small stick that her father was holding for her to take.
Hauke did not pay attention to this, especially as he knew nothing
about such little children. Only Elke, when she saw the bright-eyed
girl on the arm of her charwoman, who had been confined at the same
time with her, sometimes said with regret: "Mine isn't as far on as
yours yet, Trina." And the woman, as she shook the chubby boy she held
by the hand with brusque love, would cry: "Yes, madam, children are
different; this one here, he stole apples out of my room before he was
more than two years old." And Elke pushed the chubby boy's curls from
his eyes, and then secretly pressed her quiet child to her heart.

At the beginning of October, the new lock stood solidly at the west
side in the main dike, now closed on both sides. Except for the gaps by
the channel, the new dike now sloped all the way round with a gentle
profile toward the water and rose above the ordinary high tide by
fifteen feet. From the northwestern corner one, could look unhindered
past Jevers Island out over the sea. But, to be sure, the winds blew
more sharply here; one's hair fluttered, and he who wanted a view from
this point had to have his cap securely on his head.

Toward the end of November, when storm and rain had set in, there
remained only one gap to close, the one hard by the old dike, at the
bottom of which the sea water shot through the channel into the new
enclosure. At both sides stood the walls of the dike; now the cleft
between them had to vanish. Dry summer weather would have made the work
easier; but it had to be done anyway, for a rising storm might endanger
the whole work. And Hauke staked everything on accomplishing the end.
Rain poured down, the wind whistled; but his lean figure on the fiery
white horse rose now here, now there out of the black masses of people
who were busy by the gap, above and below, on the north side of the
dike. Now he was seen below beside the dump-carts that already had to
go far on the foreland to get the clay; a crowded lot of these had just
reached the channel in order to cast off their loads. Through the
splashing of the rain and the roaring of the wind, from time to time
sounded the sharp orders of the dikemaster, who wanted to rule here
alone to-day. He called the carts according to their numbers and
ordered back those that were crowding up. When his "Stop" sounded, then
all work ceased. "Straw!" Send down a load of straw! he called to those
above, and the straw from one of their loads came tumbling down on to
the wet clay. Below men jumped about in it and tore it apart and called
up to the others that they did not want to be buried. Again new carts
came, and Hauke was up on top once more, and looked down from his white
horse into the cleft below and watched them shovel and dump their
loads. Then he glanced out over the sea. The wind was sharp and he saw
how the edge of the water was climbing higher up the dike and that the
waves rose still higher. He saw, too, that the men were drenched and
could scarcely breathe during their hard work because of the wind which
cut off the air right before their mouths and because of the cold rain
that was pouring down on them. "Hold out, men! Hold out!" he shouted
down to them. "Only one foot higher; then it'll be enough for this
flood." And through all the raging of the storm one could hear the
noise of the workmen; the splashing of the masses of clay tumbling
down, the rattling of the carts and the rustling of the straw let down
from above went on unceasingly. In the midst of these noises, now and
then, the wailing of a little yellow dog could be heard, which,
shivering and forlorn, was knocked about among all the men and teams.
Suddenly a scream of anguish from the little animal rose out of the
cleft. Hauke looked down: he had seen the dog hurled down from above.
His face suddenly flushed with rage. "Stop! Stop!" he shouted down to
the carts; for the wet clay was being heaped up unceasingly.

"Why?" a rough voice bawled up from below, "not on account of the
wretched brat of a dog?"

"Stop, I say!" Hauke shouted again; "bring me the dog! I don't want any
crime done with our work."

But not a hand stirred; only a few spades full of tough clay were still
thrown beside the howling animal. Then he spurred his white horse so
that it uttered a cry and stormed down the dike, and all gave way
before him. "The dog!" he shouted, "I want the dog!"

A hand slapped his shoulder gently, as if it were the hand of old Jewe
Manners, but when Hauke looked round, he saw that it was only a friend
of the old man's. "Take care, dikemaster!" he whispered to him. "You
have no friends among these people; let this dog business be!"

The wind whistled, the rain splashed, the men had stuck their spades
into the ground, some had thrown them away. Hauke bent down to the old
man. "Do you want to hold my horse, Harke Jens?" he asked; and the
latter scarcely had the reins in his hand when Hauke had leaped into
the cleft and held the little wailing animal in his arms. Almost in the
same moment he sat high in his saddle again and galloped back to the
dike. He glanced swiftly over the men who stood by the teams. "Who was
it?" he called. "Who threw down this creature?"

For a moment all was silent, for rage was flashing from the face of the
dikemaster, and they had a superstitious fear of him. Then a muscular
fellow stepped down from a team and stood before him. "I didn't do it,
dikemaster," he said, bit off a piece from his roll of tobacco, and
calmly pushed it into his mouth before he went on, "but he who did it,
did right; if your dike is to hold, something alive has to be put into
it!"

"Something alive? From what catechism have you learned that?"

"From none, sir!" replied the fellow with a pert laugh: "our
grandfathers knew that, who, I am sure, were as good Christians as you!
A child is still better; if you can't get that, a dog will do!"

"You keep still with your heathen doctrines," Hauke shouted at him,
"the hole would be stopped up better if you had been thrown into it!"

"Oho!" sounded from a dozen throats, and the dikemaster saw grim faces
and clenched fists round him; he saw that these were no friends. The
thought of his dike came over him like a sudden fear. What would happen
if now all should throw down their spades? As he glanced down he again
saw the friend of old Jewe Manners, who walked in and out among the
workmen, talked to this one and that one, smiled at one, slapped
another on the shoulder with a pleasant air--and one after another
took up his spade again. After a few minutes the work was in full
swing--What was it that he still wanted? The channel had to be closed
and he hid the dog safely in the folds of his cloak. With a sudden
decision, he turned his white horse to the next team: "Let down the
straw!" he called despotically, and the teamster obeyed mechanically.
Soon it rustled down into the depth, and on all sides all arms were
stirring again.

This work lasted an hour longer. It was six o'clock, and deep twilight
was descending; the rain had stopped. Then Hauke called the
superintendents together beside his horse: "To-morrow morning at four
o'clock," he said, "everybody is to be in his place; the moon will
still be shining, then we'll finish with God's blessing. And one thing
more," he cried, when they were about to go: "do you know this dog?"
And he took the trembling creature out of his cloak.

They did not know it. Only one man said: "He has been begging round the
village for days; he belongs to nobody."

"Then he is mine!" said the dikemaster. "Don't forget: to-morrow
morning at four o'clock!" And he rode away.

When he came home, Ann Grethe stepped out of the door. She had on neat
clothing, and the thought shot through his head that she was going to
the conventicle tailor's.

"Hold out your apron!" he called to her, and as she did so
automatically, he threw the little dog, all covered with clay, into the
apron.

"Carry him in to little Wienke; he is to be her companion! But wash and
warm him first; then you'll do a good deed, too, that will please God,
for the creature is almost frozen!"

And Ann Grethe could not help obeying her master, and therefore did not
get to the conventicle that day.

The next day the last cut with the spade was made on the new dike. The
wind had gone down; gulls and other sea birds were flying back and
forth over land and water in graceful flight. From Jevers Island one
could hear like a chorus of a thousand voices the cries of the wild
geese that still were making themselves at home on the coast of the
North Sea, and out of the white morning mists that spread over the wide
marshes, gradually rose a golden autumn day and shed its light on the
new work of human hands.

After a few weeks the commissioners of the ruler came with the
dikemaster general for inspection. A great banquet, the first since the
funeral banquet of old Tede Volkerts, was given in the house of the
dikemaster, to which all the dike overseers and the greater landowners
were invited. After dinner all the carriages of the guests and of the
dikemaster were made ready. The dikemaster general helped Elke into the
carriage in front of which the brown horse was stamping his hoofs; then
he leaped in after her and took the reins himself, for he wanted to
drive the clever wife of his dikemaster himself. Then they rode merrily
from the hill down to the road, then up to the new dike, and upon it
all round the new enclosed land. In the mean time a light northwest
wind had risen and the tide was driven against the north and west sides
of the new dike. But one could not help being aware of the fact that
the gentle slope made the attack of the water gentler; and praise was
poured on the new dikemaster from the lips of the ruler's
commissioners, so that the objections which now and then were slowly
brought out by the overseers, were soon stifled by it.

This, too, passed by. But the dikemaster received another satisfaction
one day as he rode along on the new dike, in quiet, self-conscious
meditation. The question naturally arose in his mind why the new
enclosure, which would not have had its being without him, into which
he had put the sweat of his brow and his night watches, now finally was
named after one of the princesses "the new Caroline-land." But it was
so: on all the documents concerned with it stood the name, on some even
in red Gothic letters. Then, just as he was looking up, he saw two
workmen coming toward him with their tools, the one about twenty paces
behind the other. "Why don't you wait!" he heard the one behind
calling. The other, who was just standing by a path which led down into
the new land, called to him: "Another time, Jens. I'm late; I have to
dig clay here."

"Where?"

"Down here, in the Hauke-Haien-land."

He called it aloud, as he trotted down the path, as if he wanted the
whole marsh below to hear it. But Hauke felt as if he were hearing
his fame proclaimed; he rose from his saddle, spurred on his horse and
with steady eyes looked over the wide land that lay to his left.
"Hauke-Haien-land! Hauke-Haien-land!" he repeated softly; that sounded
as if in all time it could not have another name. Let them defy him as
they would--they could not get round his name; the name of the
princess--wouldn't that soon moulder in old documents?--His white horse
galloped proudly and in his ears he heard a murmur: "Hauke-Haien-land!
Hauke-Haien-land!" In his thoughts the new dike almost grew into the
eighth wonder of the world; in all Frisia there was not the like of it.
And he let the white horse dance, for he felt as if he were standing in
the midst of all the Frisians, towering over them by the height of a
head, and glancing down upon all keenly and full of pity.

Gradually three years had gone by since the building of the dike. The
new structure had proved its worth, the cost of repairing had been
small. And now almost everywhere in the enclosed land white clover was
blooming, and as one walked over the sheltered pastures, the summer
wind blew toward one a whole cloud of sweet fragrance. Thus the time
had come to turn the shares, which hitherto had only been ideal, into
real ones, and to allot to each shareholder the piece which he was to
keep as his own. Hauke had not been slow to acquire some new shares
before this; Ole Peters had kept back out of spite, and owned nothing
in the new land. The distribution of the parts could not be
accomplished without annoyance and quarreling; but it was done,
nevertheless. This day, too, lay behind the dikemaster.

From now on he lived in a lonely way for his duties as farmer and as
dikemaster and for those who were nearest to him. His old friends were
no longer living, and he was not the man to make new ones. But under
his roof was a peace which even the quiet child did not mar. She spoke
little, the constant questioning that is so characteristic of bright
children was rare with her and usually came in such a way that it was
hard to answer; but her dear, simple little face almost always wore an
expression of content. She had two play-fellows, and they were enough:
when she wandered over the hill, the rescued little yellow dog always
jumped round her, and when the dog appeared, little Wienke did not stay
away long. The second companion was a pewit gull. As the dog's name was
"Pearl" so the gull was called "Claus."

Claus had been installed on the farm by an aged woman. Eighty-year-old
Trin Jans had not been able to keep herself any longer in her hut on
the outer dike; and Elke had thought that the aged servant of her
grandfather might find peaceful evening hours and a good room to die in
at her home. So, half by force, she and Hauke had brought her to their
farm and settled her in the little northwest room in the new barn that
the dikemaster had had built beside the main house when he had enlarged
his establishment. A few of the maids had been given rooms next to the
old woman's and could help her at night. Along the walls she kept her
old furnishings; a chest made of wood from sugar boxes, above it two
coloured pictures of her lost son, then a spinning-wheel, now at rest,
and a very neat canopied bed in front of which stood an unwieldy stool
covered with the white fur of the defunct Angora cat. But something
alive, too, she had had about her and brought with her: that was the
gull Claus, which had been attached to her and fed by her for years. To
be sure, when winter came, it flew with the other gulls to the south
and did not come again until the wormwood was fragrant on the shore.

The barn was a little lower down on the hill, so the old woman could
not look over the dike at the sea from her window. "You keep me here as
in prison, dikemaster," she muttered one day, as Hauke stepped in to
see her, and she pointed with her bent finger at the fens that spread
out below. "Where is Jeverssand? Above those red oxen or those black
ones?"

"What do you want Jeverssand for?" asked Hauke.

"Jeverssand!" muttered the old woman. "Why, I want to see where my boy
that time went to God!"

"If you want to see that," Hauke replied, "you'll have to sit up there
under the ash tree. From there you can look over the whole sea."

"Yes," said the old woman; "yes, if I had your young legs, dikemaster."

This was the style of thanks the dikemaster and his wife received for
some time, until all at once everything was different. The little
child's head of Wienke one morning peeped in through her half-open
door. "Well," called the old woman, who sat with her hands folded on
her wooden stool; "what have you to tell me?"

But the child silently came nearer and looked at her constantly with
its listless eyes.

"Are you the dikemaster's child?" Trin Jans asked, and as the child
lowered its head as if nodding, she went on: "Then sit down here on my
stool. Once it was an Angora cat--so big! But your father killed it. If
it were still alive, you could ride on it."

Wienke silently turned her eyes to the white fur; then she knelt down
and began to stroke it with her little hands as children are wont to do
with live cats or dogs. "Poor cat!" she said then and went on with her
caresses.

"Well," cried the old woman after a while, "now that's enough; and you
can sit on him to-day, too. Perhaps your father only killed him for
that." Then she lifted up the child by both arms and set it down
roughly on the stool. But when it remained sitting there, silent and
motionless and only kept looking at her, she began to shake her head.
"Thou art punishing him, Lord God! Yes, yes, Thou art punishing him!"
she murmured. But pity for the child seemed to come over her; she
stroked its scanty hair with her bony hand, and the eyes of the little
girl seemed to show that this did her good.

From now on Wienke came every day to the old woman in her room. Soon
she sat down on the Angora stool of her own accord, and Trin Jans put
small bits of meat and bread which she always saved into the child's
little hands, and made her throw them on the floor. Then the gull shot
out of some corner with screams and wings spread out and pounced on the
morsels. At first the great, rushing bird frightened the child and made
her cry out; but soon it all happened like a game learned by heart, and
her little head only had to appear in the opening of the door, when the
bird rushed up to her and perched on her head and shoulders, until the
old woman helped and the feeding could begin. Trin Jans who before
never could bear to have anyone merely stretch out a hand after her
"Claus," now patiently watched the child gradually win over the bird
altogether. It willingly let itself be chased, and she carried it about
in her apron. Then, when on the hill the little yellow dog would jump
round her and up at the bird in jealousy, she would cry: "Don't, don't,
Pearl!" and lift the gull with her little arms so high, that the bird,
after setting itself free, would fly screaming over the hill, and now
the dog, by jumping and caressing, would try to win its place in her
arms.

When by chance Hauke's or Elke's eyes fell upon this strange
four-leaved clover which, as it were, was held to the same stem only by
the same defect--then they cast tender glances upon the child. But when
they turned away, there remained on their faces only the pain that each
carried away alone, for the saving word had not yet been spoken between
them. One summer morning, when Wienke sat with the old woman and the
two animals on the big stones in front of the barn door, both her
parents passed by--the dikemaster leading his white horse, with the
reins flung over his arm. He wanted to ride on the dike and had got his
horse out of the fens himself; on the hill his wife had taken his arm.
The sun shone down warmly; it was almost sultry, and now and then a
gust of wind blew from the south-southeast. It seemed that her seat was
uncomfortable for the child. "Wienke wants to go too!" she cried, shook
the gull out of her lap and seized her father's hand.

"Then come!" said he.

But Elke cried: "In this wind? She'll fly away from you!"

"I'll hold her all right; and to-day we have warm air and jolly water;
then she can see it dance!"

Then Elke ran into the house and got a shawl and a little cap for her
child. "But a storm is brewing," she said; "hurry and get on your way
and be back soon."

Hauke laughed: "That shan't get us!" and lifted the child to his
saddle. Elke stayed a while on the hill and, shading her eyes with her
hand, watched the two trot down the road and toward the dike. Trin Jan
sat on the stone and murmured incomprehensible things with her lips.

The child lay motionless in her father's arms. It seemed as if it
breathed with difficulty under the pressure of the sultry air. He bent
down his head to her: "Well, Wienke?" he asked.

The child looked at him a while: "Father," she said, "you can do that.
Can't you do everything?"

"What is it that I can do, Wienke?"

But she was silent; she seemed not to have understood her own question.

It was high tide. When they came to the dike, the reflection of the sun
on the wide water flashed into her eyes, a whirlwind made the waves
eddy and raised them high up, ever new waves came and beat splashing
against the beach. Then, in her fear, her little hands clung round her
father's fist which was holding the reins, so that the horse made a
bound to the side. The pale-blue eyes looked up at Hauke in confused
fright: "The water, father! The water!" she cried.

But he gently freed his hand and said: "Be calm, child; you are with
your father; the water won't hurt you!"

She pushed her pale blond hair from her forehead and again dared to
look upon the sea. "It won't hurt me," she said trembling; "no, tell it
not to hurt us; you can do that, and then it won't do anything to us!"

"I can't do that, child," replied Hauke seriously; "but the dike on
which we are riding shelters us, and this your father has thought out
and has had built."

Her eyes turned upon him as if she did not quite understand that; then
she buried her strikingly small head in the wide folds of her father's
coat.

"Why are you hiding, Wienke?" he whispered to her; "are you afraid?"
And a trembling little voice rose out of the folds of the coat: "Wienke
would rather not look; but you can do everything, can't you, father?"

Distant thunder was rolling against the wind. "Hoho!" cried Hauke,
"there it comes!" And he turned his horse round to ride back. "Now we
want to go home to mother!"

The child drew a deep breath; but not until they had reached the hill
and the house did she raise her little head from her father's breast.
When Elke had taken off the little shawl and cap in the room, the child
remained standing before her mother like a dumb little ninepin.

"Well, Wienke," she said, and shook her gently, "do you like the big
water?"

But the child opened her eyes wide. "It talks," she said. "Wienke is
afraid!"

"It doesn't talk; it only murmurs and roars!"

The child looked into the void: "Has it got legs?" she asked again;
"can it come over the dike?"

"No, Wienke; your father looks out for that, he is the dikemaster."

"Yes," said the child and clapped her little hands together with an
idiotic smile. "Father can do everything--everything!" Then suddenly,
turning away from her mother, she cried: "Let Wienke go to Trin Jans,
she has red apples!"

And Elke opened the door and let the child out. When she had closed it
again, she glanced at her husband with the deepest anguish in her eyes
from which hitherto he had drawn only comfort and courage that had
helped him.

He gave her his hand and pressed hers, as if there were no further need
for words between them; then she said in a low voice: "No, Hauke, let
me speak: the child that I have borne you after years will stay a child
always. Oh, good God! It is feeble-minded! I have to say it once in
your hearing."

"I knew it long ago," said Hauke and held tightly his wife's hand which
she wanted to draw away.

"So we are left alone after all," she said again.

But Hauke shook his head: "I love her, and she throws her little arms
round me and presses close to my breast; for all the treasures of the
world I wouldn't miss that!"

The woman stared ahead darkly: "But why?" she asked; "what have I, poor
mother, done?"

"Yes, Elke, that I have asked, too, of Him who alone can know; but you
know, too, that the Almighty gives men no answer--perhaps because we
would not grasp it."

He had seized his wife's other hand too, and gently drew her toward
him. "Don't let yourself be kept from loving your child as you do; be
sure it understands that."

Then Elke threw herself on her husband's breast and cried to her
heart's content and was no longer alone with her grief. Then suddenly
she smiled at him; after pressing his hand passionately, she ran out
and got her child from old Trin Jans' room, took it on her lap and
caressed and kissed it, until it stammered:

"Mother, my dear mother!"

Thus the people on the dikemaster's farm lived quietly; if the child
had not been there, it would have been greatly missed.

Gradually the summer passed by; the migrating birds had flown away, the
song of larks was no longer in the air; only in front of the barns,
where they pecked at the grain in thrashing time, one could hear some
of them scream as they flew away. Already everything was frozen hard.
In the kitchen of the main house Trin Jans sat one afternoon on the
wooden steps of a stairway that started beside the stove and led to the
attic. In the last weeks it seemed as if a new life had entered into
her. Now she liked to go into the kitchen occasionally and watch Elke
at work; there was no longer any idea of her legs not being able to
carry her so far, since one day little Wienke had pulled her up
here by her apron. Now the child was kneeling beside her, looking
with her quiet eyes into the flames that were blazing up out of the
stove-hole; one of her little hands was clinging to the old woman's
sleeve, the other was in her own pale blonde hair. Trin Jans was
telling a story: "You know," she said, "I was in the service at your
great-grandfather's, as housemaid, and there I had to feed the pigs. He
was cleverer than all the rest--then it happened--it was awfully long
ago--but, one night, by moonlight, they had the lock to the sea closed,
and she couldn't go back into the sea. Oh, how she screamed and
clutched her hard, bristly hair with her fish-hands! Yes, child, I saw
her and heard her scream. The ditches between the fens were all full of
water, and the moon beamed on them so that they shone like silver; and
she swam from one ditch into another and raised her arms and clapped
what hands she had together, so that one could hear the splash from
far, as if she wanted to pray. But, child, those creatures can't pray.
I sat in front of the house door on a few beams that had been driven
there to build with, and looked far over the fens; and the mermaid was
still swimming in the ditches, and when she raised her arms, they were
glittering with silver and diamonds. At last I saw her no longer, and
the wild geese and gulls that I had not been hearing all the time were
again flying through the air with whistling and cackling."

The old woman stopped. The child had caught one word: "Couldn't pray?"
she asked. "What are you saying? Who was that?"

"Child," said the old woman; "it was the mermaid; they are monsters and
can't be saved."

"Can't be saved!" repeated the child, and a deep sigh made her little
breast heave, as if she had understood that.

"Trin Jans!" a deep voice sounded from the kitchen door, and the old
woman was a little startled. It was the dikemaster Hauke Haien, who
leaned there by the post; "what are you telling the child? Haven't I
told you to keep your fairy-tales for yourself or else to tell them to
the geese and hens?"

The old woman looked at him with an angry glance and pushed the little
girl away. "That's no fairy-tale," she murmured, "my great-uncle told
it to me!"

"Your great-uncle, Trin? You just said you had seen it yourself."

"That doesn't matter," said the old woman; "but you don't believe me,
Hauke Haien; you want to make my great-uncle a liar!" Then she moved
nearer to the stove and stretched her hands out over the flames of the
stove-hole.

The dikemaster cast a glance at the window: twilight had scarcely
begun. "Come, Wienke!" he said and drew his feeble-minded child toward
him; "come with me, I want to show you something outside, from the
dike. But we have to walk; the white horse is at the blacksmith's."
Then he took her into the room and Elke wrapped thick woolen shawls
round the child's neck and shoulders; and soon her father walked with
her on the old dike toward the northwest, past Jeverssand, where the
flats stretched out broad and almost endless.

Now he would carry her, now she would walk holding his hand; the
twilight thickened; in the distance everything vanished in mist and
vapour. But in parts still in sight, the invisibly swelling streams
that washed the flats had broken the ice and, as Hauke Haien had once
seen it in his youth, steaming mists rose out of the cracks as at that
time, and there again the uncanny foolish figures were hopping toward
one another, bowed and suddenly stretched out into horrible breadths.

The child clung frightened to her father and covered her face with his
hand. "The sea devils!" she whispered, trembling, through his fingers;
"the sea devils!"

He shook his head: "No, Wienke, they are neither mermaids nor sea
devils; there are no such things; who told you about them?"

She looked up to him with a dull glance; but she did not reply.
Tenderly he stroked her cheeks: "Look there again!" he said, "they are
only poor hungry birds! Look now, how that big one spreads its wings;
they are getting the fish that go into those steaming cracks!"

"Fish!" repeated Wienke.

"Yes, child, they are all alive, just as we are; there is nothing else;
but God is everywhere!"

Little Wienke had fixed her eyes on the ground and held her breath; she
looked frightened as if she were gazing into an abyss. Perhaps it only
seemed so; her father looked at her a long while, he bent down and
looked at her little face, but on it was written no emotion of her
inscrutable soul. He lifted her on his arm and put her icy little hands
into one of his thick woollen mittens. "There, my Wienke"--the child
could not have been aware of the note of passionate tenderness in his
words--"there, warm yourself, near me! You are our child, our only one.
You love us--" The man's voice broke; but the little girl pressed her
small head tenderly against his rough beard.

And so they went home in peace.

After New Year care had once more entered the house. A fever of the
marshes had seized the dikemaster; he too had hovered near the edge of
the grave, and when he had revived under Elke's nursing and care, he
scarcely seemed the same man. The fatigue of his body also lay upon his
spirit, and Elke noticed with some worry that he was always easily
satisfied. Nevertheless, toward the end of March, he had a desire to
mount his white horse and for the first time to ride along his dike
again. This was one afternoon when the sun that had shone before, was
shrouded for a long while by dim mist.

In the winter there had been a few floods; but they had not been
serious. Only over by the other shore a flock of sheep had been drowned
on an island and a piece of the foreland torn away; here on this side
and on the new land no damage worth mentioning had been done. But in
the last night a stronger storm had raged; now the dikemaster had to go
out and inspect everything with his own eyes. He had ridden along on
the new dike from the southeastern corner and everything was well
preserved. But when he reached the northeastern corner, at the point
where the new dike meets the old one, the new one, to be sure, was
unharmed. But where formerly the channel had reached the old dike and
flowed along it, he saw a great, broad piece of the grassy scar
destroyed and washed away and a hollow in the body of the dike worn by
the flood, in which, moreover, a network of paths made by mice was
exposed. Hauke dismounted and inspected the damage close by: there was
no doubt that the mischief done by the mice extended on invisible.

He was startled violently. All this should have been considered when
the new dike was being built; as it had been overlooked then, something
had to be done now. The cattle were not yet grazing in the fens, the
growth of the grass was unusually backward; wherever he looked there
was barrenness and void. He mounted his horse again and rode up and
down the shore; it was low tide, and he was well aware of how the
current had again dug itself a new bed in the clay and had now hit upon
the old dike. The new dike, however, when it was hit, had been able to
withstand the attack on account of its gentler slope.

A heap of new toil and care rose before the mind's eye of the
dikemaster. Not only did the old dike have to be reenforced, its
profile, too, had to be made more like that of the new one; above all,
the channel, which again had proved dangerous, had to be turned aside
by new dams or walls.

Once more he rode on the new dike up to the farthest northwestern
corner, then back again, keeping his eyes continually on the newly worn
bed of the channel which was marked off clearly on the exposed clay
beside him. The white horse pushed forward, snorted and pawed with its
front hoofs; but the rider held him back, for he wanted to ride slowly,
and to curb the inner unrest that was seething within him more and more
wildly.

If a storm flood should come again--a flood like the one in 1655, when
property and unnumbered human beings were swallowed up--if it should
come again, as it had come several times before! A violent shudder came
over the rider--the old dike would not hold out against the sudden
attack. What then--what would happen then? There would be only one, one
single way of possibly saving the old enclosed land with the property
and life in it. Hauke felt his heart stand still, his usually so steady
head grew dizzy. He did not utter it, but something spoke within him
strongly enough: your land, the Hauke-Haien-land, would have to be
sacrificed and the new dike pierced.

In his mind's eye he saw the rushing tide break in and cover grass and
clover with its salty, foaming spray. His spur pricked the flanks of
his white horse, which, with a sudden scream, flew along the dike and
down the road that led to the hill of the dikemaster.

He came home with his head full of inner fright and disorderly plans.
He threw himself into his armchair, and when Elke came into the room
with their daughter, he rose again, lifted up the child and kissed it.
Then he chased away the little yellow dog with a few light slaps. "I
have to go up to the inn again," he said, and took his cap from the
hook by the door, where he had only just put it.

His wife looked at him anxiously. "What do you want to do there? It is
near evening, Hauke."

"Dike matters!" he muttered. "I'll meet some of the overseers there."

She followed him and pressed his hand, for with these words he had
already left the door. Hauke Haien, who hitherto had made all decisions
by himself, now was eager for a word from those whom he had not
considered worthy of taking an interest before. In the room of the
tavern he found Ole Peters with two of the overseers and an inhabitant
of the district at the card table.

"I suppose you come from out there, dikemaster?" said Ole, who took up
the already half distributed cards and threw them down again.

"Yes, Ole," Hauke replied; "I was there; it looks bad."

"Bad? Well, it'll cost a few hundred pieces of sod and a straw
covering. I was there too this afternoon.

"It won't be done so cheaply, Ole," replied the dikemaster; "the
channel is there again, and even if it doesn't hit the old dike from
the north, it hits it from the northwest."

"You should have left it where you found it," said Ole drily.

"That means," returned Hauke, "the new land's none of your business;
and therefore it should not exist. That is your own fault. But if we
have to make walls to protect the old dike, the green clover behind the
new one will bring us a profit above the cost."

"What are you saying, dikemaster?" cried the overseers; "Walls? How
many? You like to have the most expensive of everything."

The cards lay untouched upon the table. "I'll tell you, dikemaster,"
said Ole Peters, and leaned on both elbows, "your new land that you
presented to us is a devouring thing. Everybody is still laboring under
the heavy cost of your broad dike; and now that is devouring our old
dike too we are expected to renew it. Fortunately it isn't so bad; the
dike has held out so far and will continue to hold out. Mount your
white horse to-morrow and look at it again!"

Hauke had come here from the peace of his own house; behind these words
he had just heard, moderate though they were, there lay--and he could
not but be aware of it--tough resistance; he felt, too, as if he were
lacking his old strength to cope with it. "I will do as you advise,
Ole," he said; "only I fear I shall find it as I have seen it to-day."

A restless night followed this day. Hauke tossed sleepless upon his
pillows. "What is the matter?" asked Elke who was kept awake by worry
over her husband; "if something depresses you, speak it out; that's the
way we've always done."

"It's of no consequence, Elke," he replied, "there is something to
repair on the dike at the locks; you know that I always have to work
over these things at night." That was all he said; he wanted to keep
freedom of action; unconsciously the clear insight and strong
intelligence of his wife was a hindrance to him which he instinctively
avoided in his present weakness.

The following morning when he came out on to the dike once more the
world was different from the one he had seen the day before; it was low
tide again, to be sure, but the day had not yet attained its noon, and
beams of the bright spring sun fell almost perpendicularly onto the
endless flats. The white gulls flew quietly hither and thither, and
invisible above them, high under the azure sky, larks sang their
eternal melody. Hauke, who did not know how nature can deceive one with
her charms, stood on the northwestern corner of the dike and looked for
the new bed of the channel that had startled him so yesterday, but in
the sunlight pouring down from the zenith, he did not even find it at
first. Not until he had shaded his eyes from the blinding rays, did he
recognise it. Yet the shadows in the twilight of yesterday must have
deceived him: it could be discerned but faintly. The exposed mouse
business must have done more damage to the dike than the flood. To be
sure, things had to be changed; however, this could be done by careful
digging and, as Ole Peters had said, the damage could be repaired by
fresh sod and some bundles of straw for covering.

"It wasn't so bad," he said to himself, relieved; "you fooled yourself
yesterday." He called the overseers, and the work was decided on
without contradiction, something that had never happened before.

The dikemaster felt as if a strengthening calm were spreading through
his still weakened body and after a few weeks everything was neatly
carried out.

The year went on, but the more it advanced and the more undisturbed the
newly spread turf grew green through the straw covering, the more
restlessly Hauke walked or rode past the spot. He turned his eyes away,
he rode on the inside edge of the dike. A few times, when it occurred
to him that he would have to pass by the place, he had his horse,
though it was already saddled, led back into the stable. Then again,
when he had no business there, he would wander to it, suddenly and on
foot, so as to leave his hill quickly and unseen. Sometimes he had
turned back again, unable once more to inflict on himself the sight of
this uncanny place. Finally, he felt like breaking up the whole thing
with his own hands, for this piece of the dike lay before his eyes like
a bite of conscience that had taken on form outside of himself. And yet
his hand could not touch it any more; and to no one, not even his wife,
could he talk about it. Thus September had come; at night a moderate
storm had raged and at last had blown away to the northwest. On the
dull forenoon after it, at low tide, Hauke rode out on the dike and, as
his glance swept over the flats, something shot through him: there, on
from the northwest, he suddenly saw the ghostly new bed of the channel
again, more sharply marked and worn deeper. No matter how hard he
strained his eyes, it would not go.

When he came home, Elke seized his hand. "What's the matter, Hauke?"
she said, as she looked at his gloomy face. "There is no new calamity,
is there? We are so happy now; it seems, you are at peace now with all
of them."

After these words, he did not feel equal to expressing his confused
fear.

"No, Elke," he said, "nobody is hostile to me; but it is a responsible
function--to protect the community from our Lord's sea."

He withdrew, so as to escape further questioning by his beloved wife.
He walked through stable and barn, as if he had to look over
everything; but he saw nothing round about. He was preoccupied only
with hushing up his conscience, with convincing himself that it was a
morbidly exaggerated fear.

The year that I am telling about, my host, the schoolmaster, said after
a while, was the year 1756, which will surely never be forgotten in
this region. Into the house of Hauke Haien it brought a death. At the
end of September Trin Jans, almost ninety years old, was dying in the
barn furnished for her. According to her wishes, they had propped her
up in her pillows, and her eyes wandered through the little windows
with their leaden casements far out into the distance. A thin layer of
atmosphere must have lain above a thicker one up in the sky, for there
was a high mirage and the reflection raised the sea like a glittering
strip of silver above the edge of the dike, so that it shone dazzlingly
into the room. The southern tip of Jeverssand was visible, too.

At the foot of the bed little Wienke was cowering, holding with one
hand that of her father who stood beside her. On the face of the dying
woman death was just imprinting the Hippocratic face, and the child
stared breathlessly on the uncanny incomprehensible change in the
plain, but familiar features.

"What is she doing? What is that, father?" she whispered, full of fear,
and dug her finger nails into her father's hand.

"She is dying!" said the dikemaster.

"Dying!" repeated the child, and seemed to have fallen, into a confused
pondering.

But the old woman moved her lips once more: "Jens! Jens!" her screams
broke out, like cries in danger, and her long arms were stretched out
against the glittering reflection of the sea; "Help me! Help me! You
are in the water---- God have mercy on the others!"

Her arms sank down, a low creaking of the bedstead could be heard; she
had ceased to live.

The child drew a deep breath and lifted her pale eyes to her father's.
"Is she still dying?" she asked.

"She has done it!" said the dikemaster, and took his child in his arms.
"Now she is far from us with God."

"With God!" repeated the child and was silent for a while, as if she
had to think about these words. "Is that good--with God?"

"Yes, that is the best." In Hauke's heart, however, the last words of
the dying woman resounded heavily. "God have mercy on the others!" a
low voice said within him. "What did the old hag mean? Are the dying
prophets--?"

Soon after Trin Jans had been buried by the church, there was more and
more talk about all kinds of mischief and strange vermin that had
frightened the people in North Frisia, and there was no doubt that on
mid-Lent Sunday the golden cock was thrown down by a whirlwind. It was
true, too, that in midsummer a great cloud of vermin fell down, like
snow, from the sky, so that one could scarcely open one's eyes, and
afterwards it lay on the fens in a layer as high as a hand, and no one
had ever seen anything like it. But at the end of September, after the
hired man had driven to the city market with grain and the maid Ann
Grethe with butter, they both climbed down, when they came home, with
faces pale from fright. "What's the matter? What's the matter with
you?" cried the other maids, who had come running out when they heard
the wagon roll up.

Ann Grethe in her travelling clothes stepped breathless into the
spacious kitchen. "Well, tell us," cried the maids again, "what has
happened?"

"Oh, our Lord Jesus protect us!" cried Ann Grethe. "You know, old
Marike of the brickworks from over there across the water--we always
stand together with our butter by the drugstore at the corner--she told
me, and Iven Johns said too--'There's going to be a calamity!' he said;
'a calamity for all North Frisia; believe me, Ann Grethe!' And"--she
muffled her voice--"maybe there's something wrong after all about the
dikemaster's white horse!"

"Sh! Sh!" replied the other maids.

"Oh, yes, what do I care! But over there, on the other side, it's even
worse than ours. Not only flies and vermin, but blood has poured down
from the sky like rain. And the Sunday morning after that, when the
pastor went to his washbowl, he found five death's heads in it, as big
as peas, and everybody came to look at them. In the month of August
horrible red-headed caterpillars crawled all over the land and devoured
what they found, grain and flour and bread, and no fire could kill them
off."

The talker broke off suddenly; none of the maids had noticed that the
mistress of the house had stepped into the kitchen. "What are you
talking about there?" she said. "Don't let your master hear that!" And
as they all wanted to tell about it now, she stopped them. "Never mind;
I heard enough; go to your work; that will bring you better blessings."
Then she took Ann Grethe with her into the room and settled the
accounts of the market business.

Thus the superstitious talk in the house of the dikemaster found no
reception from its master and mistress. But it spread into the other
houses, and the longer the evenings grew, the more easily it found its
way in. Something like sultry air weighed on all, and it was secretly
said that a calamity, a serious one, would come over North Frisia.


It was All Saints' Day, in October. During the day a southwest wind had
raged; at night a half moon was in the sky, dark brown clouds chased by
it, and shadows and dim light flitted over the earth in confusion. The
storm was growing. In the room of the dikemaster's house stood the
cleared supper table, the hired men were sent to the stables to look
after the cattle; the maids had to see if the doors and shutters were
closed everywhere in the house and attic, so that the storm would not
blow in and do harm. Inside stood Hauke beside his wife at the window,
after he had hurriedly eaten his supper. He had been outside on the
dike. On foot he had marched out, early in the afternoon. Pointed posts
and bags full of clay or earth he had had brought to the place where
the dike seemed to betray a weakness. Everywhere he had engaged people
to ram in the posts and make a dam of them and the bags, as soon as the
flood began to damage the dike; at the northwestern corner, where the
old and the new dike met, he had placed the most people, who were
allowed to leave their appointed posts only in case of need. These
orders he had left when, scarcely a quarter of an hour ago, he had come
home wet and dishevelled, and now, as he listened to the gusts of wind
that made the windows rattle in their leaden casements, he gazed
absently out into the wild night. The clock on the wall was just
striking eight. The child that stood beside her mother, started and
buried her head in her mother's clothes. "Claus!" she exclaimed crying,
"where's my Claus?"

She had a right to ask, for this year, as well as the year before, the
gull had not gone on its winter journey. Her father overheard the
question; her mother took the child on her arm. "Your Claus is in the
barn," she said; "there he is warm."

"Why?" said Wienke, "is that good?"

"Yes, that is good."

The master of the house was still standing by the window.

"This won't do any longer, Elke!" he said; "call one of the maids; the
storm will break through the window-panes--the shutters have to be
fastened!"

At the word of the mistress, the maid had rushed out; from the room one
could see how her skirts were flying. But when she had loosened the
hooks, the storm tore the shutter out of her hand and threw it against
the window, so that several panes flew splintered into the room and one
of the candles went out, smoking. Hauke had to go out himself to help,
and only with trouble did they gradually get the shutters fastened in
front of the windows. As they opened the door to step back into the
house a gust blew after them so that the glass and silver in the
sideboard rattled; and upstairs, over their heads the beams trembled
and creaked, as if the storm wanted to tear the roof from the walls.
But Hauke did not come back into the room; Elke heard him walk across
the threshing floor to the stable. "The white horse! The white horse,
John! Quick!" she heard him call. Then he came back into the room with
his hair dishevelled, but his gray eyes beaming. "The wind has turned!"
he cried, "to the northwest; at half spring tide! Not a wind--we have
never lived through a storm like this!"

Elke had turned deadly pale. "And you want to go out once more?"

He seized both her hands and pressed them almost convulsively. "I have
to, Elke."

Slowly she raised her dark eyes to his, and for a few seconds they
looked at each other; but it seemed an eternity. "Yes, Hauke," said his
wife, "I know--you have to!"

Then trotting was heard outside the house door. She fell upon his neck,
and for a moment it seemed as if she could not let him go; but that,
too, was only for a moment. "This is our fight!" said Hauke, "you are
safe here; no flood has ever risen up to this house. And pray to God
that He may be with me too!"

Hauke wrapped himself up in his coat, and Elke took a scarf and wrapped
it carefully round his neck, but her trembling lips failed her.

Outside the neighing of the white horse sounded like trumpets amid the
howling of the storm. Elke had stepped out with her husband; the old
ash tree creaked, as if it would fall to pieces. "Mount, sir!" cried
the hired man; "the horse is like mad; the reins might tear!"

Hauke embraced his wife. "At sunrise I'll be back."

He had already leaped onto his horse; the animal rose on its hind legs,
then, like a warhorse rushing into battle, it tore down the hill with
its rider, out into the night and the howling storm. "Father, my
father!" a plaintive child voice screamed after him, "my dear father!"

Wienke had run after her father as he was tearing away; but after a
hundred steps she stumbled over a mound of earth and fell to the
ground.

The man Iven Johns brought the crying child back to her mother. She was
leaning against the trunk of the ash tree the branches of which were
whipping the air above her, and staring absently out into the night
where her husband had vanished. When the roaring of the storm and the
distant splashing of the sea stopped for a few moments, she started as
if in fright; it seemed to her now as if all were seeking to destroy
him and would be hushed suddenly when they had seized him. Her knees
were trembling, the wind had unloosed and was sporting with her hair.
"Here is the child, lady," John cried to her; "hold her fast!" and
pressed the little girl into her mother's arms.

"The child?--I had forgotten you, Wienke!" she cried. "God forgive me!"
Then she lifted her to her heart, as close as only love can hold, and
with her fell on her knees. "Lord God and Thou my Jesus, let us not be
widow and orphan! Protect him, oh, good God; only Thou and I, we alone
know him!" Now the storm had no more pauses; it howled and thundered as
if the whole world would pass away in this uproar.

"Go into the house, lady!" said John; "come!" and he helped them up and
led both into the house and into the room.

The dikemaster Hauke Haien sped on his white horse to the dike. The
small path seemed to have no bottom, for measureless rain had fallen;
nevertheless, the wet, sucking clay did not appear to hold back the
hoofs of the animal, for it acted as if it felt the solid ground of
summer beneath it. As in a wild chase the clouds wandered in the sky;
below lay the marshes like an indistinct desert filled with restless
shadows. A muffled roaring rose from the water behind the dike, more
and more horrible, as if it had to drown all other sounds. "Get up,
horse!" called Hauke, "we are riding our worst ride."

Then a scream of death sounded under the hoofs of his horse. He jerked
back the reins, and turned round: beside him, close above the ground,
half flying, half hurled by the wind, a swarm of white gulls was
passing by with derisive cackling; they were seeking shelter on land.
One of them--the moon was shining through the clouds for a moment--lay
trampled by the way: the rider believed that he saw a red ribbon
flutter at its throat. "Claus!" he cried; "poor Claus!"

Was it the bird of his child? Had it recognised horse and rider and
wanted to find shelter with them? The rider did not know. "Get up!" he
cried again; the white horse raised his hoofs to gallop once more. All
at once the wind stopped, and in its place there was a deathlike
silence--but only for a second, when it began again with renewed rage.
But human voices and the forlorn barking of dogs meanwhile fell upon
the rider's ear, and when he turned his head round to look at his
village, he recognised by the appearing moonlight people working round
heaped up wagons on the hills and in front of the houses. Instantly he
saw other wagons hurriedly driving up to the higher land; he heard the
lowing of cattle that were being driven up there out of their warm
stables. "Thank God! They are saving themselves and their cattle!" his
heart cried within him; and then with a scream of fear: "My wife! My
child! No, no; the water doesn't rise up on our hill!"

A terrible gust came roaring from the sea, and horse and rider were
rushing against it up the small path to the dike. When they were on
top, Hauke stopped his horse violently. But where was the sea? Where
Jeverssand? Where had the other shore gone? He saw only mountains of
water before him that rose threateningly against the dark sky, that
were trying to tower above one another in the dreadful dusk and beat
over one another against the solid land. With white crests they rushed
on, howling, as if they uttered the outcry of all terrible beasts of
prey in the wilderness. The horse kicked and snorted out into the
uproar; a feeling came over the rider that here all human power was at
an end; that now death, night, and chaos must break in.

But he stopped to think: this really was the storm flood; only he
himself had never seen it like this. His wife, his child, were safe on
the high hill, in the solid house. His dike--and something like pride
shot through his breast--the Hauke-Haien dike, as the people called it,
now should show how dikes ought to be built!

But--what was that? He stopped at the corner between the two dikes;
where were the men whom he had placed there to keep watch? He glanced
to the north up at the old dike; for he had ordered some there too. But
neither here nor there could he see a man. He rode a way further out,
but he was still alone; only the blowing of the wind and the roar of
the sea all the way from an immeasurable distance beat with deafening
force against his ear. He turned his horse back again; he reached the
deserted corner and let his eyes wander along the line of the new dike.
He discerned clearly that the waves were here rolling on more slowly,
less violently; there it seemed almost as if there were a different
sea. "That will stand all right!" he murmured, and something like a
laugh rose within him.

But his laughter vanished when his eyes wandered farther along the line
of his dike: in the northwestern corner--what was that? A dark mass
was swarming in confusion; he saw that it was stirring busily and
crowding--no doubt, there were people! What were they doing, what were
they working for now at his dike? Instantly his spurs dug into the
shanks
of his horse, and the animal sped thither. The storm rushed on
broadside;
at times the gusts of wind were so violent, that they would almost have
been hurled from the dike into the new land--but horse and rider knew
where they were riding. Already Hauke saw that a few dozen men were
gathered there in eager work, and now he saw clearly that a groove was
dug diagonally across the new dike. Forcibly he stopped his horse:
"Stop!" he shouted, "stop! What devil's mischief are you doing there?"

In their fright they had let their spades rest, when they had suddenly
spied the dikemaster among them. The wind had carried his words over to
them, and he noticed that several were trying to answer him; but he saw
only their violent gestures, for they stood to the left of him and
their words were blown away by the wind which here at times was
throwing the men reeling against each other, so that they gathered
close together. Hauke measured the dug-in groove with his quick glance
and the might of the water which in spite of the new profile, splashed
almost to the top of the dike and sprayed horse and rider. Only ten
minutes more of work--he saw that clearly--and the flood would break
through the groove and the Hauke-Haien-land would be drowned by the
sea!

The dikemaster beckoned one of the workmen to the other side of his
horse. "Now, tell me," he shouted, "what are you doing here? What does
that mean?"

And the man shouted back: "We are to dig through the new dike, sir, so
that the old dike won't break."

"What are you to do?"

"Dig through the new dike."

"And drown the land? What devil has ordered that?"

"No, sir, no devil, the overseer Ole Peters has been here and ordered
it."

Rage surged into the rider's eyes. "Do you know me?" he shouted. "Where
I am, Ole Peters can't give any orders! Away with you! Go to your
posts, where I put you!"

And when they hesitated, he made his horse gallop in among them. "Away
to your own or the devil's grandmother!"

"Sir, take care!" cried one of the crowd and hit his spade against the
animal that acted as if it were mad; but a kick of its hoof flung the
spade from his hand; another man fell to the ground. Then all at once a
scream rose from the rest of the crowd--a scream such as only the fear
of death can call forth from the throat of man. For a moment all, even
the dikemaster and the horse were benumbed. Only one workman had
stretched out his arm like a road sign and pointed to the northwestern
corner of both dikes where the new one joined the old. Nothing could be
heard but the raging of the storm and the roar of the water. Hauke
turned round in his saddle: what was that? His eyes grew big: "Lord
God! A break! A break in the old dike!"

"Your fault, dikemaster!" shouted a voice out of the crowd; "your
fault! Take it with you before the throne of God."

Hauke's face, red with rage, had turned deathly pale; the moon that
shone upon it could not make it any paler; his arms hung down limply;
he scarcely knew that he was holding his reins. But that, too, was only
for a moment. Instantly he pulled himself erect with a heavy moan; then
he turned his horse silently, and the white horse snorted and tore away
with him eastward upon the dike. The rider glanced sharply to all
sides; in his head these thoughts were raging: what fault had he to
bear to God's throne? The digging through of the new dike--perhaps they
would have accomplished it, if he had not stopped them; but--there was
something else that shot seething into his heart, because he knew it
all too well--if only, last summer, Ole Peters's malicious words hadn't
kept him back--that was the point. He alone had recognised the weakness
of the old dike; he ought to have seen the new repairs through in spite
of all. "Lord God, yes, I confess it," he cried out aloud suddenly into
the storm: "I have fulfilled my task badly."

To his left, close to the horse's hoofs, the sea was raging; in front
of him, now in complete darkness lay the old enclosed land with its
hills and homelike houses. The pale light of the sky had gone out
altogether; from one point only a glimmer of light broke through the
dark. A solace came into the man's heart: the light must have been
shining over from his own house. It seemed like a greeting from wife
and child. Thank God, they were safe on their high hill! The others
surely were up in the village of the higher land, for more lights were
glimmering there than he had ever seen before. Yes, even high up in the
air, perhaps from the church steeple, light was piercing the darkness.
"They must all have left--all!" said Hauke to himself; "to be sure, on
many a hill the houses will lie in ruins; a bad year will come for the
flooded fens; sluices and locks will have to be repaired! We'll have to
bear it and I will help even those who did me harm; only, Lord, my God,
be merciful to us human beings!"

Then he cast a glance to his side at the new enclosed land; the sea
foamed round it, but the land lay as if the peace of night were upon
it. An inevitable sense of triumph rose out of the rider's breast. "The
Hauke-Haien dike will hold all right, it will hold after a hundred
years!"

A thundering roar at his feet waked him out of his dreams; the horse
refused to go on. What was that? The horse bounded back, and he felt
that a piece of the dike was crashing into the depth right before him.
He opened his eyes wide and shook off all his pondering: he was
stopping by the old dike; his horse had already planted his forelegs
upon it. Instinctively he pulled his horse back. Then the last mantle
of clouds uncovered the moon, and the mild light shone on all the
horror that was rushing, foaming and hissing into the depth before him,
down into the old land.

Hauke stared at it, as if bereft of his senses; this was a deluge to
devour beasts and men. Then the light glimmered to his eyes again, the
same that he had seen before; it was still burning up on his hill. When
he looked down into the land now, encouraged as he was, he perceived
that behind the chaotic whirlpool that was pouring down, raging in
front of him, only a breadth of about a hundred paces was flooded;
beyond he could recognise clearly the path that led through the land.
He saw still more: a carriage, no, a two-wheeled cart was driven like
mad toward the dike; in it sat a woman--yes, a child too. And now--was
that not the barking of a little dog that reached his ears through the
storm? Almighty God! It was his wife, his child; already they were
coming close, and the foaming mass of water was rushing toward them. A
scream, a scream of despair broke forth from the rider's breast:
"Elke!" he screamed; "Elke! Back! Back!"

But the storm and sea were not merciful, their raving scattered his
words. The wind had caught his cloak and almost torn him down from his
horse; and the cart was speeding on without pause towards the rushing
flood. Then he saw that his wife was stretching out her arms as if
toward him. Had she recognised him? Had her longing, her deathly fear
for him driven her out of her safe house? And now--was she crying a
last word to him? These questions shot through his brain; they were
never answered, for from her to him, and from him to her, their words
were all lost. Only a roar as if the world were coming to an end filled
their ears and let no other sound enter.

"My child! Oh, Elke, oh, faithful Elke!" Hauke shouted out into the
storm. Then another great piece of the dike fell crashing into the
depth, and the sea rushed after it, thundering. Once more he saw the
head of the horse below, saw the wheels of the cart emerge out of the
wild horror and then, caught in an eddy, sink underneath it and drown.
The staring eyes of the rider, who was left all alone on the dike, saw
nothing more. "The end!" he said, in a low voice to himself. Then he
rode up to the abyss where the water, gurgling gruesomely, was
beginning to flood his home village. Still he saw the light glimmer
from his house; it was soulless now. He drew himself up erect, and
drove the spurs into his horse's shanks; the horse reared and would
almost have fallen over, but the man's force held it down. "Go on!" he
called once more, as he had called so often when he wanted a brisk
ride. "Lord God, take me, save the others!"

One more prick of the spurs; a scream from the horse that rose above
the storm and the roar of the waves--then from the rushing stream below
a muffled sound, a short struggle.

The moon shone from her height, but down on the dike there was no more
life, only the wild waters that soon had almost wholly flooded the old
land. But the hill of Hauke Haien's farm was still rising above the
turmoil, the light was still glimmering there and from the higher land,
where the houses were gradually growing darker, the lonely light in the
church steeple sent its quivering gleams over the foaming waves.


The story-teller stopped. I took hold of my full glass that had for a
long time been standing before me, but I did not raise it to my lips;
my hand remained on the table.

"That is the story of Hauke Haien," my host began again, "as I have
been able to tell it according to my best knowledge. To be sure, the
housekeeper of our dikemaster would have told it differently. For
people tell this too: the white horse skeleton was seen after the flood
again, just as before, by moonlight on Jevers Island; the whole
village is supposed to have seen it. But this is certain: Hauke Haien
with wife and child perished in this flood. Not even their graves have
I been able to find up in the churchyard; their dead bodies must have
been carried by the receding water through the breach into the sea
and gradually have been dissolved into their elements on the sea
bottom--thus they were left in peace by men at last. But the
Hauke-Haien dike is still standing after a hundred years, and
to-morrow, if you are going to ride to the city and don't mind half an
hour's longer way, your horse will feel it under its hoofs.

"The thanks of a younger generation that Jewe Manners had once promised
the builder of the dike he never received, as you have seen. For that
is the way, sir: Socrates they gave poison to drink, and our Lord
Christ they nailed to the cross. That can't be done so easily nowadays,
but--making a saint out of a tyrant or a bad, stubborn priest, or
turning a good fellow, just because he towers above us by a head, into
a ghost or a monster--that's still done every day."

When the serious little man had said that, he got up and listened into
the night. "Some change must have gone on outside," he said, and drew
the woolen covering from the window. There was bright moonlight.
"Look," he went on, "there the overseers are coming back; but they are
scattering, they are going home. There must have been a break in the
dike on the other shore; the water has sunk."

I looked out beside him. The windows up here were above the edge of the
dike; everything was just as he had said. I took up my glass and drank
the rest: "I thank you for this evening. I think now we can sleep in
peace."

"We can," replied the little gentleman; "I wish you heartily a good
night's sleep."

As I walked downstairs, I met the dikemaster in the hall; he wanted to
take home a map that he had left in the tavern. "All over!" he said.
"But our schoolmaster, I suppose, has told you a fine story--he belongs
to the enlighteners!"

"He seems to be a sensible man."

"Yes, yes, surely; but you can't distrust your own eyes. And over there
on the other side--I said it would--the dike is broken."

I shrugged my shoulders. "You will have to think that over in bed. Good
night, dikemaster."

The next morning, in the golden sunlight that shone over wide ruin, I
rode down to the city on the Hauke-Haien dike.





                        TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS

                             A BERLIN NOVEL


                                   BY
                            THEODOR FONTANE



                 TRANSLATED FROM THE FOURTEENTH EDITION
                           BY KATHARINE ROYCE




                           BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE


Theodor Fontane, though ranking as one of the greatest of German
novelists, was by race entirely of French Huguenot stock. He was born
at Neu-Ruppin, near Berlin, on December 30, 1819. His father, the son
of a Gascon drawing-master at the court of Prussia, was an apothecary;
but his happy-go-lucky disposition and his passion for gambling
hindered his success in business. The mother was able and practical,
but was unable to keep up the family fortunes, and the marriage was
finally dissolved.

After a somewhat irregular education, Theodor was apprenticed to an
apothecary in Berlin when he was sixteen, and after four years of
preparation he found himself qualified to practice a profession in
which he had no interest. Before he was twenty he had published verses
and a story, and he spent his leisure in literary clubs. In 1850 he
received a position in the press department of the Prussian Ministry of
the Interior, on the strength of which he married. Two years later he
was sent to London to write reports on conditions in England for
government journals, and this was only the first of a series of visits
to Britain. He acted as war correspondent in the campaigns of 1864,
1866, and 1870, being taken prisoner by the French when visiting the
home of Joan of Arc. His interest in the picturesque history of
Scotland seems to have led him to the study of the past of his own
region, the Mark of Brandenburg, his thorough knowledge of which
appears both in his descriptive works and in his fiction. The greater
part of his life was spent in Berlin, where he died on September 20,
1898, honored as one of the leading men of letters of his time.

Fontane's earlier literary efforts were mainly in verse, the best of
which is ballad poetry, largely of Scottish inspiration. His middle
period was chiefly devoted to descriptions of travel. It was not till
he was nearly sixty that he really found himself and turned to the
writing of the novels on which his fame chiefly depends. He began in
1878 with "Before the Storm," a long romance after the manner of Sir
Walter Scott, and for the next twenty years he drew on his accumulated
knowledge of life and produced with great fertility. His most
successful field was the Berlin life with which fifty years in the
Prussian capital had made him intimately familiar, and his chief works
are "L'Adultera" (1882), "Petoefi" (1884), "Cecile" (1887), "Stine"
(1890), "Frau Jenny Treibel" (1892), "The Poggenpuhls" (1896), and, in
the year of his death, "Stechlin."

The interest of these novels lies rather in character than in action.
While he portrays many types characteristic of Berlin and the
surrounding region, and is very successful in rendering local color and
the atmosphere of the particular circle described in each book, his
penetration into universal human nature is sufficiently deep to raise
him far above provincialism. His effort is to represent people vividly
and naturally in their normal relations, not to strain after
sensational or even dramatic situations, though two of his shorter
tales, "Grete Minde" and "Ellernklipp," dealing as they do with crimes,
are to some extent exceptions to this rule. "Trials and Tribulations"
("Irrungen Wirrungen", 1887) gives an excellent idea of his power. In a
gently moving story, told without the forcing of emotion or the
contriving of exciting scenes, he deals with the pathos of the relation
between a man and a woman, alike in an attractive simplicity of
character, but forced apart by difference of rank. The situation is
laid before us without expressed censure or protest, and is allowed to
have its effect by the sober truth of its presentation. Fontane's is an
honest and sincere art, none the less great because unpretentious.

                                                    W. A. N.




                     CRITICISMS AND INTERPRETATIONS
                                   I

                          By Richard M. Meyer


Fontane possesses the wonderful irony of the Berliner--an irony which,
paradoxical as it may sound, is naive; for it is nothing but an
involuntary doubt of his equally naive conceit, as Fontane often likes
to say. Assuredly the Berliner is inclined to a certain conceitedness.
He belongs to a city which has grown great in a struggle against
antipathies--antipathies of the Government and of the "Junker" class,
of the poets and of the rival capitals, one might almost say of nature
herself, so sparingly has she dealt with this city on the Spree. In
this constant struggle Berlin has been victorious, and every Berliner
to this day feels that victory to the marrow of his bones. Fontane,
using his friend Lepel as his mouthpiece, makes him say, "Well,
Fontane, there you are again; talking like an oracle. It all comes from
that curiously naive belief in yourself. You always think you know
everything best. But I can tell you, there are people living on the
other side of the mountains too." This quiet feeling of superiority the
Berliner has gained only after a struggle, and therefore he is at
bottom precisely aware of his limits. No one can express this more
strikingly than Fontane himself: "Deeply penetrated by my insufficiency
and my ignorance, I saw--incredible though it may seem--that the
ignorance of my fellow-creatures was even greater than my own. So I was
at the same moment both humble and conceited." There is the typical
Berliner! He knows well his own weakness, but, since he is successful,
he takes it for granted in all naivete that he is yet the one-eyed
among the blind.

It is this attitude which gives Fontane's irony its peculiar flavor....

The gentle melancholy of two people coming together in a way which can
never lead to full satisfaction, the quiet tragedy of a separation not
forced by external powers but by the constant pressure of
circumstances--this is what sounds through this splendid story. "Trials
and Tribulations" is built entirely on this motive. An honest sturdy
young officer and a decent pretty girl get to know each other on an
excursion. Unconsciously they drift into a relation where heart meets
heart, the breaking of which causes the deepest pain. But both see
clearly from the beginning that there is no other end. For they know
that the world is stronger than the individual, and the many small
moments than the one supreme. They know it, for they are, like their
creator, resigned realists. They shut their eyes only in order not to
see the end too near. Then comes the parting, still and quiet: "She
leaned on him and said quietly and warmly, 'And so this is the last
time that I shall hold your hand in mine?'"--From "Die deutsche
Litteratur des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts" (1910).



                                   II

                          By S. C. De Soissons


In 1898, Germany suffered a great loss in the person of Theodor
Fontane, who represented a superior kind of realism, and to whom the
modern German novel was very much indebted. As he was of French origin,
his writings naturally possessed more equilibrium and measure than one
usually finds in German writers; he also had a fine and keen esprit,
never importuning, never displaying his wit, never running into pathos.
For that reason his novels seemed cold to sentimental readers and
frivolous to moralists. But the cultivated and unprejudiced reader
admired his quiet experience and his deep knowledge of external life as
well as of the depths of the human soul, qualities which were mingled
with a love of his native country, Brandenburg. But although dead,
Fontane has not ceased to be the father of modern realism. All that is
good, true, beautiful, and important in the German realistic novel
comes from Theodor Fontane. Naturalism and symbolism stand far apart
from him; but even the most passionate and the most intelligent
adversaries of symbolism point to him as a representative of true
art.--From "The Modern German Novel," in "The Contemporary Review"
(1904).




                        TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS

                             A BERLIN NOVEL




                               CHAPTER I


At the junction of the Kurfuerstendamm and the Kurfuerstenstrasse,
diagonally across from the Zoological Garden, there still remained,
about the middle of the seventies, a large market-garden, extending
towards the open country. The little house belonging to this property
had but three windows, and was set about a hundred paces back in a
front garden; yet in spite of its small size and its secluded position,
it could be plainly seen from the road that ran past. But all else that
belonged to the place, and indeed formed the principal part of it, was
hidden behind this little dwelling as if by the side-scenes of a
theatre, and only a little red and green painted tower with a half
broken dial beneath its peak (nothing remained of the clock itself)
gave one a hint, that behind this "coulisse" something more must be
hidden, a hint which was confirmed from time to time by the rising and
circling of a flock of pigeons around the tower, and still more by the
occasional barking of a dog. Where this dog was actually kept it was
indeed impossible to find out, in spite of the fact that the door of
the house, which was close to the left corner, stood open early and
late and afforded a glimpse of a small part of the yard. However,
nothing seemed to have been purposely hidden, and yet everyone who came
along the road at the time when our story begins, had to be satisfied
with a glimpse of the little house with its three windows and of a few
fruit trees that stood in the front garden.


It was the week after Whitsunday, when the days are so long that it
seems as if the dazzling light would never come to an end. But to-day
the sun was already hidden behind the church-tower of Wilmersdorf and
instead of the light, with which it had filled the front garden all
day, the shades of evening had already fallen, and the half mysterious
silence was only surpassed by that of the little house which was
occupied by old Frau Nimptsch and her adopted daughter Lena as tenants.
But Frau Nimptsch was sitting as usual by the large low hearth in her
front room, which took in the whole width of the house, and, bending
forward, she was gazing at a blackened old tea kettle, whose lid kept
up a continual rattling, although the steam was pouring out of the
spout. The old woman was holding her hands out towards the glowing
embers and was so lost in her thoughts and dreams that she did not hear
the hall door open and a stout woman enter somewhat noisily. Only when
the latter cleared her throat and greeted her friend and neighbor, our
Frau Nimptsch, quite affectionately by name, did the latter turn around
and speak to her guest in friendly fashion and with a touch of
playfulness: "Well, this is good in you, dear Frau Doerr, to come over
again. And from the 'castle' too. For it is a castle and always will
be. It has a tower. And now do sit down.... I just saw your dear
husband go out. Of course he would have to. For this is his evening at
the bowling alley."

She who received this friendly greeting as Frau Doerr was not only
stout, but was an especially imposing-looking woman, who produced the
impression of narrow-mindedness as well as that of kindliness and
trustworthiness. Meanwhile Frau Nimptsch apparently took no offence and
only repeated: "Yes, his evening at the bowling alley. But what I was
going to say was, that Doerr's hat really will not do any longer. It is
all threadbare and really disgraceful. You ought to take it away from
him and put another in its place. Perhaps he would never know the
difference.... And now draw up your chair, dear Frau Doerr, or perhaps
over there where the footstool is.... Lena, you know, has slipped out
and left me in the lurch again."

"Has he been here?"

"Of course he has. And they have both gone a little way towards
Wilmersdorf; nobody comes along the footpath. But they may be back
again any minute."

"Well, then I had better go."

"Oh, no indeed, dear Frau Doerr. He will not stay. And even if he
should, you know, he would not mind."

"I know, I know. And how are things then?"

"Why, how should they be? I believe she is thinking of something even
if she does not want others to know it, and she is imagining something
or other."

"Oh, my goodness," said Frau Doerr, as she drew up a somewhat higher
stool instead of the footstool that had been offered her. "Oh, my
goodness, then it's bad. Whenever one begins to imagine things, trouble
begins. It is just like the Amen in church. See here, dear Frau
Nimptsch, it was just the very same with me, only there was no
imagining. And that is just why everything was really quite different."

Apparently Frau Nimptsch did not really understand what Frau Doerr
meant, and so the latter went on: "And because I never took any notions
into my head, things always went perfectly well and smoothly and now I
have Doerr. Oh well, that isn't much, but still it is something
respectable and I can show my face everywhere. And that is why I went
to church with him too, and not merely to the registrar's office. If
you only go to the registrar's office, there will always be talk."

Frau Nimptsch nodded.

But Frau Doerr repeated: "Yes, in church, in the Matthaeikirche. But this
is what I was really going to say, don't you see, my dear Frau
Nimptsch, I was really taller and more pleasing than Lena, and if I was
not prettier (for that is something one can never rightly know and
tastes differ so), yet my figure was stouter and a great many like
that. Yes, so much is certain. But even if I was, as you might say,
more solid and weighed more, and there was a something about me--well
yes, there was something about me--yet I was always very innocent,
almost simple; and as to him, my Count, with his fifty years on his
shoulders, well, he was very simple too and always very gay and would
never behave properly. And before very long, I told him: 'No, no,
Count, this will never do; I can't allow anything like this....' And
old people are always like that. I will only say, dear Frau Nimptsch,
you can't imagine anything of the sort. It was dreadful. And now when I
see Lena's Baron, it makes me ashamed to think what mine was like. And
now as to Lena herself. My Lord, of course she isn't exactly an angel,
but she is neat and industrious and knows how to do everything, and
loves order and practical things. And don't you see, Frau Nimptsch,
that is just the sad part of it. These fly-abouts, that are here to-day
and there to-morrow, well, they never come to grief, they always fall
on their feet like a cat, but such a good child, who takes everything
seriously, and does everything for the sake of love, that is bad.... Or
perhaps it may not be so bad; you only adopted her and she is not your
own flesh and blood and perhaps she is a princess or something like
that."

At this conjecture Frau Nimptsch shook her head and looked as if she
were about to answer. But Frau Doerr had already risen and said, as she
looked along the garden path: "Heavens, there they come. And he is just
in civilian's clothes, with coat and trousers to match. But you would
notice him all the same! And now he is whispering something in her ear
and she is smiling to herself. But she is blushing so.... And now he is
going away. And now ... Really, I believe, he is turning back. No, no,
he is only saying good-bye again and she is throwing him a kiss....
Yes, I think something like that would have suited me.... No, mine was
not like that."

Frau Doerr went on talking, until Lena came in and greeted both women.




                               CHAPTER II

The next forenoon the sun, which was already rather high, shone into
the yard of the Doerr's little establishment and lighted up a
considerable number of buildings, among which was the "castle" of which
Frau Nimptsch had spoken on the previous evening with roguish
playfulness. Such a "castle"! In the twilight its general outlines
might have passed for something of the sort, but to-day, as it stood in
the remorselessly bright light, one could see only too plainly, that
the building with its Gothic windows painted on the walls clear to the
top, was nothing more than a wretched old wooden house, in the two
gable ends of which had been set some timber framing, the spaces of
which were filled with plaster, a comparatively solid structure which
indicated two gable rooms. All the rest of the house was merely a
stone-paved space from which a confused looking set of ladders led to a
loft or garret and from that to the tower which served as a pigeon
house. Formerly, before Doerr's time, the whole great wooden "shack" had
served merely as a store-house for bean poles and watering pots,
perhaps even as a potato cellar, but since, some years ago, the garden
had been bought by its present owner, the real dwelling house had been
rented to Frau Nimptsch, and the old building painted in the Gothic
style, with the addition of the two gable rooms already mentioned, had
been arranged as a dwelling for Doerr, who was then a widower; a very
primitive arrangement it was, which was in no wise altered by his
speedy second marriage. In the summer this cool store house with its
stone pavements and almost no windows was not a bad dwelling place, but
in the winter Doerr and his wife as well as a rather feeble-minded
twenty-year-old son of the former marriage, would have actually frozen,
had it not been for the two big hothouses which stood on the other side
of the yard. In these the three Doerrs spent their time exclusively from
November until March, but even in the warmer and more comfortable part
of the year, the family life, when it was not actually necessary to
seek refuge from the sun, was mostly carried on in front of these hot
houses or in them, because everything there was more convenient. Here
were the steps and shelves on which the flowers that were brought out
of the hothouses every morning had their airing, here was the stall for
the cow and the goat, and here the kennel for the dog that was used to
pull the little wagon, and from here extended outward the double row of
hotbeds, perhaps fifty paces long, and with a little path between,
until they reached the vegetable garden which lay further back. This
garden did not look very neat, partly because Doerr had no sense of
order, and also because he had such a passion for poultry, that he
would allow his favorites to scratch and pick everywhere, without
regard to the damage that they did. To be sure, the damage was not
great, for there was nothing very fine in the garden except the
asparagus beds. Doerr thought that the commonest things were also the
most profitable, and therefore raised marjoram and other herbs for
seasoning sausages, especially "borre," concerning which he held the
opinion that a genuine Berliner really needs only three things: his
pale ale, his "gilka" and "borre." "With borre," he always concluded,
"one is never at a loss." He was decidedly an eccentric, wholly
self-sufficient in his views and was decidedly indifferent as to what
might be said about him. His second marriage was in keeping with this
tendency, a marriage of inclination, upon which the idea of his wife's
unusual beauty had had its effect as well as her former relation to the
Count, which instead of injuring her chances, had tipped the balance
for the better and had simply served as a complete proof that her
charms were irresistible. If there was any hint of overvaluing personal
charms--and there was good ground for this opinion--it could not be on
the side of Doerr himself, for whom nature, so far as outward
appearances were concerned, had done uncommonly little. Thin, of medium
height and with five strands of grey hair drawn over his head and brow,
his looks would have been completely ordinary had not a brown mole
between his eye and his left temple given him a certain mark of
distinction. For this reason his wife, with some reason and in her own
free and easy fashion used to say: "He is withered looking, but from
the left he reminds me of a 'Borsdorfer'."

This description was well hit off and would have served to identify him
anywhere if he had not continually worn a linen cap with a big visor,
which being drawn well down over his face, hid its every-day as well as
its unusual aspect.

And so, with his cap and visor drawn down over his face, he stood once
more, on the day after the conversation between Frau Doerr and Frau
Nimptsch, before a flower stand that stood against the front
greenhouse, setting to one side various wallflower and geranium pots,
which were to go to the weekly market on the morrow. They were all
plants that had not been raised in pots, but simply set into them, and
with especial joy and satisfaction he passed them in review, laughing
beforehand at the "madams," who would come the next day to spend their
usual five pfennigs, but in the end would be fooled. He considered this
one of his greatest pleasures and indeed it was the principal part of
his mental life. "If I could only hear them scold about it ... If I
only could."

He was talking to himself in this vein, when he heard from the garden
the barking of a little cur together with the distressed crowing of a
cock, and unless he was very much deceived, of his cock, his favorite
with the silvery feathers. And looking toward the garden, he actually
saw his flock of hens rushing this way and that, while the cock had
flown up in a pear tree, from which he constantly called for help while
the dog barked beneath.

"Thunder and lightning," cried Doerr in a rage. "There is Bollmann's dog
again.... He has got through the fence again.... But we shall see." ...
And quickly setting down the geranium pot that he was examining, he ran
to the dog kennel, caught up the hook of the chain and turned the big
dog loose, who rushed furiously through the garden. But before he could
reach the pear tree, "Bollmann's beast" had already given leg bail and
was disappearing under the fence into the open, the big yellow dog
pursuing him with great leaps. But the gap that had sufficed for the
pug would not let him through, and he was forced to give up the chase.

Doerr himself had no better luck, when he came up with a rake and
exchanged glances with the dog. "Well, Sultan, we didn't catch him this
time." And so Sultan trotted back to his kennel in a slow, puzzled way,
as if he had been blamed for something. But Doerr himself gazed after
the pug who was running over the ploughed ground and said to himself
presently: "The Devil take me, if I don't get me an air gun at Mehle's
or somewhere. And then I'll get the beast out of the way so silently
that neither cock nor hen will make a sound. Not even mine."

The cock, however, seemed to have for the present no use for the quiet
attributed to him by Doerr, but continued to use his voice just as
strenuously as before. And meanwhile he puffed out his silver white
throat as proudly as if he wanted to show the hens that his flying up
into the pear tree was a well-considered "coup" or else a mere whim.

But Doerr said: "Oh Lord, what a cock. He thinks he is something
wonderful. And yet his courage doesn't amount to much."

And so saying he went back to his flower stand.




                              CHAPTER III


The whole incident had also been observed by Frau Doerr, who was cutting
asparagus, but she paid very; little attention, because such things
happened nearly every other day. So she kept on with her work, and only
gave up the search, when even the sharpest scrutiny of the beds failed
to reveal any more white heads. Only then did she hang the basket on
her arm, putting the knife in it, and driving a couple of strayed
chickens before her, while she walked slowly along the middle path of
the garden and then into the yard and up to the flower stand, where
Doerr had resumed his work for the market.

"Well, Susy," he greeted his better half, "here you are. Did you see?
Bollmann's dog was here again. Listen, he had better say his prayers
and then I will try him out over the fire; there must be a little fat
on him and Sultan can have the scraps.... And listen, Susy, dog's
fat...." And he appeared to become absorbed in a favorite method of
treating gout which he had been considering for some time. But at this
moment he caught sight of the asparagus basket on his wife's arm, and
interrupted himself. "Come, show it to me," he said. "Did you have good
luck?"

"So so," said Frau Doerr, holding out the scarcely half-filled basket,
whose contents he passed through his fingers, shaking his head. For
most of the stalks were thin and there were many broken ones among
them.

"Now, Susy, listen. You certainly have no eye for asparagus."

"Yes I have, too. But I can't work magic."

"Oh well, we will not quarrel, Susy; that will not make it any more
than it is. But it looks like starvation."

"Why, not at all. They are all under ground, and whether they come up
to-day or to-morrow, it is all the same. One good shower, such as we
had before Whitsunday, and then you will see. And there is going to be
rain. The water barrel is already smelling again and the big spider has
crept into the corner. But you want to have everything every day; and
you can't expect that."

Doerr laughed. "Well, tie it all up nicely. And the poor little stalks
too. And then you can sell it a little cheaper."

"Now, don't talk like that," interrupted his wife, who always got angry
over his avarice, but still she pulled his ear, which he always
regarded as a sign of affection, and then she went over to the
"castle," where she meant to make herself comfortable in the stone
paved passageway and tie up her asparagus in bunches. But she had
scarcely drawn up to the threshold the stool which always stood ready,
than she heard, over in the little house with three windows where Frau
Nimptsch lived, a back window pushed up vigorously and a moment later
hooked in place. And then she saw Lena with a lilac and white jacket
over her woolen skirt and a cap on her ash-blond hair, waving a
friendly greeting to her.

Frau Doerr returned the greeting with equal warmth and said: "The window
always open; that's right, Lena. It is already beginning to grow hot.
Some change must be coming."

"Yes. And mother already has her headache from the heat, and so I would
rather iron in the back room. It is pleasanter here too; at the front
we don't see anybody."

"That is so," answered Frau Doerr. "I believe I will come over to the
window for a bit. I can always work better when I have some one to talk
to."

"How kind and good you are, Frau Doerr. But right here by the window the
sun is so strong."

"That will do no harm, Lena. I will bring my market umbrella along, the
old thing is covered with patches. But it serves its purpose still."

And within five minutes, good Frau Doerr had moved her stool over by the
window and sat there as comfortable and self-satisfied as if she were
at the regular market. Inside the room Lena had put the ironing board
across two chairs close to the window and stood so near it that it
would have been easy to reach her with one's hand. Meanwhile the
flatiron moved busily back and forth. And Frau Doerr also was diligently
choosing and binding up her asparagus and if she paused from her work
now and then and glanced into the room, she could see the glow of the
little ironing stove from which the fresh coals were taken for the
flatiron.

"You might just bring me a plate, Lena, a plate or a dish." And when
Lena brought what Frau Doerr had asked, the good woman dropped into the
dish the broken pieces of asparagus which she had kept in her apron
while she was sorting out the stalks. "There, Lena, that will make a
little taste of asparagus. And it is just as good as the rest. For it
is all nonsense that you must always have the heads. And it is just the
same with cauliflower; always the flower ... pure imagination. The
stump is really the best, for the strength of the plant is there. And
the strength is always the most important thing."

"Heavens, you are always so good, Frau Doerr. But what will your husband
say?"

"He? What he says doesn't matter. He will be talking. He always wants
me to put in the spindling ones with the rest as if they were real
stalks; but I don't like such cheating tricks, even if the broken
pieces do taste just as good as the whole stalks. What anyone pays for,
he ought to get, only it makes me angry that a man who gets on so well
should be such an old skinflint. But all gardeners are like that, skimp
and grasp and then they can never get enough."

"Yes," laughed Lena, "he is greedy and a bit peculiar. But for all that
he is a good man."

"Yes, Lena, he is well enough so far, and even his stinginess would not
be so bad, for at least it is better than wastefulness, if only he were
not too fond. You would not believe it, but he is always right there.
And just look at him. I have nothing but bother with him for all that
he is fifty-six years old, and maybe a year more. For he tells lies if
it suits him to. I keep telling him about strokes of apoplexy and point
out people who limp or have their mouths drawn to one side, but he
always laughs and will not believe me. But it will happen. Yes, Lena, I
have no doubt that it will happen. And perhaps soon. Well, he has
willed me everything he has and so I will not say anything more. When
one has made one's bed, one must lie in it. But why are we talking
about Doerr and strokes, and his bow legs. Good Lord, Lena, there are
plenty of other folks who are as straight as a fir tree. Aren't there,
Lena?"

At this Lena grew still more rosy than before, and said: "The charcoal
is cold." And stepping back from the board, she went to the stove and
shook the coal back among the embers, so as to take out a new one. All
this was the work of a moment. And now with a quick turn of the hand
she slipped the new hot coal from the tongs into the iron, shut the
little door, and only then noticed that Frau Doerr was still waiting for
an answer. But to make sure, the good woman asked the question over
again and added: "Is he coming to-day?"

"Yes. At least he promised to."

"Now tell me, Lena," went on Frau Doerr, "how did it really begin?
Mother Nimptsch never says much, and if she does say anything, it
doesn't amount to much, and I never get the ins and outs of it. For she
only tells part and that all confused. Now do tell me. Is it true that
you met in Stralau?"

"Yes, Frau Doerr, it was in Stralau, on Easter Monday, but it was
already as warm as if it were Whitsunday, and because Lina Gansauge
likes boating, we took a skiff; and Lina's brother Rudolph, whom I
think you know, took the rudder."

"Heavens, Rudolph. Rudolph is a mere boy."

"That is so. But he thought he knew all about it, and he kept saying:
'You must sit still, girls; you rock the boat so,' for he speaks with
such a frightful Berlin accent. But we didn't think of doing such a
thing, because we soon saw that his steering wasn't good for much. But
by and by we forgot all about it, and let ourselves go, and joked with
those we met, and splashed each other with water. And in the only boat
that was going in the same direction that we were, sat a pair of very
fine gentlemen, who saluted us, and we were so reckless that we
returned their greetings and Lina even waved her handkerchief, and
behaved as if she knew the gentlemen, which however was not the case,
and she only wanted to show off, because she is so young. And while we
were laughing and joking like that, and only playing with the oars, we
saw all at once that the steamer from Treptow was coming towards us,
and as you can imagine, dear Frau Doerr, we were frightened to death and
called out to Rudolph that he must steer us out of the way. But the boy
had lost his head and just steered us round and round in a circle. And
then we began to scream and we should surely have been run down if the
two gentlemen in the other boat had not at that very moment taken pity
on us in our trouble. With a couple of strokes they reached us and
while one of them took firm hold of us with a boat hook and made us
fast to their boat, the other rowed their boat and ours out of the wake
of the steamboat, and only once more did it seem as if the big waves
would capsize us. The captain shook his fist at us (I saw that for all
my fright), but that was soon over and in another minute we had reached
Stralau and the two gentlemen, to whom we owed our rescue, jumped out
and gave us their hands and helped us out like regular escorts. And so
there we stood on the slip at Tuebbecke's, feeling very bashful and Lina
was crying softly and only Rudolph, who is always obstinate and
boastful, and doesn't like soldiers, looked sullenly before him, as if
to say: 'Nonsense, I could have steered you out all right myself.'

"Yes, that is what he is, a boastful young rascal; I know him. But now
tell me about the two gentlemen. That is the chief thing...."

"Well, they did what they could for us and then took their places at
another table and kept looking over at us. And when we were ready to go
home, towards seven o'clock, and it was growing a little dark, one of
them came to us and asked 'whether he and his friend might offer to
escort us?' And I laughed rather recklessly and said, 'they had rescued
us and one must not refuse anything to one's rescuer. But they had
really better think about it a little, for we lived almost at the other
end of the earth. And it would be really quite a journey.' Thereupon he
answered politely, 'All the better.' And meanwhile the other man had
come up.... Ah, dear Frau Doerr, perhaps it was not right, to talk so
freely at first sight, but one of them took my fancy, and I never knew
how to put on any prim airs. And so we walked all the long way home
together, first by the Spree and then by the canal."

"And how about Rudolph!"

"He followed after, as if he had nothing to do with us, but he used his
eyes and noticed everything. And that was quite right; for Lina is only
eighteen and is still a good, innocent child!"

"Do you think so?"

"Certainly, Frau Doerr. You only need to look at her. You can see that
at once."

"Yes, usually. But once in a while you can't. And so they saw you
home?"

"Yes, Frau Doerr."

"And afterwards?"

"Yes, afterwards. But you know already how it was afterwards. He came
the following day to inquire. And ever since he has come often, and I
am always glad when he comes. Heavens, it does make one happy to see a
little of life. It is often so lonely, away out here. And you know,
Frau Doerr, mother has nothing against it and always says: 'Child, that
does no harm. Before you know it, you will be old.'"

"Yes indeed," said Frau Doerr, "I have often heard Frau Nimptsch speak
like that. And she is quite right too. That is to say, just as one
takes it, and to live according to the catechism is really better and,
so to speak, actually the best way. You may take my word for it. But I
know very well, things do not always go that way, and a great many are
not willing to follow those rules. And if one will not, one will not,
and things must take their own course as they usually do, so long as
one is honest and decent and keeps his word. And naturally, whatever
happens, one must put up with it and must not be surprised. And if one
knows all this and keeps it in mind, well, then it is not so bad. And
really, fanciful notions are the only thing that does any harm."

"Oh, dear Frau Doerr," laughed Lena, "what can you be thinking of?
Fanciful notions! I have no fancy notions. If I love anyone, I love
him. And that is enough for me. And I want nothing more from him,
nothing at all. And it makes me happy that my heart beats so and that I
count the hours till he comes, and that I cannot wait until I see him
again, that is my joy, and it is enough for me."

"Yes," said Frau Doerr smiling to herself, "that is right, that is as it
should be. But Lena, is his name really Botho? No one could have such a
name; it is no sort of a Christian, name."

"But it is, Frau Doerr," and Lena seemed as if she wanted to prove the
fact that there were such names. But before she could succeed, Sultan
barked and one could plainly hear the sound of some one entering from
the corridor. The letter carrier came in and brought two orders for
Doerr and a letter for Lena.

"My Lord, Hahnke," exclaimed Frau Doerr to the man on whose brow the
great drops stood, "you are dripping with sweat. Is it so frightfully
hot? And only half-past nine. I see very well that there isn't much fun
in being a letter carrier."

And the good soul started to go and get a glass of fresh milk. But
Hahnke refused with thanks. "I have no time, Frau Doerr. Some other
day." And with these words he left at once.

Meanwhile Lena had opened her letter.

"Well, what does he say?"

"He isn't coming to-day, but to-morrow. Oh, what a long time it is till
to-morrow. It is a good thing that I have work; the more work the
better. And this afternoon I'll come over to your garden and help you
dig. But I don't want Doerr to be there."

"The Lord forbid."

And then they separated and Lena went into the front room to give her
old mother the dish of asparagus from Frau Doerr.




                               CHAPTER IV


And now the next evening had come, the time for Baron Botho's promised
visit. Lena was walking up and down in the front garden, but in the
large front room Frau Nimptsch sat as usual by the hearth, while to-day
again the whole Doerr family had grouped themselves around her. Frau
Doerr was knitting with big wooden needles on a blue woolen jacket for
her husband, and the work, as yet quite shapeless, lay on her lap like
a great fleece. Near her, with his legs comfortably crossed, Doerr was
smoking a clay pipe, while his son sat in a big grandfather's chair
close to the window, leaning his red head against the "wing" of the
chair. Every morning he was up by cockcrow, so to-day he had once more
fallen asleep through weariness. There was but little talk, and so
nothing was to be heard but the clicking of the needles and the
chattering of the squirrel, which from time to time came out of his box
and gazed curiously about. The only light came from the fire on the
hearth and the afterglow of the sunset.

Frau Doerr sat so that she could look along the garden path and in spite
of the twilight she could see who was coming along the road, past the
hedge.

"Ah, there he comes," said she. "Now, Doerr, just let your pipe go out.
You are just like a chimney to-day, puffing and smoking all day long.
And such a stinking old pipe as yours is not fit for everyone."

Doerr did not let such speeches trouble him much and before his wife
could say any more or repeat her verdict, the Baron came in. He was
visibly mellow, as he had just come from a punch bowl, which had been
the subject of a wager at the club, and said, as he took Frau
Nimptsch's hand: "Good evening, mother. I hope all is well with you.
Ah, and Frau Doerr; and Herr Doerr, my favorite old friend. See here,
Doerr, what do you say to the weather? Specially ordered for you and for
me too. My meadows at home, that are under water four years out of five
and bear nothing but crow's foot, such weather will do them good. And
it will do Lena good too; she can stay out of doors more; she is
growing too pale to suit me."

Meanwhile Lena had drawn up a wooden chair near her old mother, because
she knew that this was Baron Botho's favorite place; but Frau Doerr, who
was fully impressed with the idea that a Baron must occupy the seat of
honor, had meanwhile risen, and with the blue fleecy mass trailing
after her, she called out to her stepson: "Will you get up! I say, now.
If there is nothing in him, it's no use to expect anything from him."
The poor boy stood up, all stupid and sleepy and was going to give up
his seat, but the Baron would not allow it. "For heaven's sake, dear
Frau Doerr, leave the poor boy alone. I would far rather sit on a bench;
like my friend Doerr here."

And therewith he pushed the chair, which Lena still had ready for him,
beside the old mother and said as he sat down:

"Here beside Frau Nimptsch is the best place. I know of no other
fireplace that I am as fond of; there is always fire, always warmth.
Yes, Mutterchen, that is true, this is the best place."

"Oh my soul," said the old woman. "This is the best place! In an old
washerwoman's house."

"Certainly. And why not? Every class and calling is worthy of respect.
And a washerwoman too. Do you know, Mutterchen, that here in Berlin
there was a famous poet who wrote a poem about his old washerwoman?"

"Is it possible?"

"Of course it is possible. Moreover it is true. And do you know what he
said at the end? He said that he wished he could live and die like his
old washerwoman. Yes, that is what he said."

"Is it possible?" said the old woman to herself once more, simpering a
little.

"And do you know, Mutterchen, now don't you forget it, he was quite
right, and I say the very same? Oh yes, you laugh to yourself. But just
look about you here. How do you live? Like the good Lord in France. In
the first place, you have your house and hearth, and then the garden
and Frau Doerr. And then you have Lena. Haven't you? But what has become
of her?"

He would have gone on talking, but just then Lena came in with a tray,
on which was a carafe of water and some cider, for which the Baron had
a preference not easily to be understood, but for his belief in its
wonderful curative properties.

"Why Lena, how you spoil me. But you should not offer it to me so
formally. It seems just as if I were at the club. You must bring it to
me in your hand, it tastes best that way. And now give me your little
hand, and let me stroke it. No, no, the left one; that is nearest the
heart. And now sit right there, between Herr and Frau Doerr, so that you
will be opposite me and I can see you all the time. I have been happy
all day, looking forward to this time."

Lena laughed.

"Perhaps you don't believe it? But I can prove it to you, Lena, for I
have brought you something from the fine party that we had yesterday.
And when one has a little present to bring, he always feels happy about
the girl who is to receive it. Isn't that so, my dear Doerr?"

Doerr grinned, but Frau Doerr said: "Lord, he? He bring presents? Doerr is
all for scraping and saving. That is the way with gardeners. But I am
curious to see what the Herr Baron has brought."

"Well, then I will not keep you waiting any longer, or else dear Frau
Doerr might think I have brought a golden slipper or some such thing out
of a fairy story. But this is all it is."

And therewith he gave Lena a paper bag, from which, unless all signs
failed, the fringed ends of some snapping bonbons peeped out.

They proved to be snapping bonbons and the bag was passed around.

"But now we must pull one, Lena. Hold on tight and shut your eyes."

Frau Doerr was delighted when the cracker snapped, and still more so
when Lena's forefinger began to bleed. "That doesn't hurt, Lena, I know
it doesn't. It is just like a bride who pricks her finger. I used to
know one who was so crazy about it, that she kept pricking herself and
sucked and sucked, as if it were something wonderful."

Lena blushed. But Frau Doerr did not notice and went on: "And now read
the verse, Herr Baron."

And this is what he read:


            When two forget themselves for love,
            God and the angels rejoice above.


"Heavens," said Frau Doerr, folding her hands. "That is just like
something out of a song book. Is the verse always so pious?"

"I hope not," said Botho. "Not always. Come, dear Frau Doerr, let us
pull one and see what we shall get out of it."

And then he pulled again and read:


            Where Love's dart has struck well.
            Wide open stand both heaven and hell.


"Now, Frau Doerr, what do you say to that? It sounds different, doesn't
it?"

"Yes," said Frau Doerr, "it sounds different. But I don't quite like
it.... If I pull a bonbon...."

"Well?"

"Then I don't want anything about hell to come out, I don't want to
hear that there is any such thing."

"Nor I either," laughed Lena. "Frau Doerr is quite right: for that
matter, she is always right. But really, when one reads such a verse,
one has always something to start with, I mean to begin a conversation
with, for the beginning is always the hardest, just as it is with
writing letters. And I simply cannot imagine how you can begin a
conversation at once with no more ado, with so many strange ladies, for
you are not all acquainted with each other."

"Oh, my dear Lena," said Botho, "it isn't so hard as you think. It is
really quite easy. If you like, I will give you a dinner-table
conversation now."

Frau Doerr and Frau Nimptsch said that they would like to hear it and
Lena too nodded her assent.

"Now," went on Baron Botho, "you must imagine that you are a little
Countess. And I have just escorted you to the table and sat down and we
are taking the first spoonful of soup."

"Very well. But what now?"

"And now I say to you: 'If I am not mistaken, I saw you yesterday at
the flower show, you and your mother together. It is not surprising.
The weather entices us out every day now and we might almost say that
it is fit for travelling. Have you made any plans for the summer,
Countess?' And now you answer, that unfortunately nothing is settled
yet, because your papa is determined to go to Bavaria, while your
dearest wish is to see Saxon Switzerland with the Koenigstein and the
Bastei."

"It really is," laughed Lena.

"You see, that goes very well. And then I go on: 'Yes, gracious
Countess, in that we share the same tastes. I prefer Saxon Switzerland
to any other part of the world, even to the actual Switzerland itself.
One cannot always revel in the grander aspects of nature, and clamber
and get out of breath all the time. But Saxon Switzerland! Heavenly,
ideal. There is Dresden; in a quarter or a half hour I can be there,
and I can see pictures, the theatre, the great gardens, the Zwinger,
and the green vault. Do not neglect to see the tankard with the foolish
virgins, and above all things that cherry stone, on which the whole of
the Lord's prayer is carved. It can only be seen through the magnifying
glass.'"

"So that is the way you talk!"

"Exactly, my darling. And when I have paid sufficient attention to my
left-hand neighbor, that is, the Countess Lena, I turn to my right-hand
neighbor, that is, to Madame the Baroness Doerr...."

Frau Doerr was so delighted that she slapped her knee with a loud
noise....

"So I am to converse with Madame the Baroness Doerr? And what shall we
talk about? Well, say we talk about mushrooms."

"But, great heavens, mushrooms. About mushrooms, Herr Baron, that would
never do."

"Oh why not, why shouldn't it do, dear Frau Doerr? That is a very
serious and instructive subject and is more important than you think. I
once visited a friend in Poland, a comrade in my regiment and also
during the war, who lived in a great castle; it was red and had two
huge towers, and was so fearfully old, that you never see anything like
it nowadays. And the last room was his living room; for he was
unmarried, because he was a woman hater...."

"Is it possible?"

"And everywhere the old rotten boards were trodden through and wherever
there were a couple of boards lacking, there was a mushroom bed, and I
passed by all the mushroom beds, until at last I came to his room."

"Is it possible?" repeated Frau Doerr and added: "Mushrooms! But one
cannot always be talking about mushrooms."

"No, not always. But really quite often, and anyway it makes no
difference what you talk about. If it isn't mushrooms it is
'champignons,' and if it is not the red castle in Poland it is Schloss
Tegel or Saatwinkel, or Valentinswerder. Or Italy or Paris, or the city
railway, or whether the Panke should be filled in. It is all the same.
One can always talk a little about anything, whether it is especially
pleasing or not. And 'yes' is just as good as 'no.'"

"But," said Lena, "if all the talk is so empty, I am surprised that you
should go into such company."

"Oh you see beautiful women and handsome gowns and sometimes you catch
glances that will betray a whole romance, if you look sharp. And
anyway, it does not last long, so that you still have a chance to make
up for lost time at the club. And at the club it is really charming,
for there the artificial talk ceases and reality begins. Yesterday I
took Pitt's black mare from him."

"Who is Pitt?"

"Oh, those are just names that we have among ourselves, and we use them
when we are together. The Crown Prince himself says Vicky, in speaking
of Victoria. It really is pleasant that there are such affectionate pet
names. But listen, the concert is beginning over there. Can't we open
the windows, so as to hear it better? You are already tapping with your
foot. How would it do for us to take our places and try a Quadrille or
a Francaise? We have three couples: Father Doerr and good Frau Nimptsch,
and Frau Doerr and I (I beg the honor) and then comes Lena with Hans."

Frau Doerr agreed at once, but Doerr and Frau Nimptsch declined, the
latter because she was too old, the former because he was not used to
such fine doings.

"Very well, Father Doerr. But then you must beat time; Lena, give him
the tray and a spoon. And now come, ladies. Frau Doerr, your arm. And
now Hans, wake up, be lively."

And both pairs actually took their places and Frau Doerr's stateliness
visibly increased, as her partner began in a formal, dancing-master's
French: "_En avant deux, Pas de Basque_." The poor sleepy freckle-faced
boy looked about mechanically and allowed himself to be shoved here and
there, but the three others danced as if they knew how, and old Doerr
was so delighted that he jumped up and beat time on his tray with his
knuckles instead of with his spoon. The spirit of other days seemed to
return to Frau Nimptsch also, and since she found nothing better to do,
she poked the fire until the flames leaped up.

This went on until the music stopped; Botho led Frau Doerr back to her
place, but Lena still stood there, because the poor awkward boy did not
know what he ought to do with her. But that suited Botho exactly, for
when the music at the garden began again, he began to waltz with her,
and to whisper to her, how charming she was, more charming than ever.

They had all grown warm, especially Frau Doerr, who now stood close to
the open window. "Lord, how I am shivering," said she suddenly,
whereupon Both courteously sprang forward to close the window. But Frau
Doerr would not hear of such a thing and said, the fine people were all
wild about fresh air, and many of them so much so that the bed
coverings froze to their mouths in winter. Their breath was just like
the steam from the spout of the kettle. So the window must stay open,
she would not give up that point. But if dear Lena had something
comforting to give them, something to warm the cockles of the heart ...

"Certainly, Frau Doerr, whatever you want. I can make tea, or punch, or
better still, I have the cherry brandy, that you gave Mother Nimptsch
and me last Christmas for my big Christmas cake."

And before Frau Doerr could decide between punch and tea, the flask of
cherry brandy was already there, with small and large glasses which
each could fill according to their own desire. And now Lena went
around, the black kettle in her hand, and poured the boiling water into
the glasses. "Not too much, Lena, not too much. Let us get the good of
it. Water takes away the strength." And in a moment the room was full
of the rising aroma of cherry brandy.

"How nicely you did that," said Botho, as he sipped from his glass.
"Lord knows, I had nothing yesterday, nor to-day at the club that
tasted like this. Hurrah for Lena! But the chief credit of it all
belongs to our friend, Frau Doerr, because she had that shivering fit,
and so I am going to drink a second health. Frau Doerr; Hurrah for Frau
Doerr."

"Long may she live," shouted all the group together, and old Doerr began
to thump his tray with his knuckles again.

They all pronounced it a delicate drink, far finer than punch extract,
which in summer always tastes of sour lemon, because you mostly get old
bottles, which have been standing in the hot sun, in shop windows, ever
since Shrove Tuesday. But cherry brandy was something wholesome and
never spoiled, and rather than poison one's self with that bitter
almond poison one ought to take some proper good stuff, at least a
bottle.

It was Frau Doerr who made this remark, and her husband, who did not
want things to go too far, perhaps because he knew his wife's pet
weakness, urged their departure: "There will be another day to-morrow."

Botho and Lena asked them to stay a while longer. But good Frau Doerr,
who well knew "that one must yield at the proper time, in order to keep
the upper hand," merely said: "Never mind, Lena, I know him; he wants
to go to bed with the birds." "Well," said Botho, "what is settled is
settled. But at least we will escort the Doerrs home."

And therewith everybody went out, excepting old Frau Nimptsch, who
looked after her departing friends amiably, nodding her head, and then
got up and seated herself in the big grandfather chair.




                               CHAPTER V


Lena and Botho paused before the "castle" with the green and red
painted tower and asked Doerr with considerable formality for permission
to go into the garden and walk there for half an hour. The evening was
so fine. Father Doerr muttered that he could not leave his property in
better hands, whereupon the young couple took leave, bowing
courteously, and went into the garden. Everything was already quiet,
and only Sultan, whom they had to pass, got up, and whimpered until
Lena had stroked him. After that he crawled back into his kennel.

In the garden all was perfume and freshness, for all the way along the
principal path, between the currant and gooseberry bushes, grew gilly
flowers and mignonette, whose delicate perfume mingled with the more
powerful odour of the thyme beds. Nothing stirred in the trees, and
only the fireflies darted through the air.

Lena was hanging on Botho's arm and they walked together to the end of
the garden, where a bench stood between two silver poplars.

"Shall we sit down?"

"No," said Lena, "not now," and she turned into a side path bordered
with tall raspberry bushes which nearly overtopped the garden fence. "I
love to walk leaning on your arm. Tell me about something--something
really pretty. Or ask me about something."

"Very well. Are you willing that I should have more of a friendship
with the Doerrs?"

"As far as I am concerned."

"A curious couple. And moreover, I think, they are happy. He has to do
as she wishes, and yet he is far cleverer than she."

"Yes," said Lena, "he is cleverer, but then he is miserly and
hard-hearted and that makes him docile, because he always has a bad
conscience. She looks after him sharply and will not allow it, if he
tries to overreach anyone. And that is what he is afraid of, and that
makes him yielding."

"Is that all?"

"Perhaps love, too, if it does sound strange. I mean love on his side.
For in spite of his fifty-six years or more he is perfectly wild over
his wife, simply because she is stout. Both of them have made me the
most wonderful confessions about that. But I confess frankly, she is
not to my taste."

"But you are wrong there, Lena; she makes quite a figure."

"Yes," laughed Lena, "she makes a figure, but she has none. Can't you
see, that her hips are a hand's breath too high? But you never see
anything like that, and 'figure' and 'imposing' are every other word
with you, without any concern as to the origin of that 'imposing
figure.'"

Chatting and teasing each other thus they paused and stooped down to
see if they could find an early strawberry in the bed that lay in front
of the hedge and fence. Finally Lena found what she wanted, took the
stem of a perfect beauty between her lips and came close up to Botho
and looked at him.

He was nothing loth, plucked the berry from her lips and embraced and
kissed her.

"My sweet Lena, you did that just right. But just hear how Sultan is
barking; he wants to get to you; shall I let him loose?"

"No, if he is here, you are only half mine. And if you keep on talking
about 'stately Frau Doerr,' then I have as good as nothing left of you
at all."

"Good," laughed Botho, "Sultan may stay where he is. I am contented.
But I want to talk more about Frau Doerr. Is she really so good?"

"Yes, she really is, for all that she says strange things--things that
sound as if they have a double meaning and perhaps really have. But she
knows nothing about that, and in her doings and behavior there is not
the least thing that could recall her past."

"Has she a past then?"

"Yes. At least she had some sort of a relation for years and 'went with
him' as she calls it. And there is no sort of doubt that there was
plenty of talk about that affair, and of course about good Frau Doerr
herself. And she herself must have given occasion for it again and
again. Only she is so simple that she never gave it a thought, still
less reproached anyone. She speaks of it as an unpleasant service, that
she faithfully and honorably fulfilled, simply from a sense of duty.
You may laugh, and it does sound queer. But I don't know any other way
to tell it. And now let us leave Frau Doerr alone and sit down and look
at the crescent moon."

And in fact, the moon stood just above the elephant house, which, in
the flood of silver light, looked even more fantastic than usual. Lena
pointed to it, drew her hood closer and hid her face on Botho's breast.

So the minutes passed by, silent and happy, and only when Lena aroused,
as if from a dream that escaped her, and sat up again, did she say:
"What were you thinking of? But you must tell me the truth."

"What was I thinking of, Lena? Why, I am almost ashamed to tell you. I
had some sentimental thoughts and was thinking of our kitchen garden at
Castle Zehden, which is laid out so much like this of the Doerr's, the
same lettuce beds with cherry trees between and I would almost wager,
just as many bird houses. And even the asparagus beds run the same way.
And I would walk amongst them with my mother and if she was in a good
humor, she would give me the knife and let me help her. But woe be unto
me if I were careless and cut the asparagus stalk too long or too
short. My mother's hand was hasty."

"I well believe it. And I always feel as if I ought to be afraid of
her."

"Afraid? How so? Why, Lena?"

Lena laughed merrily and yet her laughter was a trifle forced. "You
must not take it into your head that I have any intention of presenting
myself before the gracious lady; you must just feel as if I had said
that I am afraid of the Empress. That would not make you think that I
meant to go to court? No, don't be afraid; I shall never complain of
you."

"No, you wouldn't do that. You are much too proud for that, and then
you are a regular little democrat, and every friendly word has to be
almost choked out of you. Isn't that so? But however that may be,
describe my mother, as you imagine her. How does she look?"

"Very much like you: tall and slender and blond and blue-eyed."

"Poor Lena (and now the laugh was on his side), you have missed it this
time. My mother is a little woman with bright black eyes and a long
nose."

"I don't believe it. It isn't possible."

"And yet it is true. You must remember that I have a father too. But
that never occurs to you. You always think that you women are the
principal thing. And now tell me something about my mother's character.
But make a better guess."

"I think of her as very much concerned for the welfare of her
children."

"Correct."

"... And that all her children must make wealthy, yes very wealthy
marriages. And I know too, whom she has ready for you."

"An unfortunate woman, whom you ..."

"How you do mistake me. Believe me, that I have you now, for this very
hour, is my joy. What follows does not trouble me. One of these days
you will have flown away...."

He shook his head.

"Don't shake your head; what I say is true. You love me and are true to
me; at least in my love I am childish and vain enough to believe so.
But you will fly away, I see that clearly enough. You will have to. The
saying is that love makes us blind, but it also makes us see far and
clear."

"Ah, Lena, you do not know how dearly I love you."

"Oh yes, I do. And I know too that you think of your Lena as something
set apart, and every day you think, 'if only she were a Countess.' But
it is too late for that now, I can never bring it about. You love me,
and you are weak. That cannot be altered. All handsome men are weak and
the stronger spirit rules over them.... And the stronger spirit ...
now, who is that? Either it is your mother, or people's talk, or your
connections. Or perhaps all three ... But just look."

And she pointed towards the Zoological Garden, where through the
darkness of the trees and foliage a rocket rushed hissing into the air
and with a puff burst into a countless shower of sparks. A second
followed the first and so it went on, as if they were chasing and
trying to catch up with one another, until of a sudden the rockets
ceased and the shrubbery began to glow in a green and red light. A
couple of birds cried out harshly in their cages and then after a long
pause the music began again.

"Do you know, Botho, what I would give, if I could lean on your arm and
walk with you over there up and down that school for scandal, as safely
as here among the box borders, and if I could say to everyone: 'Yes,
you may wonder at us, he is he and I am I, and he loves me and I love
him,'--do you know what I would give? But don't guess, for you never
could. You only know yourself and your club and your life. Oh, the poor
little life."

"Don't speak so, Lena."

"Why not? One must look everything squarely in the face and not whiten
anything over, and above all one must not whiten one's self. But it is
growing cold and they are through over there. That is the last piece
that they are playing now. Come, we will go in and sit by the fireside,
the fire will not be out yet and my mother has long since gone to bed."

So they walked back along the garden path, she leaning lightly on his
shoulder. The lights were all out in the "castle" and only Sultan gazed
after them, thrusting his head out of his kennel. But he did not move
and only some dim, sullen thoughts passed through his brain.




                               CHAPTER VI


It was the next week after the events narrated, and the chestnut trees
were already in bloom. They were blossoming also in Bellevue Street.
Baron Botho lived here in a ground floor apartment that extended
through from a front balcony to one that opened on a garden: there was
a living-room, a dining-room, and a bedroom, which were distinguished
by a tasteful furnishing decidedly beyond the means of their owner. In
the dining-room there were two pictures of still life by Hertel and
between these a bear hunt, an admirable copy from Rubens, while in the
living-room the "show piece" was a storm at sea by Andreas Achenbach,
surrounded by several smaller pictures by the same artist. The storm
picture had come into Baron Botho's possession by chance at a lottery,
and by means of this beautiful and valuable work he had gained the
reputation of a connoisseur and especially of an admirer of Achenbach.
He joked freely about this and used to declare "that his luck at the
lottery cost him quite dear, because it continually led him to make new
purchases, adding that it was perhaps the same with all good fortune."

Before the sofa, the plush of which was covered with a Persian rug, the
coffee apparatus stood on a malachite table, while on the sofa itself
all kinds of political journals were lying about, and amongst these
some whose presence in this place seemed rather peculiar, and could
only be explained by Baron Botho's favorite phrase "fiddlesticks before
politics." Stories which bore the stamp of imagination, so-called
"pearls," amused him the most. A canary bird, whose cage always stood
open at breakfast time, was flying as usual to light on the hand or
shoulder of his too-indulgent master, who, instead of being impatient,
put his paper aside every time to stroke his little favorite. But if he
omitted the caress, the little creature would cling to the reader's
neck and beard and chirp long and persistently until he had his way.
"All favorites are alike," said Baron Rienaecker, "they expect humility
and obedience."

Just now the door bell rang and the servant came in to bring the
letters. One, a gray, square envelope, was open and bore a three
pfennig stamp. "Hamburg lottery tickets or new cigars," said Rienaecker,
and threw envelope and contents aside without further consideration.
"But this one ... Ah, from Lena. I will save this for the last, unless
this third sealed one contends for the honor. The Osten crest. Then it
is from Uncle Kurt Anton: the Berlin postmark means that he is already
here. What can he want now? Ten to one, he wants me to breakfast with
him or to buy a saddle or to escort him to Renz, or perhaps to Kroll
also; most likely I am to do the one and not omit the other."

And he took a knife from the window-sill and cut open the envelope, on
which he had recognized also Uncle Osten's handwriting, and took out
the letter. The letter read:


                     "Hotel Brandenburg, Number 15

"My dear Botho:

"An hour ago I arrived safely at the eastern depot, warned by your old
Berlin notice 'Beware of Pickpockets,' and have engaged rooms in the
Hotel Brandenburg, which is to say, in the same old place; a real
conservative is conservative even in small things. I shall only stay
two days, for your air is too heavy for me. This is a smothering hole.
But I will tell you everything by word of mouth. I shall expect you at
one o'clock at Hiller's. After that we will go and buy a saddle. And
then in the evening we will go to Renz. Be punctual. Your old Uncle,

                                          Kurt Anton."


Rienaecker laughed. "I thought as much! And yet there is an innovation.
Formerly it was Borchardt, and now it is Hiller. Oh, oh, Uncle dear, a
true conservative is conservative even in small things.... And now for
my dear Lena.... What would Uncle Kurt Anton say if he knew in what
company his letter and his commands arrived."

And while he was speaking, he opened Lena's note and read:


"It is now five whole days since I last saw you. Is it going to be a
whole week? And I was so happy that evening that I thought you simply
must come again the next day. And you were so dear and good. Mother is
already teasing me, and she says: 'He will not come again.' Oh, what a
pain in my heart that gives me, because I know that it must happen some
time and because I feel that it might happen any day. I was reminded of
that again yesterday. For when I just wrote you that I had not seen you
for five whole days, I did not tell the truth; I did see you yesterday,
but secretly, by stealth, on the Corso. Just fancy, I too was there,
naturally far back in a side path and I watched you riding back and
forth for an hour. Oh I was extremely happy, for you were the most
imposing rider (almost as imposing as Frau Doerr, who sends her regards
to you), and I was so proud just to see you that I didn't even grow
jealous. I mean I was jealous only once. Who was the pretty blonde,
with the two white horses? They were simply garlanded with flowers, and
the flowers were so thick that there were no leaves nor stems. I never
saw anything so beautiful in my life. When I was a child I would have
thought that she was a Princess, but now I know that Princesses are not
always the most beautiful. Yes, she was pretty and you liked her, I
could see that, and she liked you too. But her mother, who set beside
the pretty blonde, you liked still better. And that angered me. I grant
you a really young woman, if it must be so. But an old woman! and even
a mamma? No, no, she has had her share. In any case, my own Botho, you
see that you will have to quiet me and make me happy again. I shall
expect you to-morrow or the next day. And if you cannot come in the
evening, come in the daytime, even if only for a minute. I am so
troubled about you, that is to say, about myself. But you understand me
already.                        Your

                                         "Lena."


"Your Lena," said he, repeating the signature, once more to himself and
a sort of restlessness took possession of him, because all kinds of
conflicting emotions passed through his heart: love, anxiety, fear.
Then he read the letter through again. At two or three passages he
could not forbear to make a little mark with his silver pencil, not
through pedantry, but through pure delight. "How well she writes! The
handwriting certainly, and the spelling almost ... _Stiehl_ instead of
_Stiel_.... Well, why not? Stiehl was a much dreaded school inspector,
but the Lord be praised, I am not. And '_emphelen_.' Shall I be put out
with her over f and h? Good Lord, how many people can spell 'empfehlen'
properly? The young Countesses cannot always, and the old ones never.
So where is the harm! Really, the letter is like Lena herself, good,
true and trustworthy, and the mistakes make it only the more charming."

He leaned back in his chair and covered his eyes and brow with his
hand: "Poor Lena, what is to come of all this? It would have been
better for us both, if there had been no Easter Monday this time. Why
indeed should there be two holidays? Why Treptow and Stralau and
boating excursions? And now my Uncle! Either he is coming as a
messenger from my mother, or else he has plans for me himself, of his
own initiative. Well, we shall see. He has never been through any
training in diplomatic disguises, and even if he has sworn ten oaths to
keep silence, he comes out with everything. I shall soon find out, for
all that I am even less experienced than he in the art of intrigue."

Thereupon he pulled out a drawer of his writing table, in which there
were already other letters of Lena's, tied up with a red ribbon. And
now he rang for the servant to help him to dress. "So, John, that is
all I need.... And now don't forget to draw the blinds down. And if
anyone should come and ask for me, I shall be at the barracks till
twelve, at Hiller's after one and at Renz's in the evening. And be sure
to raise the blinds again at the right time, so that I shall not find a
bake-oven again. And leave the lamp lighted in the front room, but not
in my bedroom; it seems as if the flies are possessed this year. Do you
understand?"

"Very good, Herr Baron."

And during this dialogue, which was half carried on in the corridor,
Rienaecker passed through the vestibule, and out in the garden he
playfully pulled the braids of the porter's little girl, who was
stooping over her little brother's wagon, and got in return a furious
glance, which changed to one of delight as soon as she recognized him.

And now at last he stepped through the gate to the street. Here he saw
beneath the green bower of the chestnut trees the men and vehicles
passing silently to and fro between the great gate and the Zoological
Garden, as if through the glass of a camera. "How beautiful! This is
surely one of the best of worlds."




                              CHAPTER VII


Towards twelve his service at the barracks being over, Botho von
Rienaecker was walking along under the Lindens toward the Gate, simply
with the intention of filling up the time as well as he could until his
interview at Hiller's. Two or three picture shops were very welcome to
him in this interim. At Lepke's there were a couple of Oswald
Achenbach's in the show window, among them a street in Palermo, dirty
and sunny, and strikingly truthful as to life and color. "There are
things, then, about which one is never quite clear. So it is with these
Achenbach's. Until recently I always swore by Andreas; but when I see
something like this, I do not know that Oswald is not his equal or his
superior. In any case he is more brilliant and varied. But such things
as this I can only think to myself, for to say them before people would
be to lower the value of my 'Storm at Sea' by half, and quite
unnecessarily."

Thinking of these matters he stood for a time before Lepke's show
window and then walked across the Parisian Square to the Gate and the
path turning sharply to the left toward the Zoological Garden, until he
paused before Wolf's group of lions. Here he looked at the clock. "Half
past twelve. Then it is time." And so he turned and went back over the
same path towards the Lindens.

In front of the Redern Palace he saw Lieutenant von Wedell of the
Dragoon Guards coming towards him.

"Where are you going, Wedell?"

"To the club. And you?"

"To Hiller's."

"Aren't you rather early?"

"Yes, but what of it? I am to breakfast with an old uncle of mine, an
old Neumaerker who lives in an odd corner with 'Aldermann, Petermann and
Zimmermann'--all names that rhyme with man, but without connection or
obligation. By the way, he was once in your regiment, my Uncle, I mean.
To be sure it was long ago, about forty years. Baron Osten."

"From Wietzendorf?"

"The same."

"Oh, I know him, at least by name. There is some relationship. My
grandmother was an Osten. Is he the same who has the quarrel with
Bismarck?"

"The same. I tell you what, Wedell, you had better come too. The club
can wait and Pitt and Serge too; you can find them at three just as
well as at one. The old gentleman is still wild over the blue and gold
of the dragoons, and is enough of a Neumaerker to consider every Wedell
an acquisition."

"Very well, Rienaecker, but it is on your responsibility."

"With pleasure."

During this talk they had reached Hiller's, where the old Baron was
already standing by the glass door looking out, for it was a minute
after one. He made no comments, however, and was evidently overjoyed
when Botho presented "Lieutenant von Wedell."

"Your nephew ..."

"No excuses. Herr von Wedell, everyone who bears the name of Wedell is
welcome to me, and doubly and trebly so when wearing this coat. Come,
gentlemen, we will extricate ourselves from this melee of tables and
chairs, and concentrate in the rear as well as we can. It is not
Prussian to retreat, but here it does not matter." And therewith he
preceded his guests to choose a good place, and after looking into
several little private rooms, he decided on a rather large room, with
walls of some leather colored material, which was not very light, in
spite of the fact that it had a broad window in three parts, because
this looked out on a narrow and dark court. The table was already laid
for four, but in the twinkling of an eye the fourth cover was removed,
and while the two officers placed their side arms in the corner of the
window, the old Baron turned to the head waiter, who had followed at
some distance, and ordered a lobster and some white Burgundy. "But what
kind, Botho?"

"How would Chablis do?"

"Very well, Chablis, and fresh water. But not from the tap. I want it
cold in a carafe. And now, gentlemen, be seated: my dear Wedell, sit
here, and Botho there. If only we hadn't this heat, this dog-day
weather coming so early. Air, gentlemen, air. Your beautiful Berlin,
(which, so they tell me, grows more beautiful all the time, at least
those who know no better say so), your beautiful Berlin has everything
but air." And with these words he threw open the big window sash, and
sat so that he had the large middle opening directly opposite him.

The lobster had not yet come, but the Chablis was already on the table.
Old Baron Osten restlessly began to cut one of the rolls from the
basket quickly and skilfully into diagonal strips, merely for the sake
of having something to do. Then he laid down the knife again and
offered his hand to Wedell. "I am endlessly grateful to you, Herr von
Wedell, and it was a brilliant idea of Botho's to alienate your
affections from the club for a couple of hours. I take it as a good
omen, to have the privilege of meeting a Wedell immediately after my
arrival in Berlin."

And now he began to fill the glasses, because he could not control his
uneasiness any longer. He ordered a bottle of Clicquot to be set to
cool and then went on: "Really, dear Wedell, we are related; there are
no Wedells to whom we are not related, were it only through a bushel of
peas; we all have Neumaerk blood. And when I see the blue of my old
dragoons once more, my heart jumps right up in my mouth. Yes, Herr von
Wedell, old affection does not rust. But here comes the lobster....
Please bring me the big shears. The shears are always the best.... But,
as I was saying, old love does not grow rusty, nor the edge of the
blade either. And I wish to add, the Lord be praised. In those days we
still had old Dobeneck. Heavens, what a man he was! A man like a child.
But if things did not go well and would not work out properly, I
should have liked to see the man who could keep his face under old
Dobeneck's eye. He was a regular old East Prussian dating from the year
'13 and '14. We were afraid of him, but we loved him too. For he was
like a father. And, do you know, Herr von Wedell, who my riding master
was ...?"

At this point the champagne was brought in.

"My riding master was Manteuffel, the same to whom we owe everything
that the army, and victory with the army, has made of us."

Herr von Wedell bowed, while Botho said softly: "Surely, one may well
say so."

But that was not wise nor clever of Botho, as was soon manifest, for
the old Baron, who was already subject to congestion, turned red all
over his bald head and what little curly hair still remained on his
temples seemed to curl still tighter. "I don't understand you, Botho;
what do you mean by 'one may well say so,' that is the same as to say
'one might also not say so.' And I know, too, what all this points to.
It signifies that a certain officer of Cuirassiers from the reserves,
who, for the rest, held nothing in reserve, least of all revolutionary
measures, it signifies, I say, that a certain man from Halberstadt with
a sulphur-yellow collar, himself personally stormed St. Privat and
closed the great circle around Sedan. Botho, you ought not to come to
me with any such tale as that. He was a young barrister and worked for
the government at Potsdam, and what is more, under old Meding, who
never spoke well of him, as I know, and for that matter, he never
learned anything but how to write despatches. I am willing to grant him
that much, he does understand that, or in other words, he is a quill
driver. But it is not quill drivers who have made Prussia great. Was
the hero of Fehrbellin a quill driver? Was the hero of Leuthen a quill
driver? Was Bluecher a quill driver, or York? The power of the Prussian
pen is _here_! I cannot suffer this cult."

"But my dear Uncle ..."

"But, but, I will tolerate no buts. Believe me, Botho, it takes years
to settle such questions; I understand such things better. How is it
then? He tips over the ladder by which he has climbed, and even
suppresses the 'Kreuzzeitung,' and, to speak plainly, he ruins us; he
despises us, he tells us foolish things, and if he takes a notion to,
he denounces us for robbery or interception of documents and sends us
to the fortress. But why do I say fortress? The fortress is for decent
people; no, he sends us to the poor-house to pluck wool.... But air,
gentlemen, air. There is no air here. Damnable hole."

And he jumped up, and in addition to the middle window which was
already open, he flung wide the two side windows also, so that the
draught that passed through blew the curtains and the tablecloth about.
Then, sitting down again, he took a piece of ice from the champagne
cooler and passed it over his forehead.

"Ah," he went on, "this piece of ice is the best thing in the whole
breakfast.... And now tell me, Herr von Wedell, am I right or not?
Botho, with your hand on your heart, am I right? Is it not true that
one, as a member of the Maerkisch nobility, may talk oneself into a
charge of high treason simply through the pure indignation of a
nobleman? Such a man ... from one of our very finest families ... finer
than Bismarck's, and so many have fallen for the throne and for the
Hohenzollerns, that you could form a whole regimental company of them,
a company with helmets, and the Boitzenburger to command them. Yes, my
friends. And such an affront to such a family. And what for?
Interception of documents, indiscretion, betrayal of official secrets.
I should like to know if there is anything else left except child
murder and offences against morality, and it is actually strange that
they have not loaded those on also. But you gentlemen are not saying
any thing. Speak out, I beg you. Believe me, I can listen to other
opinions patiently; I am not like him; speak, Herr von Wedell, speak."

Wedell, whose embarrassment was increasing, sought for some soothing
and reconciling words: "Certainly, Herr Baron, it is as you say. But,
pardon me, at the time that the affair was decided, I heard many
express the opinion, and the words have remained in my memory, that the
weaker must give up all idea of crossing the path of the stronger, for
that is impossible in life just as in politics. Once for all it is so:
might is more than right."

"And there is no gainsaying that, no appeal?"

"Oh yes, Herr Baron. Under some circumstances an appeal is possible.
And, to be perfectly frank, I have known of cases where opposition was
justified. What weakness dare not venture, sincerity might, the
sincerity of belief, the courage of conviction. In such cases
resistance is not only a right but a duty. But who has this sincerity?
Had he ... But I will be silent, for I do not want to offend either
you, Herr Baron, or the family to whom we have reference. But you know,
even without my telling you, that he who had that audacity, had not
such sincerity of belief. He who is merely the weaker should dare
nothing, only the pure in heart should dare everything."

"Only the pure in heart should dare everything," repeated the old
Baron, with such a roguish expression, that it seemed doubtful whether
he was more impressed by the truth or by the untenability of the
thesis. "The pure in heart should dare everything. A capital saying
which I shall carry away with me. It will please my pastor, who
undertook a controversy with me last autumn and demanded a strip of my
land. Not for his own sake, the Lord forbid! but for the sake of
principle, and of posterity, for which reasons he ought not to yield.
The sly old fox. But the pure in heart should dare everything."

"Of course you would have to yield in the land quarrel with the
pastor," said Botho. "I knew Schoenemann long ago at Sellenthin's."

"Yes, he was a tutor there and knew no better than to shorten the
lesson hours and lengthen the recreation hours. And he could play
grace-hoops like a young marquis; really, it was a pleasure to watch
him. But now he has been seven years in orders and you would never know
the Schoenemann who used to pay court to the charming mistress of the
house. But I must admit this, he educated both the young ladies well,
especially your Katherine...."

Botho glanced timidly at his uncle, almost as if to beg him to be
discreet. But the old Baron, delighted to have seized upon so favorable
an opportunity to enter on his favorite theme, went on in exuberant and
ever-increasing good humor: "There, there, Botho. Discretion. Nonsense!
Wedell is from our region and must know the story just as well as
anyone else. Why should we keep silence about such things? You are
already as good as bound. And God knows, young man, when I pass the
young girls in review, you cannot find a better--teeth like pearls, and
she is always laughing so that you can see the whole row. A flaxen
blonde to tempt your kisses, and if I were only thirty years younger, I
declare ..."

Wedell, who noticed Botho's confusion, tried to come to his aid and
said: "The Sellenthin ladies are all very pleasing, the mother as well
as the daughters; last summer I met them in Norderney, and they were
charming, but I would prefer the second...."

"So much the better, Wedell. You will not come into any conflict and we
can celebrate a double wedding. And Schoenemann may be sure that if
Kluckhuhn, who is touchy like all old people, agrees, I will not only
put a spoke in his wheel, but I will give up the strip of parsonage
land to him without further ado if I can see such a wedding within the
year. You are rich, dear Wedell, and there is really no haste about
you. But look at our friend Botho. That he looks so well nourished is
no thanks to his sandy wastes, which, excepting a couple of meadows,
are really nothing but a nursery of young pines, and still less to his
eel pond. 'Eel pond,' sounds wonderful, you might almost say poetic.
But that is all. One cannot live on eels. I know you do not like to
hear about this, but so long as we are on the subject, I may as well
come out with it. How do matters stand, then? Your grandfather had the
timber cut down and your late father--a capital fellow, but I never saw
anyone play the man of affairs so poorly and so expensively too--your
late father, I say, divided up the five hundred acres of eastern
farming-land among the Jeseritz peasants, and there is not much good
land left, and the thirty thousand thalers are long since gone. If you
were alone, it might do, but you must share with your brother, and at
present the mamma, my sister Liebden, has the whole still in her hands,
an admirable woman, clever and skilful, but she does not err on the
saving side. Botho, what is the use of belonging to the Imperial
Cuirassiers and what is the use of having a rich cousin, who is only
waiting for you to come and seal and ratify by a formal proposal what
your parents had already agreed upon when you were still children? Why
consider longer? Listen, if I could go to your mother to-morrow on my
return and bring her the news: 'Dear Josephine, Botho consents;
everything is arranged,' listen, boy, that would be something for an
old uncle who means well by you to rejoice over. Speak to him, Wedell.
It is time that he should quit this bachelor life. Otherwise he will
squander his bit of property or get caught by some little bourgeoise.
Am I right? Naturally. Done! And we must drink to the happy event. But
not with these dregs...." And he rang the bell. "A bottle of Heidsieck.
The best brand."




                              CHAPTER VIII


At about this same time there were at the club two young cavaliers, one
of them, who was tall, slender and smooth-faced, belonged to the Gardes
du Corps; the other, who was somewhat shorter, and had a full beard
with only the regulation smooth chin, had been dismissed from the
Pasewalkern. The white damask table cloth, which remained from their
breakfast, had been turned back and the two were playing piquet on the
bare half of the table.

"Six cards and four of a kind."

"Very well."

"And you?"

"Fourteen aces, three kings, three queens.... And you don't make a
trick." And he laid his hand on the table and then pushed all the cards
together while his companion shuffled.

"Did you know that Ella is about to be married?"

"What a pity!"

"Why a pity?"

"She can't jump through the hoop any more."

"Nonsense. The more they are married the slenderer they grow."

"Yet there are exceptions. Many names belonging to the aristocracy of
the circus already appear in the third and fourth generation, which
seems to point to some alternation of a slender and a stouter form, or
if you like, to the new moon, the first quarter, &c."

"You are mistaken. _Error in calculo_. You forget that there may be
adoptions. All these circus people are secretly 'Gichtelianer' and pass
on their property, their rank and their names according to agreement.
They seem the same and yet they are different. There is always fresh
blood. Cut.... Besides that I have another bit of news. Afzelius is to
join the General Staff."

"Which do you mean?"

"The one who belongs to the Uhlans."

"Impossible."

"Moltke values him highly and he must have done some excellent work."

"He does not impress me. It was all an affair of hunting libraries and
plagiarizing. Any one who is a trifle ingenious can turn out books like
Humboldt or Ranke."

"Four of a kind. Fourteen aces."

"Five sequence to king."

And while the trick was being played, one could hear from the billiard
room near by the sound of the balls and the falling of the little pins.


In the two back rooms of the club, the narrow side of which looked out
on a sunny but tiresome garden, there were in all only six or eight
men, all silent, all more or less absorbed in their whist or dominoes,
and not the least absorbed were the two men who had just been talking
about Ella and Afzelius. The game ran high, and so the two did not look
up until they saw, through an open curved niche, a new-comer
approaching from the next room. It was Wedell.

"But Wedell, if you don't bring us a lot of news, we will excommunicate
you."

"Pardon, Serge, there was no definite agreement."

"But almost. For the rest, you will find me personally in the most
accommodating mood. How you can settle things with Pitt, who has just
lost 150 points, is your affair."

Thereupon the two men pushed the cards aside and the young man whom
Wedell had greeted as Serge took out his watch and said: "Quarter past
three. Time for coffee. Some philosopher, and he must have been one of
the greatest, once said that the best thing about coffee was that it
was always suitable under all circumstances and at all times of day.
Truly that was a wise saying. But where shall we take it? I think we
had better sit outside on the terrace, right in the sun. The more one
braves the weather the better one fares. Here, Pehlecke, three cups. I
cannot listen to the falling of the pins any longer. It makes me
nervous; outside, indeed, there is noise too, but it is different, and
instead of the sharp strokes, we shall hear the rumbling and thundering
of the underground railway, and we can imagine that we are on Vesuvius
or AEtna. And why not? All pleasures are in the last analysis imaginary,
and whoever has the best imagination enjoys the most pleasure. Only
unreality gives value and is actually the only reality."

"Serge," said the man who had been addressed as Pitt at the piquet
table, "if you go on with your famous wise sayings, you will punish
Wedell more severely than he deserves. Besides, you must have some
mercy on me because I have been losing. So, we will stay here, with the
lawn behind us, this ivy near us, and a view of a bare wall. A heavenly
location for his Majesty's guards! What would old Prince Pueckler have
said to this club garden? Pehlecke, here, bring the table here, that
will do. And, to finish with, you may bring us some of your very best
lager. And now, Wedell, if you want to win forgiveness, give your cloak
a shake, and see if you cannot shake a new war or some other big piece
of news out of it. You are related to God in heaven through the
Puttkamers. With which branch I need not say. What more is he brewing?"

"Pitt," said Wedell, "I beg you, don't ask me any questions about
Bismarck. For in the first place, you know that I know nothing about
such matters, because cousins in the seventeenth degree are not
precisely the intimates and confidants of princes, and in the second
place, I come, instead of from the Prince, direct from a shooting match
where with a few hits and many, many misses, no other than his Highness
was the target."

"And who was this bold shot?"

"The old Baron Osten, Rienaecker's uncle. A charming old gentleman and a
good fellow. But of course a sly dog also."

"Like all Maerkers."

"I am one myself."

"_Tant mieux_. Then you know all about it yourself. But out with it.
What did the old fellow say?"

"A good many things. His political talk was hardly worth reporting, but
another bit of news was all the more important: Rienaecker has a sharp
corner to turn."

"And what corner?"

"He is about to marry."

"And you call that a sharp corner to turn? I beg to disagree with you,
Wedell; Rienaecker stands in a much more difficult position: he has 9000
marks a year and spends 12000, and that is the sharpest of all corners,
at least sharper than the marriage corner. Marriage is no danger for
Rienaecker, but a rescue. For that matter, I have seen it coming. And
who is it then?"

"A cousin!"

"Naturally. A rescuer and a cousin are almost identical terms at
present. And I will wager that her name is Paula. All cousins are named
Paula these days."

"But this one is not."

"And her name?"

"Katherine."

"Katherine? Ah, now I know. Katherine Sellenthin. Hm! Not so bad, in
fact a brilliant match. Old Sellenthin, he is the old man with the
plaster over his eye, has six estates, and with the farms there are
really thirteen. If divided in equal parts, Katherine will get the
thirteenth thrown in. My congratulations."

"Do you know her?"

"Certainly. A wonderful flaxen-haired blonde with eyes as blue as
forget-me-nots, but for all that she is not sentimental, and is less
like the moon than like the sun. She was here at Frau Zuelow's Pension,
and at fourteen she was already surrounded and courted."

"At the Pension?"

"Not really at the Pension and not every day, but on Sundays when she
went to lunch with old Osten, the one whom you have just seen.
Katherine, Katherine Sellenthin!... she was like a rail then, and that
is what we used to call her, and she was the most charming little
hoyden that you can imagine. I can still see her braid of hair, which
we always called the distaff. And Rienaecker will now have a chance to
spin it off. Well, why not? It will not be so difficult for him."

"After all, it may be more difficult than many think," answered Wedell.
"And while he certainly needs his finances improved, yet I am not sure
that he would decide at once in favor of the blond beauty from his own
province. For you must know that Rienaecker has for some time past
enjoyed another tint, indeed ash-blond, and if what Balafre lately told
me is true, he has been seriously considering whether he should not
raise his blanchisseuse to the rank of la dame blanche. He sees no
distinction between Castle Avenal and Castle Zehden. A castle is a
castle and, you know, Rienaecker, who for that matter, goes his own way
in many things, was always in favor of naturalness."

"Yes," laughed Pitt. "That he was. But Balafre draws the long bow and
invents interesting tales. You are sober, Wedell, and will not be ready
to believe such made up nonsense."

"No, it is not imaginary," said Wedell. "But I believe what I know.
Rienaecker, in spite of his six feet, or perhaps because of them, is
weak and easily guided and is peculiarly gentle and tenderhearted."

"He certainly is. But circumstances will compel him and he will break
away and free himself, at the worst like a fox out of a trap. It is
painful and a bit of one's life is left behind. But the main thing is
to get out again--out, out and free. Long live Katherine! And
Rienaecker! What does the proverb say? 'God helps those who help
themselves.'"




                               CHAPTER IX


That evening Botho wrote to Lena that he would come on the following
day, perhaps even earlier than usual. And he kept his word and arrived
an hour before sunset. Naturally he found Frau Doerr there. The air was
very fine and not too warm, and after they had talked a while, Botho
said:

"Perhaps we could go into the garden."

"Yes, either into the garden or somewhere else?"

"What do you mean?"

Lena laughed. "Don't be worried again, Botho. There is no one hiding in
ambush and the lady with the pair of white horses and the wreaths of
flowers will not cross your path."

"Then where shall we go, Lena?"

"Just out in the green meadows where you will have nothing but daisies
and me. And perhaps Frau Doerr, too, if she will be so good as to go
with us."

"Will she?" said Frau Doerr. "Surely she will. I feel much honored. But
I must put myself to rights a little. I will be with you again
directly."

"There is no need, Frau Doerr; we will call for you."


And so the plan was carried out, and as the young couple walked across
the garden a quarter of an hour later, Frau Doerr was already standing
at the door, a wrap on her arm and a marvellous hat on her head, a
present from Doerr, who, like all misers, would buy something absurdly
expensive once in a while.

Botho said something complimentary to the rather overdressed lady, and
all three walked down the path and went out by a hidden side door and
reached a little path, which before it led further and curved out into
the open green fields ran along by the outer side of the garden fence
where the nettles grew high.

"We will follow this path," said Lena. "It is the prettiest and the
most solitary. No one comes here."

And certainly it was the loneliest path, far more silent and solitary
than three or four other roads that ran parallel with it over the
meadows towards Wilmersdorf and showed something of their own sort of
suburban life. On one of these roads there were a good many sheds,
between which there were horizontal bars somewhat like those used by
gymnasts. These aroused Botho's curiosity, but before he could ask
about them, the work going on answered his question: rugs and carpets
were spread out on the frames and immediately began such a beating and
banging with big sticks that a cloud of dust rose and nearly concealed
the road.

Botho pointed out this dust and was beginning a discussion with Frau
Doerr about the value or harmfulness of carpets, which, viewed in this
light, are mere dirt catchers, "and if one has not a very strong chest
one might get consumption and never know how." But he stopped short in
the middle of a sentence, because the road he had taken led past a
place where the rubbish of a stone-cutter's workshop had been thrown
out, and all sorts of fragments of ornaments lay about, in great
numbers especially angels' heads.

"There is an angel's head," said Botho. "Look, Frau Doerr. And here is
even one with wings."

"Yes," said Frau Doerr. "And a chubby face too. But is it really an
angel? I think it must be a cupid, because it is so small and has
wings."

"Cupid or angel," said Botho, "they are just the same. You ask Lena,
and she will tell you so. Isn't that so, Lena?"

Lena seemed offended, but he took her hand and they were good friends
again.

Immediately behind the rubbish heap the path turned to the left and
opened immediately afterwards into a somewhat larger country road where
the willows were in bloom and were scattering their fleecy catkins over
the fields, where they lay strewn about like cotton wool.

"Look, Lena," said Frau Doerr, "do you know that they stuff beds with
that now instead of feathers? And they call it tree wool."

"Yes, I know, Frau Doerr. And I am always glad when people think of
anything like that and make use of it. But it would never do for you."

"No, Lena, it would not do for me. You are right. I am more in
favor of something firm, horse hair and a spring bed, and if it gives a
jump ..."

"Oh, yes," said Lena, who was growing a trifle nervous over this
description. "But I am afraid that we shall have rain. Just hear the
frogs, Frau Doerr."

"Yes, the frogs," repeated the latter. "At night they keep up such a
croaking that one cannot sleep. And why? Because this is all swamp and
only looks like meadow land. Look at the pool where the stork is
standing and looking right over this way. Well, he isn't looking at me.
He might have to look a long time. And a mighty good thing too."

"But we ought really to be turning back," said Lena, who was much
embarrassed, and simply wanted to say something.

"Oh, no indeed," laughed Frau Doerr. "Surely not now, Lena; you mustn't
get frightened at a little thing like that. Good stork, you must bring
me ... Or shall I sing: Dearest stork?"

And so it went on for a while yet, for it took time to get Frau Doerr
away from such a favorite topic.

But finally there was a pause, during which they walked slowly onward,
until at last they came to a plateau-like ridge that led over from the
Spree towards the Havel. Just at this point the pasture land ended and
fields of rye and rape seed began and continued as far as the first
rows of houses of Wilmersdorf.

"Now let us go up there," said Frau Doerr, "and then we will sit down
and pick buttercups and make a wreath out of the stems. It is always so
much fun to poke one stem into another until the wreath or the chain is
done."

"Yes, yes," said Lena, whose fate it was not to be free from small
embarrassments. "Yes, yes. But now come, Frau Doerr, the path leads this
way."

And talking thus they climbed the little slope and seated themselves at
the top on a heap of weeds and rubbish that had been lying there since
the previous autumn. This heap was an excellent resting place, and also
afforded a good point of view from which one could overlook a ditch
bordered with willows and grass, and could not only see the northern
row of houses of Wilmersdorf, but could also plainly hear, from a
neighboring smoking-room and bowling-alley, the fall of the ninepins
and more plainly still the rolling back of the heavy ball along the two
noisy wooden rods of its track. Lena enjoyed this, and took Botho's
hand and said: "See, Botho, I understand that so well (for when I was a
child we lived near such a bowling-alley) that when I just hear the
ball hit, I know at once how much it will make."

"Well," said Botho, "then we can bet."

"And what shall we bet?"

"We shall think of something."

"Very well. But I only have to guess right three times, and if I say
nothing it doesn't count."

"I am satisfied."

And so they all three listened, and Frau Doerr, who grew more excited
every minute, swore by all that was holy that her heart was throbbing
and that she felt just as if she were sitting before the curtain at the
theatre. "Lena, Lena, you have undertaken too much, child; it really is
not possible."

And so she would have continued, if they had not just then heard a ball
hit and after one dull blow come to rest against the side guard.
"Missed," cried Lena. And this was actually the case.

"That was easy, too easy," said Botho. "I could have guessed that
myself. Let us see what happens next."

And then, two more strokes followed, without Lena speaking or moving.
But Frau Doerr's eyes seemed to pop out of her head more and more. But
now, Lena rose at once from her place, there came a small, hard ball
and one could hear it dance, vibrating over the board with a tone in
which elasticity and hardness were curiously mingled. "All nine," said
Lena. And in a moment the falling of the ninepins was heard and the
attendant only confirmed what scarcely needed confirmation.

"You have won, Lena. We must eat a philopena to-day and then we'll call
it square. Isn't that right, Frau Doerr?"

"Why certainly," said Frau Doerr winking. "It is all square." And so
saying, she took her hat off and began to swing it about as if it had
been her market hat.

Meanwhile the sun had gone down behind the Wilmersdorf church tower and
Lena proposed to start for home, "it was growing so chilly; but on the
way they would play tag: she was sure that Botho could not catch her."

"We shall soon see."

And now they began chasing and running, and Lena actually could not be
caught until at last she was so weak with laughter and excitement that
she took refuge behind the substantial form of Frau Doerr.

"Now I have a tree to dodge around," she laughed, "and so you'll never
catch me." And thereupon she took hold of Frau Doerr's rather loose
jacket and pushed the good woman so cleverly to the left and right,
that she protected herself for quite a while. But suddenly Botho was
beside her and caught her and gave her a kiss.

"That is against the rules; we had not agreed on anything." But despite
this protest she hung on his arm and commanded, imitating the harsh
voice of the guard, "Forward march ... double quick," and enjoying Frau
Doerr's endless exclamations of admiration wherewith the good woman
accompanied the game.

"Is it believable?" said she. "No, one can hardly believe it. And
always just like this. And when I think of mine! It is unbelievable, I
say. And yet he was a man too. And he always behaved so!"

"What in the world is she talking about?" asked Botho softly.

"Oh she is just thinking.... But you know all about it.... I told you
about it before."

"Oh, so that is it. Well, he can't have been so very bad."

"Who knows? For that matter, one is about the same as another."

"Do you think so?"

"No." And she shook her head while her eyes shone with a soft and
tender expression. But she would not let this mood get the upper hand
of her and so she said quickly: "Let us sing, Frau Doerr. Let us sing.
But what shall we sing?"

"'Rosy dawn' ..."

"No, not that ... 'To-morrow in the cold grave' is too sad for me. No,
let us sing 'A year from now, a year from now' or rather 'Do you
remember?'"

"Yes, that is right, that is a pretty one: that is my favorite song."

And with well-practised voices all three sang Frau Doerr's favorite
song, and when they had nearly reached the garden the words still rung
out over the field: "_Ich denke d'ran.... Ich danke dir, mein Leben_."
And then from the other side of the road, where the long row of sheds
and carriage-houses were, the echoes repeated the song.

Frau Doerr was very, very happy. But Lena and Botho had grown quiet and
serious.




                               CHAPTER X


It was already growing dark when they stood once more in front of Frau
Nimptsch's house, and Botho, who had quickly recovered his high
spirits, wanted to come in for just a moment and then bid good-bye at
once. But when Lena had reminded him of all sorts of promises, and Frau
Doerr with much emphasis and much use of her eyes had reminded him of
the still outstanding philopena, he yielded and decided to spend the
evening.

"That is right," said Frau Doerr. "And I will stay too. That is, if I
may and if I shall not be in the way of the philopena. For one can
never know. And I will just take my hat and cloak home and then come
right back."

"Surely you must come back," said Botho, as he shook hands with her.
"We shall never be so young when we meet again."

"No, no," laughed Frau Doerr, "We shall never be so young when we meet
again. And it is quite impossible, of course even if we should meet
again to-morrow. For a day is always a day and must amount to
something. And therefore it is perfectly true that we shall never be so
young when we meet again. And every one must agree to that."

In this fashion she went on for a while longer, and the wholly
undisputed fact of growing older every day pleased her so much that she
repeated it several times yet. And then she went out. Lena escorted her
out through the hall, while Botho sat down by Frau Nimptsch and asked,
as he put her shawl around her shoulders, "whether she was still angry
with him for taking Lena away again for a couple of hours? But it had
been so beautiful there on the mound where they had sat to rest and
talk that they had quite forgotten the time."

"Yes, happy people forget the time," said the old woman. "And youth is
happy, and that is right and good. But when one grows old, dear Herr
Baron, the hours grow long and one wishes the day was done and life
too."

"Ah, you are only saying that, Mutterchen. Old or young, everyone loves
life. Isn't that so, Lena, that we all love life?"

Lena had just come back into the room and ran to him as if struck by
what he had said and threw her arms around his neck and kissed him and
was far more passionate than was usual with her.

"Lena, what is the matter with you?"

But she had already regained her self-control and with a quick gesture
she refused his sympathy, as if to say: "Do not ask." And while Botho
was talking with Frau Nimptsch, she went to the kitchen cupboard,
rummaged about there a little and came back immediately with a
perfectly cheerful face, bringing a little blue book sewed up in paper,
which looked like the books in which housewives write down their daily
tasks. In fact the book served this purpose and also contained
questions which Lena had noted down either out of curiosity or because
of some deeper interest. She now opened it and pointed to the last
page, on which Botho's eyes immediately fell upon the heavily
underscored words: "_Things I need to know_."

"For heaven's sake, Lena, that sounds like a tract or the title of a
comedy."

"It is something of the sort. Read on."

And he read: "Who were the two ladies at the Corso? Is it the elder or
is it the younger? Who is Pitt? Who is Serge? Who is Gaston?"

Botho laughed. "If I should answer all those questions, Lena, I should
have to stay till early to-morrow morning."

It was fortunate that Frau Doerr was not present to hear this answer or
else there would have been a fresh embarrassment. But the good lady who
was usually so brisk, at least where the Baron was concerned, had not
yet returned, and so Lena said: "Very well, then, have it your own way.
And for all I care, the two ladies may wait until another time! But
what do the foreign names mean? I asked you before, the time you
brought the bonbons. But you gave me no real answer, only half an
answer. Is it a secret?"

"No."

"Then tell me about it."

"Gladly, Lena, these names are only nicknames."

"I know that. You said so before."

"So they are names that we have given each other for convenience, with
or without reason, just by chance."

"And what does Pitt mean?"

"Pitt was an English statesman."

"And is your friend a statesman too?"

"For heaven's sake ..."

"And Serge?"

"That is a Russian given name, belonging to a Russian saint and many
Russian crown princes."

"Who, however, do not find it necessary to be saints if I am right?...
And Gaston?"

"Is a French name."

"Yes, I remember that. Once when I was a little young thing, before I
was confirmed, I saw a piece: 'The Man with the Iron Mask.' And the man
with the mask was called Gaston. And I cried dreadfully."

"And now you will laugh if I tell you that I am Gaston."

"No, I will not laugh. You have a mask too."

Botho was about to contradict this, both in earnest and in jest, but
Frau Doerr, who just then came in, broke off the conversation, by
excusing herself for having kept them waiting so long. But an order had
come in and she had been obliged to make a burial wreath in a hurry.

"A big one or a little one?" asked Frau Nimptsch, who loved to talk
about funerals and had a passion for hearing all the details about
them.

"Well," said Frau Doerr, "it was a middle-sized one; plain people. Ivy
and azaleas."

"Oh, Lord!" went on Frau Nimptsch, "every one is wild about ivy and
azaleas, but I am not. Ivy is well enough when it grows on the grave
and covers it all so green and thick that the grave seems as peaceful
as he who lies below. But ivy in a wreath, that is not right. In my day
we used immortelles, yellow or half yellow, and if we wanted something
very fine we took red ones or white ones and made a wreath out of
those, or even just one color and hung it on the cross, and there it
hung all winter, and when spring came there it hung still. And some
lasted longer than that. But this ivy and azalea is no good at all. And
why not? because it does not last long. And I always think that the
longer the wreath hangs on the grave, the longer people remember him
who lies below. And a widow too, if she is not too young. And that is
why I favor immortelles, yellow or red or even white, and any one can
hang up another wreath also if he wants to. That is just for the looks
of it. But the immortelle is the real thing."

"Mother," said Lena, "you talk so much about graves and wreaths
lately."

"Yes, child, everyone speaks as he thinks. And if one is thinking of a
wedding, he talks about weddings, and if he is thinking of a funeral,
then he talks about graves. And, anyway, I didn't begin talking about
graves and wreaths; Frau Doerr began it, which was quite right. And I
only keep on talking about it because I am always anxious and I keep
thinking. Who will bring you one?"

"Now, mother ..."

"Yes, Lena, you are good, you are a dear child. But man proposes and
God disposes, and to-day red, to-morrow, dead. And you might die any
day as well as I; for all that, I do not believe you will. And Frau
Doerr may die, or when I die she may live somewhere else, or I may be
living somewhere else and may have just moved in. Ah, my dear Lena, one
can never be sure of anything, not even of a wreath for one's grave."

"Oh, but you can, Mother Nimptsch," said Botho, "you shall certainly
have one."

"Oh, Herr Baron, if that is only true."

"And if I am in Petersburg or Paris, and I hear that my old friend Frau
Nimptsch is dead, I will send a wreath, and if I am in Berlin or
anywhere near, I will bring it myself."

The aged woman's face brightened for joy. "There, now you have said
something, Herr Baron. And now I shall have a wreath for my grave and
it is dear to me that I shall have it. For I cannot endure bare graves,
that look like a burial ground for orphans or prisoners or worse. But
now make the tea, Lena, the water is boiling already, and we have
strawberries and milk. And sour too. Heavens, the Herr Baron must be
quite starved. Looking and looking makes folks hungry, I can remember
so much yet. Yes, Frau Doerr, we had our youth, even if it was long ago.
But men were the same then as they are to-day."

Frau Nimptsch, who happened to be talkative this evening, philosophised
for a while longer, while Lena was bringing in the supper and Botho
continued to amuse himself by teasing Frau Doerr. "It was a good thing
that she had put away her handsome hat, which was suitable for Kroll or
for the theatre, but not for the mound near Wilmersdorf. Where did she
get the hat? No princess had such a hat. And he had never seen anything
so becoming; he would not speak for himself alone, but a prince might
have fallen in love with it."

The good woman did indeed realize that he was joking. But still she
said: "Yes, indeed, when Doerr once gets started, he is so eager and so
fastidious that I can hardly tell what has come over him. Day by day he
is quite dull, but all of a sudden he is as if he had changed into
another man and then I always say to myself: there must be something
the matter with him and this is the only way he knows how to show it."

And so the talk went on over the tea, until ten o'clock. Then Botho
rose to go and Lena and Frau Doerr accompanied him through the front
garden to the gate. While they were standing there Frau Doerr reminded
them that after all they had forgotten the philopena. Both seemed
desirous to disregard this reminder and repeated once more how
delightful the afternoon had been. "We must make such little excursions
oftener, Lena, and when I come again, we will think where to go. I
shall be sure to think of something, some place where it is quiet and
beautiful, and further away, and not just across the fields."

"And we will take Frau Doerr with us again," said Lena, "You ask her,
will you not, Botho?"

"Certainly, Lena. Frau Doerr must always go with us. Without her the
trip would be a failure."

"Ah, Herr Baron, I could never accept that, I could never expect such a
thing."

"Oh, yes indeed, dear Frau Doerr," laughed Botho. "You may expect
everything, such a woman as you."

And therewith they parted.




                               CHAPTER XI


The country excursion, which had been promised or at least discussed
after the walk to Wilmersdorf, was now the favorite topic for several
weeks, and whenever Botho came the question was, where to go? All
possible places were mentioned: Erkner and Kranichberg, Schwilow and
Baumgartenbrueck, but all were too much frequented, and so it happened
that at last Botho spoke of Hankel's Ablage, the beauty and solitude of
which he had heard enthusiastically described. Lena agreed, for all she
wanted was to get out into God's green world, as far as possible from
the city and its doings, and to be with her lover. It really did not
matter where.

The next Friday was decided upon for the excursion. "Agreed." And so
they started by the Goerlitz afternoon train for Hankel's Ablage, where
they had engaged quarters for the night and meant to pass the next day
very quietly.

There were very few coaches on the train, but even these were not very
full, and so it happened that Botho and Lena found themselves alone. In
the next coupe there was a good deal of talk, from which it was plainly
to be heard that these were through passengers and not people meaning
to stop over at Hankel's Ablage.

Lena was happy, and gave her hand to Botho and gazed silently at the
landscape with its woods and meadows. At last she said: "But what will
Frau Doerr say about our leaving her at home?"

"She needn't find it out."

"Mother will be sure to tell her,"

"Why, that is rather bad and yet we could not do any differently. Look
here! It was well enough out in the fields the other day, because we
were quite alone. But if we do find ourselves practically alone at
Hankel's Ablage, yet we shall have a host and a hostess and perhaps a
waiter from Berlin. And a waiter laughing quietly to himself or at
least laughing inwardly, I cannot endure: he would spoil all my
pleasure. Frau Doerr, when she is sitting by your mother or teaching the
proprieties to old Doerr, is great fun, but not in public. Amongst
people she is simply a comical figure and an embarrassment to us."


Towards five the train stopped at the edge of a wood.... Actually no
one but Botho and Lena got out, and the two walked leisurely and with
frequent pauses to a tavern, which stood close to the Spree and about
ten minutes' walk from the little station. This "Establishment," as it
was described on a slanting signboard, had been originally a mere
fisherman's cottage, which had very gradually, and more by addition
than by rebuilding, been changed into a tavern. The view across the
stream made up for all other deficiencies, so that the brilliant
reputation which the place enjoyed among the initiated never for a
moment seemed exaggerated. Lena, too, felt quite at home immediately,
and went and sat in a sort of veranda-like room that had been built on,
and that was half covered over by the branches of an old elm that stood
between the house and the bank.

"Let us stay here," said she, "Just see the boats, two, three ... and
further out a whole fleet is coming. Yes, it was indeed a lucky thought
that brought us here. Only see how they run back and forth on the boats
and put their weight on the rudder. And yet it is all so silent. Oh, my
own dear Botho, how beautiful it is and how I love you!"

Botho rejoiced to see Lena so happy. Something determined and almost
severe that had always formed a part of; her character seemed to have
disappeared and to have been replaced by a new gentleness, and this
change seemed to make her perfectly happy. Presently mine host who had
inherited the "Establishment" from his father and grandfather, came to
take the orders of the "gentle folk," and especially to ascertain
whether they intended to stay overnight, and when this question was
answered in the affirmative, he begged them to decide upon their room.
There were several at their disposal, but the gable room would probably
suit them the best. It was, indeed, low studded, but was large and
roomy and had the view across the Spree as far as the Mueggelborg.

When his proposal had been accepted, the host went to attend to the
necessary preparations, and Botho and Lena were left once more to enjoy
to the full the happiness of being quietly alone together. A finch
whose nest was in a low bush near by was swinging on a drooping twig of
the elm, the swallows were darting here and there, and finally came a
black hen followed by a whole brood of ducklings, passed the veranda,
and strutted pompously out on a little wooden pier that was built far
out over the water. But half way along this pier the hen stopped, while
the ducklings plunged into the water and swam away.

Lena watched all this eagerly. "Just look, Botho, how the stream rushes
through among the posts." But actually it was neither the pier nor the
water flowing through, that attracted her attention, but the two boats
that were moored there. She coquetted with the idea and indulged in
various trifling questions and references, and only when Botho remained
deaf to all this did she express herself more plainly and declare that
she wanted to go boating.

"Women are incorrigible. Incorrigible in their light-mindedness. Think
of that Easter Monday! Just a hair's breadth ..."

"And I should have been drowned. Certainly. But that is only one side
of the matter. There followed the acquaintance with a handsome man, you
may be able to guess whom I mean. His name is Botho. I am sure you will
not think of Easter Monday as an unlucky day? I am more amiable and
more gallant than you."

"There, there.... But can you row, Lena?"

"Of course I can. And I can steer and raise a sail too. Because I was
near being drowned, you think I don't know anything? But it was the
boy's fault, and for that matter, any one might be drowned."

And then they walked down the pier to the two boats, whose sails were
reefed, while their pennants with their names embroidered on them
fluttered from the masthead.

"Which shall we take," said Botho, "the _Trout_ or the _Hope_?"

"Naturally, the _Trout_. What have we to do with _Hope_?" Botho
understood well enough that Lena said that on purpose to tease him, for
in spite of her delicacy of feeling, still as a true child of Berlin
she took pleasure in witty little speeches. He excused this little
fling, however, and helped her into the boat. Then he sprang in too.
Just as he was about to cast off the host came down the pier bringing a
jacket and a plaid, because it would grow cold as the sun went down.
They thanked him and soon were in the middle of the stream, which was
here scarcely three hundred paces wide, as it flowed among the islands
and tongues of land. Lena used her oars only now and then, but even
these few strokes sufficed to bring them very soon to a field overgrown
with tall grass which served as a boatbuilder's yard, where at some
little distance from them a new boat was being built and various old
leaky ones were being caulked and repaired.

"We must go and see the boats," said Lena gaily, taking Botho's hand
and urging him along, but before they could reach the boat builder's
yard the sound of hammer and axe ceased and the bells began to ring,
announcing the close of the day's work. So they turned aside, perhaps a
hundred paces from the dockyard into a path which led diagonally across
a field, to a pine wood. The reddish trunks of the trees glowed
wonderfully in the light of the sinking sun, while their tops seemed
floating in a bluish mist.

"I wish I could pick you a pretty bunch of flowers," said Botho, taking
Lena's hand. "But look, there is just the grassy field, all grass and
no flowers. Not one."

"But there are plenty. Only you do not see them, because you are too
exacting."

"And even if I were, it is only for your sake."

"Now, no excuses. You shall see that I can find some."

And stooping down, she searched right and left saying: "Only look,
here ... and there ... and here again. There are more here than in
Doerr's garden; only you must have an eye for them." And she plucked the
flowers diligently, stooping for them and picking weeds and grass with
them, until in a very short time she had a quantity both of attractive
blossoms and of useless weeds in her hands.

Meanwhile they had come to an old empty fisherman's hut, in front of
which lay an upturned boat on a strip of sand strewn with pine cones
from the neighboring wood.

"This is just right for us," said Botho: "we will sit down here. You
must be tired. And now let me see what you have gathered. I don't
believe you know yourself, and I shall have to play the botanist. Give
them here. This is ranunculus, or buttercup, and this is mouse's ear.
Some call it false forget-me-not. False, do you hear? And this one with
the notched leaf is taraxacum, our good old dandelion, which the French
use for salad. Well, I don't mind. But there is a distinction between a
salad and a bouquet."

"Just give them back," laughed Lena. "You have no eye for such things,
because you do not love them, and the eyes and love always belong
together. First you said there were no flowers in the field, and now,
when we find them, you will not admit that they are really flowers. But
they are flowers, and pretty ones too. What will you bet that I can
make you something pretty out of them."

"I am really curious to see what you will choose."

"Only those that you agree to. And now let us begin. Here is a
forget-me-not, but no mouse's ear--forget-me-not, but a real one. Do
you agree?"

"Yes."

"And this is speedwell, the prize of honor, a dainty little blossom.
That is surely good enough for you. I do not even need to ask. And this
big reddish brown one is the devil's paintbrush, and must have grown on
purpose for you. Oh yes, laugh at it. And these," and she stooped to
pick a couple of yellow blossoms, that were growing in the sand at her
feet, "these are immortelles."

"Immortelles," said Botho. "They are old Frau Nimptsch's passion. Of
course we must take those, we need them. And now we must tie up our
little bouquet."

"Very well. But what shall we tie it with? We will wait till we find a
strong grass blade."

"No, I will not wait so long. And a grass blade is not good enough for
me, it is too thick and coarse. I want something fine. I know what,
Lena, you have such beautiful long hair; pull out one and tie the
bouquet with that."

"No," said she decidedly.

"No? And why not? Why not?"

"Because the proverb says 'hair binds.' And if I bind the flowers with
it you too will be bound."

"But that is superstition. Frau Doerr says so."

"No, the good old soul told me herself. And whatever she has told me
from my youth up, even if it seemed like superstition, I have always
found it correct."

"Well, have it so. I will not contradict you. But I will not have the
flowers tied with anything else but a strand of your hair. And you will
not be so obstinate as to refuse me."

She looked at him, pulled a long hair from her head and wound it around
the bunch of flowers. Then she said: "You chose it. Here, take it. Now
you are bound."

He tried to laugh, but the seriousness with which Lena had been
speaking, and especially the earnestness with which she had pronounced
the last words, did not fail to leave an impression on his mind.

"It is growing cool," said he after a while. "The host was right to
bring you a jacket and a plaid. Come, let us start."

And so they went back to the boat, and made haste to cross the stream.

Only now, as they were returning, and coming nearer and nearer, did
they see how picturesquely the tavern was situated. The thatched roof
sat like a grotesque high cap above the timbered building, whose four
little front windows were just being lit for the evening. And at the
same time a couple of lanterns were carried out to the veranda, and
their weird-looking bands of light shone out across the water through
the branches of the old elm, which in the darkness resembled some
fantastically wrought grating.

Neither spoke. But the happiness of each seemed to depend upon the
question how long their happiness was to last.




                              CHAPTER XII


It was already growing dark as they landed. "Let us take this table,"
said Botho, as they stepped on to the veranda again: "You will feel no
draught here and I will order you some grog or a hot claret cup, shall
I not? I see you are chilly."

He offered several other things, but Lena begged to be allowed to go up
to her room, and said that by and by when he came up she would be
perfectly well again. She only felt a trifle poorly and did not need
anything and if she could only rest a little, it would pass off.

Therewith she excused herself and went up to the gable room which had
been prepared in the meantime. The hostess, who was indulging in all
sorts of mistaken conjectures, accompanied her, and immediately asked
with much curiosity, "What really was the matter," and without waiting
for an answer, she went right on: yes, it was always so with young
women, she remembered that herself, and before her eldest was born (she
now had four and would have had five, but the middle one had come too
soon and did not live), she had had just such a time. It just rushed
over one so, and one felt ready to die. But a cup of balm tea, that is
to say, the genuine monastery balm, would give a quick relief and one
would feel like a fish in the water and quite set up and merry and
affectionate too. "Yes, yes, gracious lady, when one has four, without
counting the little angel ..."

Lena had some difficulty in concealing her embarrassment and asked, for
the sake of saying something, for a cup of the monastery balm tea, of
which she had already heard.


While this conversation was going on up in the gable room, Botho had
taken a seat, not in the sheltered veranda, but at a primitive wooden
table that was nailed on four posts in front of the veranda and
afforded a fine view. He planned to take his evening meal here. He
ordered fish, and as the "tench and dill" for which the tavern was
famous was brought, the host came to ask what kind of wine the Herr
Baron desired? (He gave him this title by mere chance.)

"I think," said Botho, "Brauneberger, or let us say rather Rudesheimer
would suit the delicate fish best, and to show that the wine is good
you must sit down with me as my guest and drink some of your own wine."

The host bowed smilingly and soon came back with a dusty bottle, while
the maid, a pretty Wendin in a woolen gown and a black head-kerchief,
brought the glasses on a tray.

"Now let us see," said Botho. "The bottle promises all sorts of good
qualities. Too much dust and cobweb is always suspicious, but this ...
Ah, superb! This is the vintage of '70, is it not? And now we must
drink, but to what? To the prosperity of Hankel Ablage."

The host was evidently delighted, and Botho, who saw what a good
impression he was making, went on speaking in his own gentle and
friendly way: "I find it charming here, and there is only one thing to
be said against Hankel's Ablage: its name."

"Yes," agreed the host, "the name might be better and it is really
unfortunate for us. And yet there is a reason for the name, Hankel's
Ablage really was an Ablage, and so it is still called."

"Very good. But this brings us no further forward than before. Why is
it called an Ablage? And what is an Ablage?"

"Well, it is as much as to say a place for loading and unloading. The
whole stretch of land hereabouts (and he pointed backward) was, in
fact, always one great domain, and was called under Old Fritz and even
earlier under the warrior kings the domain Wusterhausen. And the thirty
villages as well as the forest and moorland all belonged to it. Now you
see the thirty villages naturally had to obtain and use many things, or
what amounts to the same thing, they had to have egress and ingress,
and for both they needed from the beginning a harbor or a place to buy
and sell, and the only doubt would have been what place they should
choose for the purpose. They actually chose this place; this bay became
a harbor, a mart, an 'Ablage' for all that came and went, and since the
fisher who lived here at that time was my grandfather Hankel, the place
became 'Hankel's Ablage'."

"It is a pity," said Botho, "that this cannot be so well and clearly
explained to everyone," and the host who felt encouraged by the
interest shown was about to continue. But before he could begin, the
cry of a bird was heard high in the air, and as Botho looked up
curiously, he saw that two large, powerful birds, scarcely recognizable
in the twilight, were flying above the water.

"Were those wild geese?"

"No, herons. The whole forest hereabouts is full of them. For that
matter, it is a regular hunting ground. There are huge numbers of wild
boar and deer and woodcock, and among the reeds and rushes here ducks,
and snipe."

"Delightful," said Botho, in whom the hunter was waking up. "Do you
know I envy you. After all, what is in a name? Ducks, snipe, woodcocks!
One could almost wish to be in such pleasant circumstances also. Only
it must be lonely here, too lonely."

The host smiled to himself and Botho, who noticed this, became curious
and said: "You laugh. But is it not so? For half an hour I have heard
nothing but the water gurgling under the pier, and just now the call of
the herons. I call that lonely, however beautiful it may be. And now
and then a couple of big sailboats glide by, but they are all alike, or
at least they look very similar. And really each one seems to be a
phantom ship. It is as still as death."

"Certainly," said the host. "But that is only as long as it lasts."

"How so?"

"Yes," repeated the host, "as long as it lasts. You speak of solitude,
Herr Baron, and for days together it is truly lonely here. And it might
be so for weeks. But scarcely has the ice broken up and the spring come
when we have guests and the Berliner has arrived."

"When does he come?"

"Incredibly early. All in a moment there they are. See here, Herr
Baron, while I, who am hardened to the weather, am still staying
indoors because the east wind blows and the March sun scorches, the
Berliner already sits out of doors, lays his summer overcoat on the
chair and orders pale ale. For if only the sun shines the Berliner
speaks of beautiful weather. It is all the same to him if there is
inflammation of the lungs or diphtheria in every wind that blows. It is
then that he best likes to play grace-hoops, and some are also fond of
Boccia, and when they leave, quite blistered from the reflected
sunlight, my heart really aches for them, for there is not one among
them whose skin will not peel off at least by the following day."

Botho laughed. "Yes, indeed, the Berliners! And that reminds me, your
Spree hereabouts must be the place where the oarsmen and yachtsmen meet
to hold their regattas."

"Certainly," said the host. "But that is not saying very much. If
there are a good many, there may be fifty or perhaps a hundred. And
then all is still again, and the water sports are over for weeks and
months. No, club members are comfortable to deal with; by comparison
they are endurable. But in June when the steamers come, it is bad. And
then it will continue all summer, or at any rate a long, long time ..."

"I believe you," said Botho.

"Then a telegram comes every evening. 'Early to-morrow morning at nine
o'clock we shall arrive by the steamer _Alse_. Party to spend the day.
240 persons.' And then follow the names of those who have gotten up the
affair. It does well enough for once. But the trouble is, it lasts so
long. For how do such parties spend their time? They are out in the
woods and fields until it is growing dark, and then comes their dinner,
and then they dance till eleven. Now you will say, 'That is nothing
much,' and it would not be anything much if the following day were a
holiday. But the second day is like the first, and the third is like
the second. Every evening at about eleven a steamer leaves with two
hundred and forty persons and every morning at nine a steamer arrives
with just as many on board. And between whiles everything must be
cleared away and tidied up. And so the night passes in airing,
polishing and scrubbing, and when the last corner is clean the next
boat load is already arriving. Naturally, everything has its good side,
and when one counts up his receipts towards midnight one knows what he
has been toiling for. 'From nothing you get nothing,' says the proverb
and it is quite true, and if I were to fill all the punch bowls that
have been drunk here I should have to get a Heidelberg tun. It brings
something in, certainly, and is quite right and proper. But according
as one moves forward he also moves backward and pays with the best that
he has, with his life and health. For what is life without sleep?"

"True, I already see," said Botho, "no happiness is complete. But then
comes winter, and then you can sleep like the seven sleepers."

"Yes, if it does not happen to be New Year's or Twelfth Night or
Carnival. And these holidays come oftener than the calendar shows. You
ought to see the life here when they arrive in sleighs or on skates
from all the ten villages, and gather in the great hall that I have
built on. Then we don't see one citified face among them, and the
Berliners leave us in peace, but the farm hands and chambermaids have
their day. Then we see otter skin caps and corduroy jackets with silver
buttons, and all kinds of soldiers who are on leave are there also:
Schwedter Dragoons and Fuerstenwald Uhlans, or perhaps Potsdam Hussars.
And everyone is jealous and quarrelsome, and one cannot tell which they
like best, dancing or fighting, and on the slightest pretext the
villages are arrayed against each other in battle. And so with noise
and turbulent sports they pass the whole long night and whole mountains
of pancakes disappear, and only at dawn do they leave for home over the
frozen river or over the snow."

"Now I see plainly," said Botho, "that you have not very much solitude
or deathly stillness. But it is fortunate that I knew nothing about all
this, or else I should not have wished to come and should have missed a
real pleasure. And I should have been really sorry not to have seen
such a beautiful spot.... But as you said before; what is life without
sleep? and I feel that you are right. I am tired, although it is still
early; I think it must be the effect of the air and the water. And then
I must go and see ... Your good wife has taken so much trouble ... Good
night, I have talked quite enough."

And thereupon he rose and went into the house, which had now grown very
quiet.


Lena had lain down on the bed with her feet on a chair at the bedside
and had drunk a cup of the tea that the hostess had brought her. The
rest and the warmth did her good, the little attack passed off, and
some little time ago she could have gone down to the veranda to join in
the conversation of Botho and the landlord. But she was not in a
talkative mood, and so she only got up to look around the room, in
which she had thus far taken no interest.

And the room was well worth her attention. The timbers and the
plastered walls had been allowed to remain since former times, and the
whitewashed ceiling was so low that one could reach it with one's hand.
But whatever could be improved had been improved. Instead of the small
panes which one still saw on the ground floor, a large window reaching
nearly down to the floor had been set in, which afforded, as the host
had said, a beautiful view of the scenery, both woods and water. But
the large window was not all that had been accomplished here in the way
of modern comfort. A few good pictures, very likely bought at some
auction, hung on the old irregular plastered walls, and where the
projecting window gable joined the sloping roof of the room itself
stood a pair of handsome toilet tables facing each other. Everything
showed that the character of the fisherman's and boatman's tavern had
been carefully kept, while at the same time the place had been turned
into a pleasing hotel for the rich sportsmen of the yacht club.

Lena was much pleased with all that she saw, and began to examine the
pictures that hung in broad frames to the right and left of the bed.
They were engravings, the subjects of which interested her keenly, and
so she wanted to read the inscriptions under each. One was inscribed
"Washington Crossing the Delaware" and the other "The Last Hour at
Trafalgar." But she could get no further than merely to decipher the
syllables, and although it was a very small matter, it gave her a pang,
because it emphasised the chasm that divided her from Botho. He was,
indeed, in the habit of making fun of learning and education, but she
was clever enough to know what to think of such jesting.

Close to the entrance door, above a rococo table, on which stood some
red glasses and a water carafe, hung a gay colored lithograph with an
inscription in three languages: "_Si jeunesse savait_"--a picture which
Lena remembered having seen at the Doerrs'. Doerr loved such things. When
she saw it here again, she shivered and felt distressed. Her fine
sensibility was hurt by the sensual quality of the picture as if it
were a distortion of her own feeling, and so, in order to shake off the
impression, the went to the window and opened both sashes to let in the
night air. Oh. how refreshing it was! She seated herself on the
windowsill, which was only a couple of hands' breadth from the floor,
threw her left arm around the middle bar and listened to hear what was
happening on the veranda. But she heard nothing. Deep stillness
reigned, except that in the old elm there was a stirring and rustling,
and any discomfort that might have lingered in her mind disappeared at
once, as she gazed with ever-growing delight on the picture spread out
before her. The water flowed gently, wood and meadow lay in the dim
evening light, and the thin crescent of the new moon cast its light on
the stream and showed the tremulous motion of the rippling waves.

"How beautiful," said Lena, drawing a deep breath. "And I am so happy,"
she added.

She could hardly bear to leave the view. But at last she rose, placed a
chair before the glass and began to let down her beautiful hair and
braid it. While she was thus occupied Botho came in.

"Lena, still up! I thought that I should have to wake you with a kiss."

"You are too early for that, however late you come."

And she rose and went to him. "My dearest Botho, How long you stayed
away ..."

"And your fever? And your little attack?"

"It has passed off and I have felt well again for the last half hour.
And I have been waiting for you all that time." And she led him over to
the open window: "Only look. Would not the beauty of that view fill any
poor human heart with longing?"

And she clung to him and just as she was closing her eyes, she looked
up at him with an expression of rapture.




                              CHAPTER XIII


Both were up early and the sun was still struggling with the morning
mist as they came down stairs to take breakfast. A light early breeze
was blowing, which the boatmen did not want to lose, and so, as our
young couple were stepping out of doors, a whole flotilla of sailboats
glided past on the Spree.

Lena was still in her morning dress. She took Botho's arm and wandered
along the bank with him to a place where the reeds and rushes grew
tall. He looked at her tenderly. "Lena, I have never seen you look as
you do to-day. I hardly know how to express it. I cannot find any other
word; you look so happy."

And that was true. Yes, she was happy, perfectly happy and saw the
world in a rosy light. She was leaning on her lover's arm and the hour
was very precious to her. Was not that enough? And if this hour was the
last, then let it be the last. Was it not a privilege to pass such a
day, even if it were only once?

Thus all thoughts of care and sorrow vanished, which in spite of
herself had oppressed her spirit, and she felt nothing but pride and
joy and thankfulness. But she said nothing, for she was superstitious
and did not dare to talk about her happiness, and it was only through a
slight tremor of her arm that Botho knew that his words "I believe you
are happy, Lena" had found their way to her innermost heart.

The host came and inquired courteously, though with some slight
embarrassment, whether they had slept well.

"Admirably," said Botho. "The herb tea, which your good wife
recommended, did wonders and the crescent moon shone right in at our
window, and the nightingales sang softly, so softly that we could
barely hear them. Who would not sleep as if in paradise? I hope that no
steamer with two hundred and forty guests has been announced for this
afternoon. That indeed would drive us forth from paradise. You smile
and are probably thinking, 'Who can tell?' and perhaps my own words
have conjured up the devil, but he is not here yet. I see neither
smokestack nor smoke, the Spree is still undisturbed, and even if all
Berlin is on the way our breakfast at least we can enjoy in peace. Can
we not? But where?"

"Wherever you order it."

"Very well, then I think under the elm. The fine dining-room is only
necessary when the sun is too hot out of doors. And it is not too hot
yet and has not wholly burned away the mist above the woods."

The host went to order the breakfast, but the young couple walked as
far as a little promontory on their side of the stream, from which they
could see the red roofs of a neighboring village and close to the
village the sharp church steeple of Koenigs-Wusterhausen. By the water's
edge lay the trunk of a willow that had drifted down stream and lodged
there. They sat down on this log and watched a fisherman and his wife
who were cutting the tall reeds and throwing great bundles of them into
their skiff. They enjoyed the pretty sight, and when they arrived at
the tavern again, their breakfast was just being served. The breakfast
was in the English style rather than the German: coffee and tea, with
eggs and meat and even slices of toast in a silver rack.

"Just look, Lena. We must take breakfast here often. What do you think?
It is heavenly. And look over towards the dockyard; they are already at
work caulking the boats and the work follows a regular rhythm. Really,
the rhythm of any such work is the best kind of music."

Lena nodded, but she was only half listening, for again to-day her
attention was attracted toward the pier. It was not, indeed, the boats
that were moored there, and which had so aroused her interest
yesterday, but a pretty maid, who was kneeling half way down the pier
amongst her kettles and copperware. With a hearty pleasure in her work,
which was expressed in every motion of her arms, she polished the cans,
kettles, and saucepans, and whenever she had finished one, she let the
water run over the highly polished vessel. Then she would hold it up,
let it glisten a moment in the sun and then put it in a basket.

Lena was quite carried away by the picture, and pointed to the pretty
girl, who seemed to love her work as if she could never do enough.

"Do you know, Botho, it is no mere chance that she is kneeling there.
She is kneeling there for me and I feel plainly, that it is a sign and
a token."

"But what is the matter with you, Lena? You look so different, you have
grown quite pale all of a sudden."

"Oh nothing."

"Nothing? And yet your eyes are glistening as if you were nearer to
tears than to laughter. You certainly must have seen copper kettles
before and a cook polishing them. It seems almost as if you envied the
girl kneeling there and working hard enough for three women."

The appearance of the host interrupted the conversation at this point
and Lena recovered her quiet bearing and soon her cheerfulness also.
Then she went upstairs to change her dress.

When she returned she found that a programme proposed by the host had
been unconditionally accepted by Botho: the young people were to take a
sailboat as far as the next village, Nieder Loehme, which was charmingly
situated on the Wendisch Spree. From this village they were to walk as
far as Koenigs-Wusterhausen, visit the park and the castle, and then
return in the same way. This excursion would take half a day. The
manner of passing the afternoon could be arranged later.

Lena was pleased with the plan and a couple of wraps were just being
put in the boat, which had been hastily gotten ready, when voices and
hearty laughter were heard from the garden--a sound which seemed to
indicate visitors and the probability that their solitude would be
disturbed.

"Ah, members of the yacht and rowing club," said Botho. "The Lord be
praised, we shall escape them, Lena. Let us hurry."

And they both started off to reach the boat as quickly as possible. But
before they could reach the pier they saw that they were already
surrounded and caught. The guests' were not only Botho's comrades, but
his most intimate friends, Pitt, Serge, and Balafre. All three had
ladies with them.

"_Ah, les beaux esprits se rencontrent_," said Balafre in a rather wild
mood, which quickly changed to a more conventional manner, as he
observed that he was being watched by the host and hostess from the
threshold. "How fortunate we are to meet here. Allow me, Gaston, to
present our ladies to you: Queen Isabeau, Fraeulein Johanna, Fraeulein
Margot."

Botho saw what sort of names were the order of the day, and adapting
himself quickly, he replied, indicating Lena with a little gesture and
introducing her: "Mademoiselle Agnes Sorel."

All the three men bowed civilly, even to all appearances respectfully,
while the two daughters of Thibaut d'Arc made a very slight curtsey,
and Queen Isabeau, who was at least fifteen years older, offered a more
friendly greeting to Agnes Sorel, who was not only a stranger to her,
but apparently embarrassed.

The whole affair was a disturbance, perhaps even an intentional
disturbance, but the more successfully the plan worked out, the more
needful did it seem to keep a bold front at a losing game. And in this
Botho was entirely successful. He asked one question after another, and
thus found out that the little group had taken one of the small
steamers very early and had left the boat at Schmoeckwitz, and from
there had come to Zeuthen on a sailboat. From Zeuthen they had walked,
since it took scarcely twenty minutes; it had been charming: old trees,
green fields and red roofs.

While the entire group of new-comers, but especially Queen Isabeau, who
was almost more distinguished for her talkativeness than for her stout
figure, were narrating these things, they had by chance strolled up to
the veranda, where they sat down at one of the long tables.

"Charming," said Serge. "Large, free and open and yet so secluded. And
the meadow over there seems just made for a moonlight promenade."

"Yes," added Balafre, "a moonlight promenade. That is all very fine.
But it is now barely ten o'clock, and before we can have a moonlight
promenade we have about twelve hours to dispose of. I propose a boating
trip."

"No," said Isabeau, "a boating trip will not do; we have already had
more than enough of that to-day. First the steamer and then the
sailboat and now another boat, would be too much. I am against it.
Besides I never can see the good of all this paddling: we might just as
well fish or catch some little creatures with our hands and amuse
ourselves with the poor little beasts. No, there will be no more
paddling to-day. I must earnestly beg you."

The men, to whom these words were addressed, were evidently amused at
the desires of the Queen Mother, and immediately made other proposals,
which, however, met with the same fate. Isabeau rejected everything;
and at last, when the others, half in jest and half in earnest, began
to disapprove of her conduct, she merely begged to be left in peace.
"Gentlemen," said she, "Patience. I beg you to give me a chance to
speak for at least a moment." This request was followed by ironical
applause, for she had done all the talking thus far. But she went on
quite unconcernedly: "Gentlemen, I beg you, teach me to understand men.
What is an excursion into the country? It is taking breakfast and
playing cards. Isn't that so?"

"Isabeau is always right," laughed Balafre giving her a slap on the
shoulder. "We will play cards. This is a capital place for it; I almost
think that everyone must win here. And the ladies can go to walk in the
meantime or perhaps take a forenoon nap. That will do them the most
good, and an hour and a half will be time enough. And at twelve o'clock
we will meet again. And the menu shall be according to the judgment of
our Queen. Yes, Queen, life is still sweet. To be sure that is from
'Don Carlos.' But must everything be quoted from the 'Maid of
Orleans'?"

That shot struck home and the two younger girls giggled, although they
had scarcely understood the innuendo. But Isabeau who had grown up
amongst conversations that were always interspersed with such slightly
hinted sarcasms, remained perfectly calm and said, turning to the three
other women: "Ladies, if I may beg you, we are now abandoned and have
two hours to ourselves. For that matter, things might be worse."


Thereupon they rose and went into the house, where the Queen went to
the kitchen, and after greeting those present in a friendly but
superior manner, she asked for the host. The latter was not in the
house, so the young woman offered to go and call him in from the
garden, but Isabeau would not hear of it. She would go herself, and she
actually went, still followed by her cortege of three (Balafre called
them the hen and chickens). She went into the garden, where she found
the host arranging the new asparagus beds. Close by there was an
old-fashioned greenhouse, very low in front, with big, sloping windows,
and a somewhat broken-down wall on which Lena and the daughters of
Thibaut d'Arc sat, while Isabeau was arranging her business.

"We have come," said she, "to speak with you about the luncheon. What
can we have?"

"Everything you are pleased to order."

"Everything? That is a great deal, almost too much. Now I should like
eels. Only not like this, but like this." And as she spoke she pointed
first to a ring on her finger and then to her broad thick bracelet.

"I am very sorry, ladies," answered the host. "We have no eels. Nor any
kind of fish; I cannot serve you with fish, it is an exception.
Yesterday we had tench and dill, but it came from Berlin. If I want a
fish, I have to go to the Cologne fish market for it."

"What a pity! We could have brought one with us. But what have you
then?"

"A saddle of venison."

"H'm, that sounds rather well. And before that some vegetables for a
salad. It is too late or almost too late for asparagus. But I see you
still have some young beans there. And here in the hot bed there is
surely something to be found, a couple of small cucumbers or some
lettuce. And then a sweet dish. Something with whipped cream. I do not
care so much for it myself, but men, who always behave as if they did
not like such things, are always wanting sweets. This will make three
or four courses, I think. And then bread and butter and cheese."

"And at what time do you wish the luncheon?"

"Well, I think quite soon, or at least as soon as possible. Is that
right? We are hungry and half an hour is long enough to roast the
saddle of venison. So let us say at about twelve. And if I may ask, we
will have punch, a bottle of Rhine wine, three of Moselle and three of
Champagne. But good brands. You must not think that it will be wasted.
I am familiar with wines, and can tell by the taste whether it is Moet
or Mumm. But you will come out all right; you inspire me with
confidence. By the way, can we not go from your garden directly into
the wood? I hate every unnecessary step. And perhaps we may find some
mushrooms. That would be heavenly. They would go well with the saddle
of venison; mushrooms never spoil anything." The host not only answered
the question in the affirmative, but escorted the ladies as far as the
garden gate, from which it was only a couple of steps to the edge of
the wood. Only a public road ran between. As soon as one had crossed
the road, one was in the shady woods, and Isabeau, who suffered greatly
from the increasing heat, thought herself fortunate in having avoided
the rather long detour over a strip of treeless grass land. She played
the fine lady, but her parasol, which she hung to her girdle, was
decorated with a big grease spot. She took Lena's arm, while the two
ladies followed. Isabeau appeared to be in the best humor and said,
glancing back, to Margot and Johanna: "We must have a goal. It is quite
dreadful to see only woods and then more woods. What do you think,
Johanna?"

Johanna was the taller of the two d'Arcs, and was very pretty, but
somewhat pale and dressed with studied simplicity. Serge liked that.
Her gloves fitted wonderfully, and one might have taken her for a lady
if she had not used her teeth to button one of her glove buttons which
had sprung out.

"What do you think, Johanna?" the Queen repeated her question.

"Well, then, I propose that we should go back to the village from which
we came. It was called Zeuthen, and looked so romantic and so
melancholy, and the road between there and here was so beautiful. And
it must be just as beautiful or more so going back in the other
direction. And on the right hand, that is to say, on the left going
from here, was a churchyard with crosses. And there was a very large
marble one."

"Yes, dear Johanna, that is all very well, but what good would it do
us? We have seen the whole road. Or do you want to see the
churchyard...."

"Of course I do. I have my own feelings, especially on a day like this.
And it is always good to be reminded that one must die. And when the
elder bushes are in bloom ..."

"But, Johanna, the elders are no longer in bloom; the acacia is about
all, and that already has pods. My goodness, if you are so wild about
churchyards, you can see the one in the Oranienstrasse every day.
Zeuthen and the churchyard, what nonsense! We had rather stay right
here and see nothing at all. Come, little one, give me your arm again."

The little one, who by the way was not little, was Lena. She obeyed.
But as they walked on again, the Queen continued in a confidential
tone: "Oh that Johanna, one really cannot go about with her; she has
not a good reputation, and she is a goose. Ah, child, you would not
believe what kind of folks there are going about now; Oh well, she has
a fine figure and is particular about her gloves. But she might better
be particular about some other things. And if you will notice, it is
always such as she who talk continually about the churchyard and dying.
And now you ought to see her by and by. So long as things are all
right, they are all right. But when the punch bowl comes and is emptied
and comes in again, then she screeches and screams. No idea of
propriety. But where should it come from? She was always amongst the
commonest people, out on the Chaussee towards Tegel, where no one ever
goes and only the artillery passes by. And artillery ... Oh well....
You would hardly believe how different all that is. And now Serge has
taken her up and is trying to make something out of her. My goodness,
it can't be done, or at least not all of a sudden; good work takes
time. But here are some strawberries still. How nice! Come, little one,
let us pick some (if it were not for this accursed stooping), and if we
find a real big one we will take it back with us. I will put it in his
mouth and he will be pleased. For I want to tell you that he is just
like a child and he is just the very best man."

Lena, who saw that Balafre was referred to, asked a question or two,
and also asked once more why the men had those peculiar names? She had
already asked about it, but had never learned anything worth speaking
of.

"Good Lord," said the Queen, "there would have to be something like
that and no one should take any notice; and any way it is all put on.
For in the first place no one concerns himself about it, and even if
anyone did, why, it is so all the same. And why not? What harm does it
do? They have nothing to cast up at one another, and each one is just
like the rest."

Lena looked straight before her and kept silence.

"And really, child, you will find it out for yourself, really all this
is simply tiresome. For a while it goes well enough, and I have nothing
to say against it, and I will not deny it myself. But time brings
weariness. Ever since you are fifteen and not even confirmed. Truly,
the sooner one gets out of all this the better. Then I shall buy me a
distillery (for I get plenty of money), and I already know where; and
then I shall marry a widower and I already know whom. And he is willing
too. For I must tell you I like order and propriety and bringing up
children decently, and whether they are his or mine, it is all the same
to me.... And how is it really with you?"

Lena did not say a word.

"Heavens, child, you are changing color; perhaps something in here (she
pointed to her heart) is involved and you are doing everything for the
sake of love? Ah, child, that is bad, then there is sure to be some
sudden smash."

Johanna followed with Margot. They purposely kept at some little
distance and plucked twigs of birch, as if they meant to make a wreath
of them. "How do you like her?" said Margot. "I mean Gaston's ..."

"Like her? Not at all. The very idea that such girls should take a hand
in the game and come to be the fashion! Just see how her gloves fit.
And her hat doesn't amount to much. He ought not to let her go like
that. And she must be stupid too, for she has not a word to say."

"No," said Margot, "she isn't stupid; it is only that she has not
struck her gait yet. And it is rather clever in her to make up to our
stout friend so promptly."

"Oh, our stout friend. Get out with her. She thinks she is the whole
show. But she is nothing at all. I don't believe in backbiting, but she
is false, false as the wood of the gallows."

"No, Johanna, she is not really false. And she has pulled you out of a
hole more than once. You know what I mean."

"Good gracious, _why_ did she do it? Because she was stuck in the same
hole herself, and because she always gives herself airs and thinks she
is so important. Anyone as stout as that is never good."

"Lord, Johanna, how you do talk. It is just the other way around, stout
people are always good."

"Well, have it your own way. But you cannot deny that she is a comical
figure to look at. Just see how she waddles; like a fat duck. And
always buttoned up to her chin because otherwise she would not look fit
to be seen among decent people. And, Margot, I will not give way on
that point, a slender figure is really the principal thing. We are not
Turks, you know. And why wouldn't she go with us to the churchyard?
Because she is afraid. Heaven forbid, she isn't thinking of any such
thing, it's because she's buttoned up so tight and she can't stand the
heat. And yet it isn't really so terribly hot to-day."


So the conversations went, until the two couples came together again
and seated themselves on a moss-grown bank.

Isabeau kept looking at her watch; it seemed as if the hands would
never move.

But when it was half past eleven, she said: "Now, my friends, it is
time; I think we have had enough of nature and may quite properly pass
on to something else. We have never had a bite to eat since early this
morning at about seven. For those ham sandwiches at Grunauer do not
count.... But the Lord be praised, self-denial brings its own reward,
as Balafre says, and hunger is the best cook. Come, ladies, the saddle
of venison is beginning to be more important than anything else. Don't
you think so, Johanna?"

The latter shrugged her shoulders, and sought to turn aside the
suspicion that any such things as venison and punch could ever matter
to her.

But Isabeau laughed. "Well, we shall see, Johanna. Of course the
Zeuthner churchyard would have been more enjoyable. But one must take
what one can get."

And hereupon they all started to return from the woods through the
garden, where a pair of yellow butterflies were fluttering together,
and from the garden to the front of the house where they were to take
luncheon.

As they were passing the dining-room Isabeau saw the host busily
repairing the damage where a bottle of Moselle had been spilt.

"What a pity," said she, "that I had to see just that. Fate really
might have afforded me a more pleasing sight. And why must it be
Moselle?"




                              CHAPTER XIV


In spite of all Isabeau's efforts no genuine cheerfulness would return
to the group since the walk. But the worst of it was, at least for
Botho and Lena, that they could not regain any real cheerfulness even
after they had bidden good-bye to Botho's comrades and their ladies,
and were beginning their homeward journey quite alone in a coupe that
they had engaged. An hour later they had arrived, somewhat depressed,
at the dimly lighted depot at Goerlitz, and here, as they were getting
out, Lena had at once asked quite urgently to be allowed to go the rest
of the way through the city alone. "She was tired and out of sorts,"
she said, "and that was not good." But Botho would not be turned aside
from what he considered to be his duty as an escort, and so the two
together had traversed in a rickety old cab the long, long road by the
canal, constantly trying to keep up a conversation about the excursion,
and "how lovely it had been"--a terribly forced conversation, which had
made Botho feel only too plainly how right Lena's feeling had been,
when in an almost imploring tone she had begged him not to escort her
further. Yes, the excursion to "Hankel's Ablage" from which they had
expected so much, and which had actually begun so charmingly and
happily, had ended only in a mingling of ill humor, weariness and
discontent; and only at the last moment, when Botho, with a certain
feeling of being to blame, had bidden Lena a friendly and affectionate
"good night," did she run to him, take his hand and kiss him with
almost passionate impetuosity: "Ah, Botho, things were not as they
should have been to-day, and yet no one was to blame ... not even the
others."

"Never mind, Lena."

"No, no. It was nobody's fault, that is the truth, and it cannot be
altered. But the worst of it is, that it is true. If anyone is to
blame, he can ask pardon and so make all good again. But that is no
help to us. And then too, there is nothing to forgive."

"Lena ..."

I "You must listen for a moment. Oh, my dearest Botho, you are trying
to hide it from me, but the end is coming. And quickly too, I know it."

"How can you say so!"

"To be sure, I only dreamed it," Lena went on. "But why did I dream it?
Because all day long it had been in my mind. My dream was only what my
heart told me. And what I wanted to tell you, Botho, and the reason why
I ran after you a few steps was, that what I said last night holds
good. That I could pass this summer with you was a joy to me, and
always will be, even if I must be unhappy from this day forth."

"Lena, Lena, do not say that ..."

"You feel yourself that I am right; only your kind heart struggles
against it and will not admit the truth. But I know it: yesterday, as
we were walking across the meadow, chattering together, and I picked
you the bunch of flowers, it was our last joy and our last beautiful
hour."


With this interview the day had ended, and now it was the following
morning, and the summer sunshine was streaming brightly into Botho's
room. Both windows stood open and the sparrows were quarreling
in the chestnut tree outside. Botho himself was leaning back in a
rocking-chair, smoking a meerschaum pipe and striking with his
handkerchief now and then at a big blue-bottle fly that came in at one
window as fast as he went out of the other, to buzz persistently around
Botho.

"If I could only get rid of the creature. I should enjoy tormenting it.
These big flies are always bearers of bad news, and then they are as
spitefully persistent as if they took pleasure in the trouble that they
announce." And he struck at the fly once more. "Gone again. It is no
use. Resignation then is the only help. On the whole, submission is the
best. The Turks are the cleverest people."

While Botho was thus soliloquising, the shutting of the little wicket
gate led him to look into the garden, where he saw the letter carrier
who had just entered and with a slight military salute and a "Good
morning, Herr Baron" first handed him a paper and then a letter through
the low window. Botho threw the paper aside, and looked at the letter,
on which he easily recognised his mother's small, close, but still very
legible handwriting. "I thought as much ... I know already, before I
have read it. Poor Lena."

And he opened the letter and read:


                            "Schloss Zehden, June 29, 1875."

"My dear Botho:

"The apprehension of which I told you in my last letter, has now proved
well founded: Rothmueller in Arnswalde has demanded his money on October
1 and only added 'Because of our old friendship' that he would wait
until New Year, if it would cause me any embarrassment. 'For he knew
very well what he owed to the memory of the departed Baron.' The
addition of this expression, however well it may have been meant, was
doubly humiliating to me; it showed such a mingling of pretentious
consideration, which never makes a pleasing impression, least of all
from such a source. You can perhaps understand the care and discomfort
that this letter gave me. Uncle Kurt Anton would help me, as he has
already done on former occasions. He loves me, and you best of all, but
always to claim his benevolence again, is somewhat oppressive and all
the more so because he lays the blame for our continual difficulties on
our whole family, but especially on us two. In spite of my honest
efforts at good management, I am not thrifty and economical enough for
him, in which opinion he may be right, and you are not practical and
sensible enough for him, in which opinion also he may be quite correct.
Well, Botho, that is how things stand. My brother is a man of very fine
feeling in regard to justice and reason, and of a perfectly remarkable
generosity in money matters, which cannot be said of many of our
nobility. For our good Mark of Brandenburg is a province characterized
by economy and even, when help is needed, by nervous anxiety. But
however kind my brother is, he has his moods and his obstinacy, and
finding himself continually crossed in his wishes has for some time
past put him seriously out of humor. He told me, the last time I took
occasion to mention the demand for the payment of our debt which was
then threatening again: 'I am very glad to be of service, sister, as
you know, but I frankly confess that to be constantly obliged to help,
when one could help oneself at any minute, if only one had a little
more foresight and a little less self-will, makes great claims on the
side of my character which was never the strongest: I mean on my
indulgence....' You know, Botho, to what these words of his referred,
and I ask you to take them to heart to-day, just as your Uncle Kurt
Anton wished me to take them to heart then. There is nothing which
causes you more cold shivers, as I conclude from your own words and
letters, than sentimentality, and yet I fear that you are yourself more
deeply involved in something of the kind than you are willing to
confess, perhaps than you know yourself. I will say no more."


Rienaecker laid down the letter and walked up and down the room, while
he half mechanically exchanged the meerschaum for a cigarette. Then he
picked up the letter again and read on:


"Yes, Botho, you have the future of all of us in your hands, and it is
for you to decide whether this feeling of constant dependence shall
continue or cease. You have our future in your hands, I say, but I must
indeed add, only for a short time yet, in any case not very much
longer. Uncle Kurt Anton spoke with me about this also, especially in
connection with Katherine's Mamma, Frau Sellenthin, who, when he was
last in Rothenmoor, expressed herself not only very decidedly but
with some access of irritation, as to this matter which interested
her so keenly. Did the Rienaecker family perhaps believe that an
ever-diminishing property increased constantly in value, after the
manner of the Sibylline books? (Where she got the comparison, I do not
know.) Katherine would soon be twenty-two, had had enough social
experience to form her manners, and with the addition of an inheritance
from her Aunt Kielmannsegge would control a property whose income would
not fall far behind that of the Rienaeckers' forest land and the eel
pond together. It was not fitting to keep such young girls waiting,
especially with such coolness and placidity. If Herr von Rienaecker
chose to drop all that had formerly been planned and discussed by the
family and to regard agreements that had been made as mere child's
play, she had nothing to say against it. Herr von Rienaecker would be
free from the moment when he wished to be free. But if, on the
contrary, he did not intend to make use of this unconditional freedom
to withdraw, it was time to make his intentions known. She did not wish
her daughter to be talked about.

"You will not find it difficult to see from the tone of these words,
that it is absolutely necessary to come to a decision and to act. You
know what my wishes are. But my wishes ought not to bind you. Act as
your own intelligence dictates, decide one way or the other, only act.
A withdrawal is more honorable than further procrastination. If you
delay longer, we shall lose not only the bride, but the whole
Sellenthin house as well, and what is worst of all, the friendly and
helpful disposition of your Uncle also. My thoughts are with you, and I
wish that they might guide you. I repeat, this is the way to happiness
for you and for us all. And now I remain, your loving Mother,

                                          "Josephine von R."


When he had read the letter, Botho was much excited. It was just as the
letter said, and further delay was no longer possible. The Rienaecker
property was not in good condition and there were embarrassments which
he did not feel the power to clear away through his own energy and
ability. "Who am I? An average man from the so-called upper circle of
society. And what can I do? I can ride and train a horse, carve a capon
and play cards. That is all and therefore I have the choice between a
trick rider, and a head butler and a croupier. At the most I might add
a soldier, if I am willing to join a foreign legion. And then Lena
could go with me as daughter of the regiment. I can see her now with a
short skirt and high-heeled shoes and a knapsack on her back."

He went on speaking in this tone, and actually enjoyed saying bitter
things to himself. Finally, however, he rang and ordered his horse,
because he meant to go riding. And it was not long before his beautiful
chestnut, a present from his uncle and the envy of his comrades, was
waiting outside. He sprang into the saddle, gave the stable boy some
orders and rode to the Moabiter Bridge, after crossing which, he
turned into a broad road that led over fens and fields to the Jungfern
Haide. Here he let his horse change from a trot to a walk, and while
he had thus far pursued all sorts of dim thoughts, he now began to
cross-examine himself more sharply every moment. "What is it then that
hinders me from taking the step that everyone expects of me? Do I mean
to marry Lena? No. Have I promised her that I would? No. Does she
expect it? No. Or would the parting be any easier if I should postpone
it? No. Still no, again and again. And yet I delay and hesitate to do
the one thing which positively must be done. And why do I delay? What
is the cause of this vacillating and postponing? Foolish question.
Because I love her."

His soliloquy was here interrupted by the sound of gun shots from the
Tegler shooting range, and only when he had once more quieted his
restive horse did he take up again the thread of his thoughts and
repeat: "Because I love her! Yes. And why should I be ashamed of this
affection? Feeling reigns over all, and the fact that one loves also
gives one the right to love, no matter how much the world may shake its
head or talk about riddles. For that matter it is no riddle, and even
if it were I can solve it. Every man according to his own nature is
dependent upon certain little things, sometimes very, very little
things, which in spite of being so small, mean life for him or the best
there is in life. And for me the best there is in life is simplicity,
truth, naturalness. Lena has all this, that is how she won me, and
there lies the magic from which it now seems so difficult to free
myself."

Just now his horse shied and he saw a hare that had been driven out of
a strip of meadow land, and was darting right in front of him towards
the Jungfern Haide. He watched the creature curiously and only resumed
his reflections when the fugitive had disappeared among the trunks of
the trees. "And was what I wanted," he went on, "anything so foolish
and impossible? No. It isn't in me to challenge the world and declare
open war against its judgments; besides, I do not believe in such
quixotism. All that I wanted was a still, secluded happiness, a
happiness which I expected would sooner or later win the approval of
society, because I should have spared it the shock of defiance. Such
was my dream, such were my hopes and my thoughts. And now shall I
abandon this happiness and exchange it for another that is no happiness
to me? I am wholly indifferent to a _salon_, and I feel a repulsion for
all that is untrue, high-flown, dressed up or disguised. _Chic_,
_tournure_, _savoir faire_--are all just as ugly to me as their foreign
names."

At this point in Botho's reflections, the horse, whose reins had been
lying loose for the past quarter of an hour, turned as if of its own
accord into a side path, which led first to a bit of farm land and
immediately behind this to a grass plot surrounded by undergrowth and a
few oak trees. Here, in the shade of an old tree, stood a low, solid
cross, and as he rode up to have a better look at the cross, he read:
"Ludwig v. Hinckeldey, died March 10, 1856." What an impression this
made upon him! He had known that the cross was somewhere in this
region, but had never been exactly here before, and he now regarded it
as a sign, that his horse left to his own devices had brought him to
this very spot.

Hinckeldey! It was now nearly twenty years since the death of this man,
whose power was then almost absolute; and everything that had been said
in his parents' house when the news came, now came back vividly to
Botho's mind. And more clearly than anything else he remembered one
story. One of the citizens, who was especially trusted in other ways as
an adviser by his chief had warned and admonished him against duels in
general, and especially against such a duel under such circumstances,
as a folly and a crime. But his chief, suddenly taking his stand as a
nobleman on this occasion, had answered brusquely and haughtily:
"Noerner, you do not understand anything about such matters." And an
hour later he was dead. And why? For the sake of a conception of what
was required of a nobleman, for a whim of a class of society, which
proved more powerful than reason, even more powerful than the law to
uphold and protect, which was especially his duty. "Instructive." And
what in particular have I to learn from this story? What does this
monument preach to me? In any case, one thing, that our ancestry
determines our deeds. He who obeys this principle may go to ruin, but
he goes to ruin in a better way than he who disobeys it.

While he was thinking thus, he turned his horse around and rode across
the field towards a great factory, a rolling mill or a machine shop,
from the many chimneys of which flames and smoke were rising. It was
noon, and part of the workmen were sitting outside in the shade, eating
their dinner. The women, who had brought them their food, stood near by
chatting, several with babies in their arms, laughing amongst
themselves whenever a playful or sarcastic remark was made. Rienaecker,
who quite rightly believed that he appreciated naturalness, was
delighted with this picture, and with a sort of envy he gazed at the
group of happy people. "Work and daily bread and an orderly life. When
our people from the Mark marry, they have nothing to say about love and
passion, they merely say: 'I need to lead an orderly life.' And that is
a fine trait in the life of our people and not at all prosaic. For
order is a great thing, and sometimes it is worth everything. And now I
must ask myself, has my life been 'orderly'? No. Order means marriage."
In this strain he talked to himself for a while longer and then he saw
Lena standing before him once more, but she did not look at him
reproachfully or complainingly, but rather the reverse, as if she were
in friendly agreement with him.

"Yes, my dear Lena, you too believe in work and orderly living, and you
will understand and not make it hard for me ... but it is hard all the
same ... for you and for me."

He put his horse to the trot again and kept along by the Spree for a
little while more. Then, however, he turned aside into a bridle path,
which led past the tents which lay in the noonday silence, then past
the Wrangel Spring and soon afterwards to his own door.




                               CHAPTER XV


Botho wanted to go to Lena at once, and when he felt that he had not
strength enough for that, he wanted at least to write. But even that
was too much for him. "I cannot do it, not to-day." And so he let the
day go by and waited until the next morning. Then he wrote very
briefly.


"Dear Lena:

"Things are turning out, just as you told me the day before yesterday.
We must part. And we must part forever. I have had letters from home
which compel me; it must be, and since it must be, let it be
quickly.... Ah, I wish these days lay behind us. I will say no more,
not even how my heart aches.... It was a beautiful time, though so
brief, and I shall never forget anything that has been. Towards nine I
shall come to you, not earlier, for it must not last long. Auf
Wiedersehen! only this once more, auf Wiedersehen!    Your own,

                                                  "B. v. R."


And so he came. Lena was standing at the gate and received him as
usual; not the slightest trace of reproach or even of painful
renunciation was to be seen in her face. She took his arm and so they
walked along the front garden path.

"It is right that you have come ... I am happy because you are here.
And you must be happy too."

With these words they reached the house, and Botho started to go into
the large front room as usual. But Lena led him further along and said:
"No. Frau Doerr is in there."

"And is she still angry with us?"

"Oh, no. I comforted her. But what do we want with her to-day? Come, it
is such a beautiful evening and we want to be alone."

Botho agreed, and so they went along the passage and across the yard to
the garden. Sultan did not stir and only blinked at the two, as they
followed the long middle path and then went over to the bench that
stood between the raspberry bushes.

They sat down on the bench. It was very still, only they could hear a
chirping from the fields beyond and the moon was high above them.

She leaned against him and said quietly and affectionately: "And so
this is the last time that I shall hold your hand in mine?"

"Yes, Lena. Can you forgive me?"

"How can you always ask that? What have I to forgive?"

"That I make your heart ache."

"Yes, it aches. That is true."

And she was silent again and looked up at the dim stars that were
appearing in the sky.

"What are you thinking of, Lena?"

"How beautiful it would be if I were up there."

"Do not speak so. You ought not to wish your life to be over; it is
only a step from such a wish ..."

She smiled. "No, not that. I am not like the girl who ran and threw
herself into the well, because her sweetheart danced with some one
else. Do you remember when you told me about that?"

"But what do you mean then? It does not seem like you to say such a
thing, just for the sake of talking."

"No, I meant it seriously. And really" (she pointed up to the sky), "I
should be glad to be there. Then I should be at peace. But I can
wait.... And now come, let us walk out in the fields. I brought no wrap
and I find it cold sitting still."

And so they followed the same path through the fields that had led them
the other time as far as the first houses of Wilmersdorf. The tower was
plainly visible under the bright starry sky while a thin mist was
drifting over the meadow land.

"Do you remember," said Botho, "how we took this same walk with Frau
Doerr?"

She nodded. "That is why I proposed to come here; I was not chilly, or
scarcely at all. Ah, that was such a beautiful day and I have never
been so gay and happy, either before or afterwards. Even now my heart
laughs, when I think how we walked along singing, 'Do you remember.'
Yes, memory means so much--it means everything. And I have that and I
can keep it and nothing can ever, take it away from me. And I can feel
plainly how it will lighten my heart."

He embraced her. "You are so good."

But Lena went on quietly: "And I will not let it pass without telling
you all about it, how it is that my heart is so light. Really it is
just the same thing that I told you before, the day before yesterday,
when we were in the country on our half-spoiled excursion, and
afterwards when we were saying good-bye. I always saw this coming, even
from the beginning, and nothing has happened but what had to happen. If
one has had a beautiful dream, one should thank the Lord for it, and
not lament that the dream ends and reality begins again. It is hard
now, but all will be forgotten or will seem pleasant again. And some
day you will be happy again and perhaps I shall too."

"Do you believe so? And if not? What then?"

"Then we must live without happiness."

"Ah, Lena, you say that as if happiness were nothing. But it is
something, and that is what distresses me, and it seems to me as if I
had done you an injustice."

"I absolve you from that. You have done me no injustice, you did not
lead me astray and you made me no promise. Everything was my own free
choice. I loved you with all my heart. That was my fate, and if it was
a sin, then it was my sin, and more than that, a sin in which I rejoice
with all my heart, as I have told you again and again, because it was
my joy. If I must pay for it, I will pay gladly. You have not injured,
hurt, or damaged anything, unless perhaps what men call propriety and
good morals. Shall I distress myself about that? No. Everything will
come right again, and that too. And now come, let us turn back. See how
the mist is rising; I think Frau Doerr must have gone home by this time
and we shall find my good old mother alone. She knows everything, and
all day long she has only said the one same thing."

"And that was?"

"That all was for the best."

Frau Nimptsch was alone, as Botho and Lena came in. The room was still
and dusky and only the firelight flickered amongst the great shadows
that lay across the room. The goldfinch was already asleep in his cage,
and there was not a sound but now and then the hissing of the boiling
water.

"Good evening, Mutterchen," said Botho.

The old woman returned his greeting and was going to rise from her
footstool to draw up the big armchair. But Botho would not allow it and
said: "No, Mutterchen, I will sit in my old place."

And he pushed the wooden stool up to the fire.

There was a short pause; but soon he began again: "I have come to-day
to bid good-bye and to thank you for all the loving-kindness that I
have enjoyed here so long. Yes, I thank you from my heart. I was so
happy and always loved to be here. But now I must leave you, and now I
can only say that perhaps it is better so."

The old woman did not speak but nodded as if in agreement.

"But I shall not be gone out of the world," Botho went on, "and I shall
not forget you. And now give me your hand. That is right. And now
good-night."

Hereupon he rose quickly and walked to the door, while Lena clung to
his arm. And so they walked as far as the garden gate, without another
word being spoken. But then Lena said: "Quick now, Botho. My strength
will not hold out any longer; these two days have really been too much.
Farewell, my dearest, and may you be as happy as you deserve to be, and
as happy as you have made me. Then you will be happy. And we will not
talk about the rest, it is not worth while. There, there."

And she kissed him again and again and then closed the gate. As he
stood on the other side of the street, he seemed, when he saw Lena, as
if he must turn back for one more word, for one more kiss. But she made
an urgent gesture of refusal. And so he walked on down the street,
while she, leaning on the gatepost, with her head supported on her arm,
gazed after him with wide eyes.

So she stood for a long time until his footsteps had died away in the
silence of the night.




                              CHAPTER XVI


The wedding had taken place about the middle of September on the
Sellenthins' estate, Rothenmoor. Uncle Osten, who was usually no
speaker, had offered his good wishes to the bridal pair in what was
undoubtedly the longest toast of his life. And on the next day the
following notice appeared among other family items in the
"Kreuzzeitung": "Botho Freiherr von Rienaecker, First Lieutenant in the
Imperial Regiment of Cuirassiers, and Katherine Freifrau von Rienaecker,
nee Sellenthin have the honor to announce their marriage which took
place yesterday." Naturally the "Kreuzzeitung" was not the paper which
usually found its way to the Doerrs' dwelling nor to the other house in
their garden, but the very next morning there came a letter addressed
to Fraeulein Magdalena Nimptsch, containing nothing but a newspaper
clipping containing the marriage notice. Lena was startled, but
regained her self-control more quickly than the sender, apparently some
envious acquaintance, might have anticipated. That the clipping came
from such a source was easily seen from the addition of
"Hochwohlgeboren" (well born). But his gratuitous freak of sarcasm,
which was intended to double her pain, stood Lena in good stead and
diminished the bitter feeling that the news would otherwise have caused
her.


Botho and Katherine von Rienaecker started for Dresden the very day of
the wedding, after both had happily withstood the enticement of a tour
of visits among the Neumark relatives. And actually they had no reason
to repent their choice, certainly Botho had not, for every day he
congratulated himself not only upon his stay in Dresden, but still more
upon the possession of a young wife who seemed to know nothing of
caprice or ill humor. She actually laughed all day long, and her nature
was as bright and clear as her complexion. She was delighted with
everything and saw the cheerful side of everything. At their hotel
there was a waiter with a forelock that looked like the crest of a
breaking wave, and this waiter with his coiffure was a source of
constant amusement to her, so much so, that although she was not
usually very witty, she simply outdid herself in images and
comparisons. Botho also was amused and laughed heartily, until suddenly
a shade of doubt and even of discomfort began to mingle with his
laughter. That is, he began to notice that whatever happened or came in
sight, she took notice only of the trivial and the comical side of it.
And at the close of a pleasant fortnight spent in Dresden, as the
couple were beginning their homeward journey to Berlin, a short
conversation fully enlightened him as to this side of his wife's
character. They had a coupe to themselves and as they looked back from
the bridge over the Elbe to take farewell of old Dresden and the tower
of the Frauenkirche, Botho said, as he took her hand: "And now tell me,
Katherine, what was really the most beautiful thing here in Dresden?"

"Guess."

"But that is difficult, for you have your own tastes, and I know you do
not care for church music and Holbein's Madonnas...."

"No. You are right there. And since my lord and master is so serious I
will not keep him waiting and tormenting himself any longer. There were
three things that I was delighted with: first, the confectioner's shop
at the Old Market and the Scheffelgassen corner, with those wonderful
pasties and liqueurs. Just to sit there...."

"But, Katherine, one could not sit at all, one could scarcely stand,
and it seemed as if one had to get every mouthful by force."

"That was just it. That was the very reason, my dear. Whatever one must
win by force ..."

And she turned away roguishly pretending to pout, until he kissed her
ardently.

"I see," she laughed, "that you really agree with me and as a reward I
will tell you the second and third too. The second thing was the summer
theater in the suburbs, where we saw 'Monsieur Hercules' and Knaak
drummed the Tannhaeuser March on a rickety old whist table, I never saw
anything so comical in all my life, and I don't believe you ever did
either. It was really too funny.... And the third ... was 'Bacchus
Riding on the He-goat' in the Art Museum and the 'Dog Scratching
Himself' by Peter Vischer."

"I thought it was something like that; and when Uncle Osten hears about
it he will think you are quite right and he will be fonder of you than
ever and will say still oftener than before, 'I tell you, Botho,
Katherine ...'"

"And isn't he right?"

"Why surely he is."

And with these words their conversation ceased for some minutes,
leaving in Botho's mind, however tenderly he gazed upon his young
bride, a somewhat painful impression. The young woman herself had
meanwhile no suspicion of what was taking place in her husband's mind,
and only said: "I am tired, Botho. So many pictures. It comes over me
afterwards.... But [the train was just stopping] what is the noise and
excitement outside?"

"That is some Dresden pleasure resort, Koetchenbroda, I think."

"Koetchenbroda? How comical."

And as the train went on again, she stretched herself out and
apparently closed her eyes. But she was not asleep and was watching her
dear husband between her eyelashes.


On the Landgrafenstrasse, which still had houses on one side only,
Katherine's mother had in the meantime arranged the home for the young
couple, who were much pleased with the comfort that they found awaiting
them when they arrived in Berlin at the beginning of October. Fire was
burning in the fireplaces of the two front rooms, but the doors and
windows stood open, for the autumn air was mild and the fire was only
for the sake of cheerfulness and for ventilation. But the most
attractive thing was the large balcony with its low-hanging awning,
under which one could look straight out over the open country, first
over the birch woods and the Zoological Garden and beyond that as far
as the northern point of the Gruenewald.

Katherine clapped her hands for joy over this beautiful wide view,
embraced her mother, kissed Botho and then suddenly pointed to the
left, where between scattered poplars and willows a shingled tower
could be seen. "See, Botho, how comical. It looks as if it had been
notched three times. And the village near by. What is it called?"

"Wilmersdorf, I believe," stammered Botho.

"Very well, Wilmersdorf. But what do you mean by 'I believe'? You
surely must know the names of the villages hereabouts. Only look,
mamma, doesn't he look as if he had been betraying a state secret?
Nothing is more comical than these men."

And then they left the balcony, and went into the room near it to take
their first luncheon _en famille_: only Katherine's mother, the young
couple and Serge, who had been invited as the only guest.


Rienaecker's house was scarcely a thousand steps from that of Frau
Nimptsch. But Lena did not know that and often passed through the
Landgrafenstrasse, which she would have avoided if she had had the
slightest suspicion that Botho lived so near.

Yet it could not long remain a secret to her.

The third week in October was beginning, but it was still like summer
and the sun shone so warm, that one could scarcely notice the slight
sharpness in the air.

"I must go into town to-day, mother," said Lena. "I have a letter from
Goldstein. He wants to speak to me about a pattern that is to be
embroidered on the Princess Waldeck's linen. And while I am in town, I
shall also go to see Frau Demuth in old Jakobstrasse. Otherwise one
would never see a soul. But I shall be back at about noon. I shall tell
Frau Doerr, so that she will keep an eye on you."

"Never mind, Lena, never mind. I like best to be alone. And Frau Doerr
talks so much and always about her husband. And I have my fire. And
when the goldfinch chirps, that is company enough for me. But if you
could bring me a bag of candy, I have so much trouble with my throat
tickling and malt candy is so loosening ..."

"Very well, mother."

And then Lena left the quiet little house and walked first along the
Kurfuersten Strasse and then the Potsdamer Strasse, to the Spittelmarkt,
where the Goldstein Brothers' place of business was. All went well and
it was nearly noon. Lena was homeward bound, and this time had chosen
to pass through the Luetzowstrasse instead of the Kurfuersten Strasse as
before. The sun did her good and the bustle and stir on the Magdeburg
Square, where the weekly market was being held and everything was being
made ready for departure, pleased her so much that she paused to watch
the cheerful activity. She was quite absorbed in this and was only
aroused when the fire apparatus rushed by her with a great noise.

Lena listened until the rumbling and ringing had vanished in the
distance, but then she glanced to the left at the clock tower of the
Church of the Twelve Apostles. "Just twelve," said she. "Now I shall
have to hurry; she always grows uneasy if I come home later than she
expects me." And so she went on down the Luetzowstrasse to the square of
the same name. But suddenly she paused and did not know which way to
turn, for at a little distance she recognised Botho, who was coming
directly towards her, with a pretty young lady leaning on his arm. The
young lady was speaking with animation and apparently about droll or
cheerful things, for Botho was laughing all the time, as he looked down
at her. It was to this circumstance that she owed the fact that she had
not been observed long before, and quickly deciding to avoid a meeting
with him at any price, she turned to the right of the sidewalk and
stepped up to the nearest large show window, before which there was a
square iron plate, probably used as a cover for the opening to a
cellar. The window itself belonged to an ordinary grocery store, with
the usual assortment of stearine candles and bottles of mixed pickles,
in no way uncommon, but Lena stared at them as if she had never seen
the like before. And truly it was time, for at this very moment the
young couple passed close to her and not a word of the conversation
between them escaped her.

"Katherine, don't talk so loud," said Botho, "people will be staring at
us."

"Let them ..."

"But they must think we are quarreling ..."

"While we are laughing? Quarrelling and laughing at once?" And she
laughed again.

Lena felt the thin iron plate on which she stood tremble. A horizontal
brass rod ran across in front of the show window to protect the large
pane of glass and for a moment it seemed to Lena as if she must catch
at this rod for help and support, but she managed to stand straight,
and only when she could make sure that the pair were far enough away
did she turn to walk homeward. She felt her way cautiously along close
to the houses and got on well enough at first. But soon she felt as if
she were going to faint, and when she reached the next side street that
led toward the canal, she turned into it and stepped through an open
gate into a garden. It was with difficulty that she dragged herself as
far as a little flight of steps that led to a veranda and terrace, and
sat down, nearly fainting, on one of the steps.

As she came to herself, she saw that a half-grown girl, with a little
spade in her hand with which she had been digging small beds, was
standing near her and looking at her sympathetically, while from the
veranda railing an old nurse regarded her with scarcely less curiosity.
Apparently no one but the child and the old servant was at home, and
Lena rose and thanked them both and walked back to the gate. But the
half-grown girl looked after her with sad and wondering eyes, and it
almost seemed as if some premonition of the sorrows of life had dawned
upon her childish heart.

Meanwhile Lena, having crossed the embankment, had reached the canal,
and now walked along at the foot of the slope where she could be sure
of meeting nobody. From the boats a Spitz dog barked now and then, and
as it was noontime a thin smoke rose from the little stovepipes of the
galleys. But she saw and heard nothing of what was going on, or at
least had no clear consciousness of it, and only where beyond the
Zoological Garden the houses by the canal came to an end and the great
lock gate with the water rushing and foaming over it came in sight, did
she stand still and struggle for breath. "Ah, if I could only cry." And
she pressed her hand to her heart.


At home she found her mother in her accustomed place and sat down
opposite her, without a word or a glance being exchanged between them.
But suddenly the old woman, who had been looking all the time in the
same direction, glanced up from the fire and was startled at the change
in Lena's face.

"Lena, child, what is wrong with you? How you do look, Lena?" And
although she was usually slow in her movements, she jumped up in a
moment from her bench and got the jug, to sprinkle water on Lena, who
still sat as if she were half dead. But the jug was empty and so she
hobbled into the passageway and from there into the yard and the
garden, to call good Frau Doerr, who was cutting wallflowers and
honeysuckle for bouquets for the market. Her old husband stood near her
and was just saying: "Don't use up too much string again."

When Frau Doerr, heard from some little distance the distressed cry of
the old woman, she turned pale and called back "I am coming, Mother
Nimptsch, I am coming," and throwing down whatever she had in her
hands, she ran at once to the little house, saying to herself that
something must be wrong there.

"Yes, just as I thought ... Lena." And she vigorously shook the young
girl, who still sat lifeless as before, while the old woman slowly
shuffled in from the passageway.

"We must put her to bed," said Frau Doerr, and Frau Nimptsch started to
take hold with her. But that was not what the stronger woman meant by
"we". "I can manage alone, Mother Nimptsch," and taking Lena in her
arms, she carried her into the next room and covered her over.

"There, Mother Nimptsch. Now a hot cover. I know what is the trouble,
it comes from the blood. First a cover and then a hot brick to the
soles of her feet; but put it right under the instep, that is where the
life is.... But what brought it on? It must have been some shock."

"I don't know. She didn't say anything. But I think that perhaps she
saw him."

"That is so. That's it. I know about that.... But now shut the window
and draw down the blinds.... Some people believe in camphor and
Hoffmann's drops, but camphor is so weakening and is really only fit
for moths. No, dear Frau Nimptsch, nature must help itself, and
especially when one is so young, and so I believe in sweating. But
thoroughly. And what makes all the trouble? The men. And yet we need
them and must have them.... There, her color is coming back."

"Hadn't we better send for a doctor?"

"Heaven forbid! They are all out going their rounds now and before one
of them would get here she might die and come to life again three times
over."




                              CHAPTER XVII


Two and a half years had passed since this meeting, during which time
many things had changed in our circle of friends and acquaintances, but
not among those of the Landgrafenstrasse.

The same good humor continued there, the gayety of the honeymoon still
remained, and Katherine continued to laugh as of old. What might
perhaps have troubled other young women, that they had no children, did
not disturb Katherine for a moment. She enjoyed life so much and found
such complete satisfaction in dressing and small-talk, in riding and
driving, that she shrank from any change in her way of life rather than
desired it. The feeling for family life, to say nothing of any real
longing for it, had not yet awakened in her and when her mother made
some remark in a letter about such matters, Katherine answered somewhat
heretically: "Don't trouble yourself, mamma. Botho's brother has just
become engaged, and in six months he will be married and I shall gladly
leave to my future sister-in-law the care of providing for the
continuance of the house of Rienaecker."

Botho did not take exactly this view, but even his happiness was not
seriously disturbed by the lack of children, and if from time to time
he had a discontented mood, it was chiefly because, as he had already
found out on his wedding journey to Dresden, he could perhaps talk
somewhat reasonably with Katherine, but any really serious speech with
her was wholly out of the question. She was talkative and sometimes
even had bright ideas, but the best things she ever said were but
superficial and trivial, as if she were unable to distinguish between
important and unimportant things. And what was the worst of all, she
considered all this as a merit, and plumed herself on it, and never
thought of correcting the habit. "But, Katherine, Katherine," Botho
would exclaim sometimes, and the tone of his voice would show some
displeasure, but her happy nature could always disarm him again, so
completely, indeed, that his own expectations seemed almost pedantic to
him.

Lena with her simplicity, genuineness, and directness of speech often
recurred to his mind, but vanished again as quickly; and only when
chance recalled some special incident very vividly did her image come
to him with greater distinctness, and perhaps a stronger feeling with
which some embarrassment was mingled.

Such an incident happened during the first summer, when the young
couple, who had returned from dining with Count Alten, were sitting on
the balcony taking tea. Katherine was leaning back in her chair
listening to a newspaper article which was profusely interspersed with
figures, and dealt with the subject of minister's salaries and surplice
fees. She actually understood very little of the subject, and all the
less because the many figures troubled her, but she listened rather
attentively, because all the young girls of her province spend half
their youth "with the minister" and so they retain a certain sympathy
with the affairs of the parsonage. This was the case to-day. Finally
evening came on and just as it was growing dark the concert at the
Zoological Garden began and the tones of a ravishing Strauss Waltz
reached them.

"Only listen, Botho," said Katherine, rising, while she added eagerly:
"Come, let us dance." And without waiting for his consent, she pulled
him up out of his chair and waltzed with him into the large room from
which the balcony opened and then two or three times around the room.
Then she kissed him, and while she clung to him caressingly she said:
"Do you know, Botho, I never danced so wonderfully before, not even at
my first ball, that I went to while I was still at Frau Zuelow's and had
not yet been confirmed, if I must confess it. Uncle Osten took me on
his own responsibility and mamma knows nothing about it to this very
day. But even then it was not so lovely as to-day. And yet forbidden
fruit is the sweetest. Isn't it? But you are not saying anything,
Botho, you seem embarrassed. See, now I have caught you again."

He attempted to say something or other, but she did not give him a
chance to speak. "I really believe, Botho, my sister Ina has taken your
fancy and it is of no use your trying to comfort me by saying that she
is only a little half-grown girl or not much more. Those are always the
most dangerous. Don't you think so? Now I am not going to take any
notice and I do not grudge it to you or to her. But I am very jealous
about old affairs of long ago, far, far more jealous than of things
that may happen now."

"How curious," said Botho, and tried to laugh.

"And yet after all it is not so curious as it may look," Katherine went
on. "Don't you see, affairs that are going on now one has almost under
one's eyes; and it must be a hard case and an arch deceiver, if one
should notice nothing and so be completely betrayed. But there is no
control possible over old stories; there might be a thousand and three,
and one might hardly know it."

"And what one does not know ..."

"May make one's anger grow. But let us drop all this and read me
something more from the paper. I was reminded constantly of our
Kluckhuhns. And the good wife can't understand it, and the oldest boy
is just going to the University."


Such incidents happened more and more frequently and led Botho to
recall old times as well as Lena's image; but he never saw her, which
surprised him, because he knew that they were almost neighbors.

This surprised him and yet it would have been easily explained had he
promptly ascertained that Frau Nimptsch and Lena were no longer living
at the old place. And yet this was the case. From the day when she had
met the young couple on the Luetzowstrasse, Lena had told her old mother
that she could no longer stay in the Doerr's house. And when Mother
Nimptsch, who used never to contradict her, shook her head and
whimpered and continually pointed to the fireplace, Lena said: "Mother,
you know me. I will never rob you of your open fire; you shall have
everything again that you have had; I have saved up money enough for
it, and even if I had not, I would work until I had got it together.
But we must get away from here. Every day I should have to pass that
way, and I could never stand it, mother. I do not grudge him his
happiness, and what is more, I am glad that he has it. God is my
witness, for he was a dear, good man and lived only for my sake; no
pride, no stinginess. And I will say it right out, for all that I
cannot bear fine gentlemen, he is a real nobleman, and his heart is in
the right place. Yes, my dear Botho, you must be happy, as happy as you
deserve to be. But I cannot bear to see it, mother, I must get away
from here, for I cannot take ten steps without imagining that he is
right there before me. And that keeps me all in a tremble. No, no, it
will never do. But you shall have your fireplace. I am your Lena, and I
promise you that."

After this talk there was no more opposition on the part of old Frau
Nimptsch and even Frau Doerr said: "Of course, you will have to go. And
it serves that old miser, Doerr, right. He is always grumbling at me
that you are getting the place too cheap and that what you pay would
never cover rent and repairs. Now let him see how he likes it when he
has the whole place standing empty. For that is how it will be. For who
is going to move into such a doll's house, where every cat can peek in
at the window and there is no gas nor running water. Well, it is plain;
you can give a quarter's notice and at Easter you can leave, and it
will do him no good to make a fuss. And I am really glad of it; yes,
Lena, I am so glad. But then I have to pay for my bit of malice too,
For when you are gone, child, and good Frau Nimptsch with her fire and
her teakettle that is always boiling, what shall I have left, Lena?
Only him and Sultan and the poor foolish boy, who keeps growing more
foolish. And nobody else in the world. And when it grows cold and the
snow falls, it is enough to drive one crazy, simply sitting still and
all alone."

Such were the early discussions, since Lena held fast to her plan of
moving, and at Easter time, a furniture wagon drew up before the door
to carry away her household possessions. Old Doerr had behaved
surprisingly well at the last and after a formal farewell Frau Nimptsch
was bundled into a Droschke with her squirrel and her goldfinch and
carried to the Luise Bank, where Lena had hired a charming little flat,
three flights up, and had not only gotten a little new furniture, but
had remembered her promise, and had arranged to have a pleasant open
fireplace built on to the big stove in the front room. The landlord had
at first made all sorts of difficulties, "because such an addition
would ruin the stove." But Lena had persevered and had given her
reasons, which made such an impression on the landlord, an old
master-carpenter who was pleased with such ideas, that at last he was
disposed to yield.

The two now lived in much the same way that they had formerly done in
the house in the Doerr's garden, only with this difference, that they
were now three flights up and that they looked out upon the beautiful
tower of Michael's church instead of the fantastic tower of the
elephants' house. Indeed, the view that they enjoyed was delightful,
and so free and fine that it even influenced the habits of old Frau
Nimptsch and induced her not to sit all the time on the bench by the
fire, but when the sun was shining, to sit by the open window, where
Lena had managed to have a little platform placed. All this did old
Frau Nimptsch a great deal of good and even improved her health, so
that since her change of abode, she suffered much less pain than in the
Doerr's little house, which, however poetically it was situated, was not
much better than a cellar.

For the rest, never a week passed without Frau Doerr's coming all the
long distance from the Zoological Garden to the Luise Bank, simply "to
see how everything was going on." During these visits she talked, after
the manner of Berlin wives, exclusively about her husband, and always
in a tone which implied that her marriage to him had been one of the
most dreadful misalliances and really half inexplicable. In fact,
however, she was extremely comfortable and contented, and was actually
glad that Doerr had his peculiarities. For she reaped only advantages
from them, first, to grow richer all the time, and second (an advantage
which she valued quite as highly) without any danger of change or loss
of property she could continually hold herself superior to the old
miser and reproach him for his niggardly ways. So Doerr was the
principal theme of these conversations and Lena, unless she was at
Goldstein's or somewhere else in town, always laughed heartily with the
others, all the more so because she, as well as Frau Nimptsch, had
visibly improved in health since they had moved. The moving in, buying
and placing of house furnishings had, as one may imagine, led her away
from her own thoughts from the beginning and what was still more
helpful and important for her health and the recovery of her spirits
was that she no longer needed to fear a meeting with Botho. Who came
away out to the Luise Bank? Certainly not Botho. All this combined to
make her seem comparatively fresh and cheerful again, and only one
outward sign remained of the struggles she had been through: in the
midst of her long hair there was one white strand. Mother Nimptsch
either did not notice this or did not think much about it, but Frau
Doerr, who in her own way followed the fashions and was uncommonly proud
of her own braid of hair, noticed the white lock at once and said:
"Good Lord, Lena. And right on the left side. But naturally ... that is
where the trouble is ... it would have to be on the left."

It was soon after the moving that this conversation took place.
Otherwise there was usually no mention either of Botho or of the old
days, which was simply because whenever the gossip turned in this
special direction, Lena always broke off the conversation quickly or
even left the room. As this happened again and again, Frau Doerr
remarked it and learned to keep silence about topics which proved
unwelcome. So things went on for a year and then there appeared another
reason that made it seem inadvisable to recall past incidents. A new
neighbour had hired a room just on the other side of the wall from Frau
Nimptsch, and while he seemed to wish to be on neighbourly terms from
the beginning, he soon promised to become even more than a good
neighbour. He would come in every evening and talk, so that it seemed
like the old times when Doerr used to sit on his stool smoking his pipe,
only that the new neighbour was very different in many ways. He was a
correct and well educated man, with very proper although not exactly
fine manners, and was also a good talker. When Lena was present, he
would talk about all sorts of town affairs, such as schools, gas works,
or canals, and sometimes also about his travels. If it happened that he
found the old lady alone, he was not at all annoyed, but would play
"everlasting" or checkers or would help her with a game of patience, in
spite of the fact that he hated cards. For he was a Conventicler, and
after he had taken some part with the Mennonites and later with the
followers of Irving, he had still more recently founded a separate
sect.

As may be readily imagined, all this aroused Frau Doerr's curiosity to
the highest pitch, and she was never weary of asking questions, and
making allusions, but only when Lena was busy at some household task or
had matters to attend to in town. "Tell me, dear Frau Nimptsch, just
what is he, really? I have tried to hunt him up, but he is not in the
book; Doerr never has any later one than year before last. His name is
Franke?"

"Yes. Franke."

"Franke. There used to be one on the Ohmgasse, a master cooper, and he
had only one eye; that is, the other eye was still there, but it was
all white and looked just like a fish's bladder. And what do you
suppose had happened to it? When he went to put on a hoop, it had
sprung loose and the end had hit him in the eye. That is how it was.
Could he have come from there?"

"No, Frau Doerr, he is not from anywhere near here. He is from Bremen."

"Well, well. Then of course it is quite natural."

Frau Nimptsch nodded in assent, without seeking to be further
enlightened as to this "naturalness," and went on talking herself: "And
it only takes a fortnight to go from Bremen to America. And he has been
there. And he was a tinman or a locksmith or a workman in a machine
shop or something like that, but when he saw that he could not make it
go, he became a doctor and went around with a lot of little bottles and
he began to preach too. And because he preached so well, he got a
position with the ... There now, I have forgotten it again. But they
must have been very pious people and good proper people too."

"Glory be to God!" said Frau Doerr. "Surely he was not.... Heavens, what
is the name of those people that have so many wives, always six or
seven and sometimes even more.... I don't know what they do with so
many."

This theme seemed made on purpose for Frau Doerr. But Frau Nimptsch
reassured her friend: "No, dear Frau Doerr, it is quite different. At
first I thought it was something like that, but he laughed and said:
'The Lord forbid. Frau Nimptsch. I am a bachelor. And if I ever marry,
I think one will be quite enough.'"

"Oh, that takes a load off my heart," said Frau Doerr. "And what
happened afterwards? I mean over in America."

"Well, after that everything went well and it was not long till he had
help enough. For religious people are always helping each other. And he
found customers again and got back to his old trade. And that is what
he works at now, and he is in a big factory here on the
Koepnickerstrasse, where they make little tubes and burners and
stopcocks and everything that is needed for gas. And he is the chief
man, something like a foreman carpenter or foreman mason, and has
perhaps a hundred under him. And he is a very respectable man and he
wears a tall hat and black gloves. And he has a good salary too."

"And Lena?"

"Oh, Lena, she would take him all right. And why not? But she cannot
hold her tongue, and if he comes and says anything to her, she is going
to tell him everything, all the old stories, first the one with
Kuhlwein (and that is so long ago that it is just as if it never had
happened), and then all about the Baron. And Franke, you must know, is
a refined and well-behaved man, and really a gentleman."

"We must persuade her out of that. He does not need to know everything;
why should he? We never know everything."

"Yes, yes. But Lena ..."




                             CHAPTER XVIII


It was now June, 1878. Frau von Rienaecker and Frau von Sellenthin had
spent the month of May on a visit with the young couple; and the mother
and the mother-in-law had day by day convinced each other that
Katherine looked paler and more bloodless and languid than she had ever
been before, and needless to say they had incessantly urged that a
specialist should be consulted, by whose advice, after a gynecological
examination (which, by the way, proved very expensive), a four weeks'
stay at the Schlangenbad health resort was pronounced indispensable and
was accordingly decided upon. Schwalbach might be useful later.
Katherine laughed and would not hear of any such thing, especially of
Schlangenbad, "the name sounded so uncanny and she already seemed to
feel a viper in her bosom," but finally she had yielded and had found
in the preparations for the journey a far greater contentment than she
expected from the cure itself. She went down town every day to make
purchases, and was never tired of telling how she was only now
beginning to understand "shopping" which was in such high favor among
Englishwomen: to go from shop to shop and always to find beautiful
goods and courteous people, was really a pleasure and instructive too,
because one saw so much that one did not know before, perhaps not even
by name. As a rule Botho took part in these little trips and
excursions, and before the beginning of the last week in June, half of
the Rienaeckers' dwelling was turned into a little exhibition of
traveller's conveniences: a brass-bound travelling trunk, which
Botho, not without some show of justice, called the coffin of his
property--this took the lead, then came two smaller ones of Russia
leather, with satchels, rugs, and cushions, and the travelling wardrobe
lay spread out over the sofa with a dust cloak over all and a pair of
marvellous thick-soled laced boots, as if a trip to the glaciers were
in question.

June 24th, midsummer day was set for the beginning of the journey, but
the day before Katherine wanted the intimate circle to be gathered
around her once more, and so Wedell and young Osten, and naturally Pitt
and Serge too, were invited for a comparatively early hour. Also
Katherine's special favorite Balafre, who had as a "Halberstaedter"
taken part in the great cavalry attack at Mars-la-Tour, and who still
deserved his nickname because of a great sabre cut across his brow and
cheek, a souvenir of that battle.

Katherine sat between Wedell and Balafre and did not look as if she
were in need of the Schlangenbad or any other water cure in the world.
She had color, laughed, asked a hundred questions and when the person
of whom she had asked the question started to speak, she contented
herself with a minimum in the way of reply. In fact she led the
conversation, and no one was offended with her, because she was a past
mistress in the art of pleasing small talk. Balafre asked how she
pictured her life at the water cure. Schlangenbad was renowned not only
for its wonderful cures but also for its monotony, and four weeks of
monotony at a health resort would be a good deal even under the most
favorable circumstances.

"Oh, dear Balafre," said Katherine, "you ought not to frighten me, and
you would not if you knew how much Botho has done for me. He has got me
eight novels though, to be sure, he put them in the bottom layer of my
trunk; and in order that my imagination should not be prejudiced
against water cures, he put in also a book about scientific fish
culture."

Balafre laughed.

"Yes, you laugh, my dear friend, and yet you know only the lesser half,
for the larger half (Botho, you know, never does anything without
weighty reason) is his motives. Of course, what I just said about the
pamphlet on fish culture being meant to prevent my taking a prejudice
against the water cure was only a joke. The serious side of the matter
is simply this, that I must actually read the pamphlet, and that from
local patriotism, for Neumark, your happy home as well as mine, has
been for a long time the birth and breeding place of scientific fish
culture, and if I knew nothing of this new factor of food production,
so important nationally and economically, I should never dare to show
myself again on the further side of the Oder in the Landsbergerkreise,
much less, however, in Verneuchen, at my Cousin Borne's."

Botho started to speak, but she cut him off and went on: "I know what
you were going to say, that the eight novels were only put in 'in case
of emergency.' But I think there are not likely to be any
'emergencies.' Only yesterday I had a letter from my sister Ina, who
wrote me that Anna Graevenitz has already been there for a week. You
know her, Wedell; she was a Miss Rohr, a charming blonde. We were
together at old Frau Zuelow's Pension, and we were even in the same
class. And I remember how we both adored our divine Felix Bachmann, and
even wrote verses, until good old Zuelow said that she forbade any such
nonsense. And Elly Winterfield, as Ina writes me, is apparently coming
too. And now I say to myself, in company with two charming young
women--and I myself for the third, even if I cannot be compared with
the others--in such good company, I say, one must surely be able to
live. Don't you think so, dear Balafre?"

The latter bowed with a grotesque air, which seemed to express his
agreement with everything Katherine might say, except her assertion
that any one might be her superior, but nevertheless he resumed his
former list of questions: "If I might hear the details, gracious lady!
The separate items, so to speak; one minute, may decide our happiness
and unhappiness. And there are so many minutes in a day."

"Well, I think it will be like this: Every morning letters. Then a
promenade concert and a walk with the two ladies, preferably in a
secluded path. There we will sit down and read our letters aloud, for I
hope we shall have received some, and we shall laugh if he writes
tenderly and say 'Yes, yes.' And then comes the bath, and after the
bath the toilette, naturally with care and enthusiasm, which in
Schlangenbad may be no less amusing than in Berlin. Rather the
contrary. And then we shall go to lunch and I shall have an old general
on my right and a rich manufacturer on my left. From my youth on I have
had a passion for manufacturers--a passion of which I am much ashamed.
For either they have invented a new kind of armor plate or laid a
submarine telegraphic cable or bored a tunnel or constructed an
ascending railway. And beside all this, they are rich, which I do not
at all despise. And after lunch, the reading-room and coffee, with the
Venetian blinds let down, so that light and shade will be chasing each
other across the newspaper. And then a walk, or a drive. And perhaps,
if we are fortunate, a couple of cavaliers from Frankfort or Mainz may
have wandered over and they may ride beside the carriage; and I must
say, my friends, that compared with Hussars, whether red or blue, you
are not in the fashion, and from my military standpoint it is and
remains a decided blunder, that they have doubled the Dragoon Guards,
but have, so to speak, simply left the Hussars alone. And it is still
more incomprehensible to me that they should be left over there.
Anything so special belongs in the capital."

Botho, who began to be annoyed by his wife's great talent for
conversation, tried by means of little jokes and mockeries to stem the
tide of her endless prattle. But his guests were far less critical than
he, indeed they grew more enthusiastic than ever over "the charming
little woman," and Balafre, who was over head and ears in his
admiration for Katherine, said: "Rienaecker, if you say one word more
against your wife, you are a dead man. My dear lady, what in the world
does your ogre of a husband want? What does he find to criticise? I
can't imagine. And in the end I am forced to believe that he feels his
honor as a cavalryman insulted, and if you will pardon the pun, he
rumples his feathers simply because he has feathers. Rienaecker, I take
my oath! If I had such a wife as you have, her lightest whim would be
my law, and if she wanted to turn me into a Hussar, I would join the
Hussars and make an end of it. But so much I know for certain, and I
would stake my life and honor on it, if his Majesty could hear such
persuasive words, the Hussars would never have another quiet hour;
to-morrow morning they would be in the quarters for moving troops at
Zehlendorf, and day after to-morrow they would be marching into Berlin
through the Brandenburg Gate. Oh these Sellenthins, whose health I
drink, taking time by the forelock, the first, second, and third time
in this one toast! Why have you not another sister, my dear lady? Why
is Fraeulein Ina already engaged? It is too soon and in any case it is
my loss."

Katherine was delighted with these small flatteries and assured him
that, in spite of the fact that Ina was now hopelessly lost to him, she
would do everything for him that could possibly be done, although she
knew perfectly well that he was an incorrigible bachelor and was only
making pretty speeches.

Immediately afterwards, however, she dropped her badinage with Balafre
and began to talk once more about her journey, and especially about how
she thought her correspondence would be during her absence. She hoped,
as she could not help repeating, that she should get a letter every
day, for that was no more than the duty of an affectionate husband, and
as for her, she would think it over, and only on the first day, she
would show some sign of life at every station. This proposal was
approved even by Rienaecker, and finally was but slightly altered, it
being decided that at every important station she passed through, in
spite of detours, as far as Cologne, she should write a card, but that
she should put all the cards, whether they were few or many, in one
envelope. This plan would have the advantage, that she could express
herself freely about her travelling companions without any fear of
post-office clerks and letter carriers.

After dinner they took their coffee on the balcony, where Katherine,
after making some objections, appeared in her travelling costume: a
Rembrandt hat and a dust cloak with a travelling satchel slung over her
shoulder. She looked charming. Balafre was more enchanted than ever and
begged her not to be too much surprised if the next morning she should
find him anxiously squeezed into the corner of the coupe as an escort
for the journey.

"Provided that he gets his furlough," laughed Pitt.

"Or that he deserts," added Serge, "which would really be the first
thing that would make his devotion complete."

And so they chatted for a while longer. Then they bade their hospitable
host and hostess good-bye and agreed to go together as far as the
bridge at Luetzow Square. Here, however, they divided into two groups,
and while Balafre, Wedell and Osten sauntered further along the canal,
Pitt and Serge, who were going to Kroll's, went toward the Thiergarten.

"What a charming creature that Katherine is," said Serge. "Rienaecker
seems rather prosaic beside her, and then he looks at her so
discontentedly and so reprovingly, as if he needed to make excuses to
every one for the little woman, who to a discerning eye is really
cleverer than he."

Pitt kept silence.

"And what in the world does she want at Schwalbach or Schlangenbad?"
Serge went on. "That does not help matters at all. And if it does, it
is usually a rather peculiar sort of help."

Pitt glanced at him sidewise. "I think. Serge, that you are growing
more and more Russian, or what amounts to the same thing, you are
living up to your name more and more."

"But still not enough. But joking aside, my friend, I am in earnest
about one thing: Rienaecker makes me angry. What has he against the
charming little woman? Do you know?"

"Yes."

"Well?"

"She is rather a little silly. Or if you prefer it in German, she
babbles a bit. At all events too much for him."




                              CHAPTER XIX


Between Berlin and Potsdam Katherine was already drawing down the
yellow curtains of the car windows to protect herself from the dazzling
light which grew stronger and stronger. But on this same day no
curtains were drawn in the little home on the Luise Bank and the
forenoon sun shone brightly in at Frau Nimptsch's window and filled the
whole room with light. Only the background was in shadow and here stood
an old-fashioned bed with a high pile of red and white checked pillows,
against which Frau Nimptsch was leaning. She was sitting up rather than
lying down, because she had water on the lungs and was suffering
severely from asthma. She kept turning her head toward the one open
window, but still oftener toward the fireplace where no fire was
burning to-day.

Lena was sitting by her, holding her hand, and when she saw that her
mother kept looking in the same direction, she said: "Shall I make a
fire, mother? I thought that you were lying warm in bed and it is such
a hot day ..."

The old woman did not speak, but it seemed to Lena as if she would like
it. So she went and knelt down and lit a fire.

When she came back to the bed, the old woman smiled contentedly and
said: "Yes, Lena, it is hot. But you know, I always want to see it. And
when I do not see it, I think everything is gone and there is not a
spark of life left. And there is so much trouble here...."

And she pointed to her breast and heart.

"Ah, mother, you are always thinking about dying. And yet it has passed
away so many times already."

"Yes, child, it has passed away often, but it must come sometime and at
seventy it may come any day. I wish you would open the other window
too, so that there will be more air and the fire will burn better. Just
look, it isn't burning well, it smokes so ..."

"The sun does that, it is shining right on it...."

"And then give me the green drops that Frau Doerr brought me. They
always help me a little."

Lena did as she was asked and when the sick woman had taken the drops,
she really seemed to be a little better and easier around her heart.
She propped herself up with her hands and raised herself higher, and
when Lena had put another cushion behind her back, she said:

"Has Franke been here lately?"

"Yes, he was here early to-day. He always stops to inquire before he
goes to the factory."

"He is a very good man."

"Yes, he is that."

"And about the Conventiclers...."

"It may not be so bad. And I almost believe that he gets his good
principles from them. Do you believe so?"

The old woman smiled. "No, Lena, they come from the good God. And one
has them and another has not. I don't believe very much in learning and
training.... And has not he said anything yet?"

"Yes, yesterday evening."

"And how did you answer him?"

"I told him that I would accept him, because I thought he was an
honorable and trustworthy man, who would not only take care of me, but
of you too...."

The old woman nodded her approval.

"And," Lena went on, "when I had told him that, he took my hand and
exclaimed cheerfully: 'So then, Lena, it is all settled!' But I shook
my head and said, not quite so fast, because I still had something to
confess to him. And when he asked what it was, I told him that I had
had two love affairs: First ... there, mother, you know all about
it ... and the first I liked very much and the other I loved dearly
and still cared for him. But he was now happily married and I had never
seen him again but just once, and I did not want to see him again. But,
since he was so good and kind to us, I felt obliged to tell him
everything, because I would not deceive anyone, and certainly not
him...."

"My Lord, my Lord," whimpered the old woman, while Lena was speaking.

"And directly afterwards he got up and went back to his own rooms. But
I could see plainly that he was not angry. Only he would not let me go
to the door with him as usual."

Frau Nimptsch was evidently anxious and uneasy, although indeed one
could not tell whether the cause was what Lena had told her or the
struggle for breath. But it almost seemed as if it were her breathing,
for suddenly she said: "Lena, child, I am not high enough. You will
have to put the song book under me too."

Lena did not contradict her, but went and got the song book. But when
she brought it, her mother said: "No, not that one, that is the new
one. I want the old one, the thick one with the two clasps." And when
Lena came back with the thick song book, she went on: "I used to have
to bring that same book to my mother too when I was not much more than
a child and my mother was not yet fifty; and she suffered here too, and
her great frightened eyes kept looking at me so. But when I put the
Porst song book, that she had got when she was confirmed, under her,
she grew perfectly quiet and fell peacefully asleep. And I want to do
that too. Ah, Lena. It isn't death ... but dying.... There, now. Ah,
that helps me."

Lena wept softly to herself and since she now saw plainly that the good
old woman's last hour was very near, she sent word to Frau Doerr, that
"her mother was in a bad way and would not Frau Doerr come." She sent
word back, "Yes, she would come." Toward six o'clock she arrived,
bustling noisily in, for she knew nothing about being quiet, even with
sick people. She tramped about the room so that everything on or near
the hearth shook and rattled, and at the same time she scolded about
Doerr, who was always in town when he ought to be at home, and always at
home when she wished he was in Jericho. Meanwhile she took the sick
woman's hand and asked Lena, "whether she had given her plenty of the
drops?"

"Yes."

"How many have you given her?"

"Five ... five every two hours."

That was not enough, Frau Doerr assured her, and after bringing to light
all her medical knowledge she added: "She had let the medicine draw in
the sun for a fortnight, and if one took it properly the water would go
away as if it were pumped out. Old Selke at the Zoological had been
just like a cask, and for more than four months he could never go to
bed, but had to be propped up straight in a chair with all the windows
wide open, but when he had taken the medicine for four days, it was
just as if you squeezed a pig's bladder: haven't you seen how
everything goes out of it and it is all soft and limp again!"

While she was telling all this, the vigorous Frau Doerr forced the sick
woman to take a double dose from her thimble.

Lena, whose anxiety was only too justly redoubled by these heroic
measures, took her shawl and made ready to go for a doctor. And Frau
Doerr, who was not usually in favor of doctors, had nothing to say
against it this time.

"Go," said she, "she can't hold out much longer. Just look here (and
she pointed to the nostrils), that means death."

Lena started; but she could scarcely have reached the square in front
of Michael's church, when the old woman, who had been lying in a half
doze sat upright and called: "Lena ..."

"Lena is not here."

"Who is here then?"

"I, Mother Nimptsch. I, Frau Doerr."

"Ah, Frau Doerr, that is right. Come here; sit on the footstool."

Frau Doerr, who was not accustomed to receiving orders, hung back a
little, but was too good-natured not to do as she was asked. And so she
sat down on the stool.

And immediately the old woman began: "I want a yellow coffin and blue
trimmings. But not too much...."

"Yes, Frau Nimptsch."

"And I want to be buried in the new Jacob's churchyard, behind the
Rollkrug and quite far over on the road to Britz."

"Yes, Frau Nimptsch."

"And I saved up enough for all that is needed, long ago, when I was
still able to save up. And it is in the top drawer. And the chemise and
short gown are there and a pair of white stockings marked with N. And
it is lying among the other things."

"Yes, Frau Nimptsch. Everything shall be done just as you say. And is
there anything more?"

But the old woman did not seem to have heard Frau Doerr's question, and
without answering, she merely folded her hands, looked up toward the
ceiling with a pious and peaceful expression and prayed: "Dear Father
in heaven, protect her and reward her for all that she has done for a
poor old woman."

"Ah, Lena," said Frau Doerr to herself and then she added: "The good
Lord will do that too, Frau Nimptsch, I know him, and I have never seen
any one come to grief that was like Lena and that had such a heart and
such hands as she has."

The old woman nodded and one could see that some pleasant picture was
in her mind.

So the minutes passed away and when Lena came back and knocked on the
door of the corridor, Frau Doerr was still sitting on the footstool and
holding her old friend's hand. And only when she heard Lena knock did
she lay down Frau Nimptsch's hand and go to open the door.

Lena was still out of breath. "He will be here right away.... He is
coming at once."

But Frau Doerr only said: "Oh Lord, the doctors!" and pointed to the
dead woman.




                               CHAPTER XX


Katherine's first letter was posted in Cologne and reached Berlin the
following morning, according to expectations. The accompanying address
had been given by Botho himself, who, smiling and good-humored, held in
his hand a rather thick-feeling letter. Three cards faintly written on
both sides with a pencil had been put in the envelope, and all of them
barely legible, so that Rienaecker went out on the balcony, in order
better to decipher the indistinct scrawl.

"Now let us see, Catherine."

And he read:


                     "Brandenburg a. H., 8 o'clock in the morning.

"The train, my dear Botho, stops here only three minutes, but I will
make the best use I can of the time, and in case of need I will write,
well or ill as it happens, when the train is in motion. I am travelling
with a very charming young banker's wife, Madame Salinger, nee Saling,
from Vienna. When I wondered at the similarity of the names, she said:
'Yes, it looks as if I had married my own comparative.' She talks like
that right straight along, and in spite of having a ten-year-old
daughter (blonde; the mother is brunette) she too is going to
Schlangenbad. And she is going by way of Cologne too, like me, because
of a visit that she is to make there. The child has naturally a good
disposition, but is not well brought up and has already broken my
parasol by her constant climbing about in the railway carriage, a
mishap which embarrassed her mother very much. The railroad station,
where we are just now stopping (that is to say, the train is starting
again this very moment), is swarming with soldiers, among them
Brandenburg Cuirassiers with a name in yellow letters on their shoulder
straps; apparently it was Nicholas. It looked very well. There were
fusiliers there too, from the thirty-fifth, little people, who seemed
to me far too small, although Uncle Osten always used to say the best
fusilier was one who could not be seen with the naked eye. But I will
close. The little girl, alas, is running from one window to the other
as before and makes it hard for me to write. And besides she is
constantly munching cakes, little pastry tarts with cherries and
pistachio nuts on top. She began that long ago, between Potsdam and
Werder. The mother is too weak. I would be more severe."


Botho laid the card aside and ran through the second one as well as he
could. It ran:


                                           "Hannover, 12-30.

"Goltz was at the Magdeburg station and told me you had written him
that I was coming. How very good and kind you were once more. You are
always the best and most attentive of men. Goltz has charge of the
survey in the Harz Mountains now, that is, he begins July first. The
train stops a quarter of an hour in Hannover, and I have made use of
the time to see the place immediately around the station: regular
hotels and beer-drinking places that have grown up under our
government, one of which is built completely in the Gothic style. The
Hannoverians call it the 'Prussian beer church,' as a fellow traveller
told me, simply because of Guelphish hostility. How painful such things
are! But time will mitigate this feeling also. Heaven send that it may.
The child still keeps on nibbling, which begins to make me nervous.
What will be the upshot of it? But the mother is really charming and
has already told me _everything_. She has also been in Wuerzburg, with
Scanzoni, about whom she is enthusiastic. Her way of confiding in me is
embarrassing and almost painful. For the rest, she is, as I can only
repeat, perfectly _comme il faut_. To mention just one thing, what a
dressing case! In Vienna they far surpass us in such things; one can
notice the older culture."


"Wonderful," laughed Botho. "When Katherine indulges in reflections on
the history of civilisation, she surpasses herself. But all good things
go by threes. Let us see."

And he picked up the third card.


                               "Cologne, 8 o'clock in the evening.
                                                    "Headquarters.

"I prefer to mail my cards here rather than to wait until I reach
Schlangenbad, where Frau Salinger and I expect to arrive to-morrow
noon. All goes well with me. The Schroffensteins are very friendly and
pleasant; especially Herr Schroffenstein. By the way, not to omit
anything of interest, Frau Salinger was fetched from the station by the
Oppenheim's carriage. Our journey, which began so charmingly, grew
somewhat burdensome and unattractive from Hamm on. The little girl had
a hard time, and moreover it was her mother's fault. 'What more do you
want?' as soon as the train had left the Hamm station, whereupon the
child answers: 'Drops.' And it was from that very moment that things
got so bad.... Ah, dear Botho, young or old, our wishes ought to be
constantly kept under strict and conscientious control. This thought
has been constantly in my mind ever since and the meeting with this
charming woman was perhaps no chance occurrence in my life. How often
have I heard Kluckhuhn speak in this vein. And he was right More
to-morrow.                                Your

                                            "Katherine."


Botho put the three cards back in the envelope and said: "Exactly like
Katherine. What gift she has for small talk! And I ought to be glad
that she writes as she does. But there is something lacking. It is all
so trivial and comes so easily, like a mere echo of society talk. But
she will change when she has duties of her own. Or perhaps she will. In
any case, I will not give up the hope."

The next day there came a short letter from Schlangenbad, in which
there was far, far less than in the three cards, and from this time on
she wrote only twice a week and gossiped about Anna Graevenitz and Elly
Winterfeld, who had actually put in an appearance, but most of all
about Madame Salinger and her charming little Sarah. There were always
the same asseverations and only at the close of the third week did some
lessening of enthusiasm appear:


"I now think the little girl more charming than her mother. Frau
Salinger indulges in such luxurious toilettes as I find scarcely
appropriate, especially as there are practically no men here. And then
too, I see now that her complexion is artificial; her eyebrows are
certainly painted and perhaps her lips too, for they are cherry-red.
But the child is perfectly natural. Whenever she sees me, she rushes up
to me and kisses my hand and makes her excuses for the hundredth time
about the drops, 'but it was Mamma's fault," in which I fully agree
with the child. And yet, on the other hand, there must be a mysterious
streak of greediness in Sarah's nature, I might almost say something
like a besetting sin (do you believe in besetting sins? I do, my dear
Botho), for she cannot let sweet things alone and constantly buys
wafers, not the Berlin kind that taste like buns with meringue on top,
but the Karlsbad land with sugar sprinkled over. But I will not write
any more about all this. When I see you, which may be very soon--for I
should like to travel with Anna Graevenitz, we should be so much more by
ourselves--we will talk about it and about a great many other things
too. Ah, how glad I shall be to see you and to sit on the balcony with
you. After all, Berlin is the most beautiful place, and when the sun
goes down behind Charlottenburg and the Gruenewald, and one grows so
tired and dreamy, how lovely it is! Don't you think so? And do you know
what Frau Salinger told me yesterday? She said that I had grown still
blonder. Well, you will see for yourself.

                              As always, your

                                                "Katherine."


Rienaecker nodded and smiled. "Charming little woman. She writes nothing
at all about her health or the effects of the cure; I will wager that
she goes out to drive and has hardly taken ten baths yet." And after
saying this to himself, he gave some orders to his man servant who had
just come in and then walked through the Zoological Garden and the
Brandenburg gate, then under the Lindens and then to the barracks,
where he was on duty until noon.


Soon after twelve o'clock, when he was at home again, and had had
something to eat, and was about to make himself comfortable for a
little, the servant announced "that a gentleman ... a man (he hesitated
over the word) was outside, and wished to speak with the Herr Baron."

"Who is it?"

"Gideon Franke ... so he said."

"Franke? Strange. I never heard of him. Bring him in."

The servant went out again, while Botho repeated: "Franke ... Gideon
Franke ... Never heard of him. I don't know him."

In a moment the visitor entered the room and bowed somewhat stiffly at
the door. He wore a dark-brown coat closely buttoned up, highly
polished boots and shiny black hair, which lay very thick on both
temples. He wore black gloves and a spotlessly white high collar.

Botho met him with his usual courteous amiability and said: "Herr
Franke?"

The latter nodded.

"How can I serve you? Let me beg you to be seated.... Here ... or
perhaps here. Stuffed chairs are always uncomfortable."

Franke smiled in assent and took a cane-seated chair, which Rienaecker
had indicated.

"How can I serve you?" repeated Rienaecker.

"I have come to ask you a question, Herr Baron."

"It will give me pleasure to answer it, provided that I am able."

"No one could answer me better than you, Herr von Rienaecker ... I have
come, in fact, about Lena Nimptsch ..."

Botho started back a little.

"And I want to add at once," Franke went on, "that it is nothing
troublesome that has brought me here. What I wish to say, or if you
will permit me, Herr Baron, to ask, will cause no inconvenience to you
or to your family. I already know that your gracious lady, the Frau
Baroness is away, and I carefully waited until you should be alone, or,
if I may say so, until you should be a grass widower."

Botho's discriminating ear perceived that, in spite of his rather
ordinary middle-class clothes, the man was frank and high-minded. This
soon helped him to get over his embarrassment and he had recovered his
usual calmness of manner, as he asked, across the table: "Are you a
relative of Lena's? Pardon me, Herr Franke, for calling my old friend
by the old name of which I am so fond."

Franke bowed and replied: "No, Herr Baron, no relative; I have not that
right to speak. But my right is perhaps quite as good: I have known
Lena for a year and more and I intend to marry her. She has given her
consent, but on that occasion she told me of her previous life and
spoke of you so affectionately, that I at once determined to ask you
yourself, Herr Baron, freely and openly, what you can tell me about
Lena. When I told Lena of my intention, she at first encouraged me
gladly, but immediately afterwards she added, that I might as well not
ask you, as you would be sure to speak too well of her."

Botho looked straight before him and found it difficult to control the
beating of his heart. Finally, however, he mastered himself and said:
"You are an excellent man, Herr Franke, and you want to make Lena
happy. So much I can see at once, and that gives you a perfect right to
an answer. I have no doubt at all as to what I ought to tell you, and I
only hesitate as to how I shall tell it. The best way will be to tell
you how it all began and continued and then how it came to an end."

Franke bowed once more, to show that he too agreed to this plan.

"Very well then," began Rienaecker, "it is about three years or perhaps
a couple of months more, since on a boating excursion around the
Liebesinsel near Treptow I had the opportunity of doing two young girls
a service by preventing their boat from capsizing. One of these two
young girls was Lena, and from her manner of thanking me, I saw at once
that she was different from others. She was wholly free from
affectation, both then and later, a fact which I specially wish to
emphasise. For no matter how merry and at times almost boisterous she
may be, yet she is naturally thoughtful, serious and simple."

Botho mechanically pushed aside the tray, which was still standing on
the table, smoothed the cloth and then went on: "I asked leave to
escort her home, and she consented without more ado, which at that time
surprised me for a moment. For I did not yet know her. But I soon saw
what it meant; from her youth on she had been accustomed to act
according to her own judgment, without much regard for others, and in
any case without fearing their opinion."

Franke nodded.

"So we went all the long distance together and I escorted her home and
was delighted with all that I saw there, with the old mother, with the
fireplace by which she sat, with the garden in which the house stood,
and with the modest seclusion and stillness of the place. A quarter of
an hour later I took my leave, and as I was saying good-bye to Lena at
the garden gate, I asked whether I might come again, and she answered
the question with a simple 'Yes.' She showed no false modesty, and yet
was not unwomanly. On the contrary, there was something touching in her
voice and manner."

As all this came so vividly before his mind once more, Rienaecker rose,
in manifest excitement and opened both halves of the balcony door, as
if the room were growing too hot. Then, as he walked back and forth, he
went on more rapidly: "I have scarcely anything more to add. That was
about Easter and we had a whole long happy summer. Ought I to tell you
about it? No. And then came life with all its serious claims. And that
was what separated us."

Meanwhile Botho had sat down again and Franke, who had been busily
stroking his hat all the time, said quietly to himself: "Yes, that is
just how she told me about it."

"And it could not be any other way, Herr Franke. For Lena--I rejoice
with all my heart to be able to say so once more--Lena does not lie,
and would sooner bite her tongue off than to boast or speak falsely.
She has two kinds of pride; one is to live by the work of her own
hands, the other is to speak right out freely and make no false
pretences and not to represent anything as more or less than it really
is. 'I do not need to do it and I will not do it,' I have often heard
her say. She certainly has a will of her own, perhaps rather more
than she should have, and one who wanted to criticise her, might
reproach her with being obstinate. But she only persists in what she
thinks she can take the responsibility for, and she really can too,
and that sort of strength of will is, I think, rather character than
self-righteousness. I see by your nodding your head that we are of the
same opinion, and that pleases me greatly. And now just one word more,
Herr Franke. What has been, has been. If you cannot pass over it, I
must respect your feeling. But if you can, I want to tell you, you will
have an exceptionally good wife. For her heart is in the right place
and she has a strong sense of duty and right and order."

"That is how I have always found Lena, and I believe that she will make
me an uncommonly good wife, precisely as the Herr Baron says. Yes, one
ought to keep the Commandments, one ought to keep them all, but yet
there is a distinction, according to which commandments they are, and
he who fails to keep one of them, may yet be good for something, but he
who fails to keep another, even if it stands the very next one in the
catechism, he is worthless and is condemned from the beginning and
stands beyond the hope of grace."

Botho gazed at him in surprise and evidently did not know what to make
of this solemn address. Gideon Franke, however, who for his part had
now gotten well started, had no longer any sense of the impression
produced by his homemade opinions, and so went on in a tone that more
and more suggested that of a preacher: "And he who, because of the
weakness of the flesh sins against the sixth commandment, he may be
forgiven if he repents and turns to better ways, but he who breaks the
seventh, sins not merely through the weakness of the flesh but through
the corruption of the soul, and he who lies and deceives, or slanders
and bears false witness, he is rotten to the core and is a child of
darkness, and for him there is no salvation, And he is like a field in
which the nettles have grown so tall that the weeds always come
uppermost, no matter how much good corn may be sown. And I will live
and die by that and have always found it true. Yes, Herr Baron, the
important things are neatness and honesty and practicality. And in
marriage it is the same. For 'honesty is the best policy,' and one's
word is his word and one must be able to have confidence. But what has
been, has been, and that is in the hands of God. And if I think
otherwise about it, which I too respect, exactly as the Herr Baron
does, then it is my place to keep away and not allow my love and
inclination to get a foothold. I was in the United States for a long
time, and although over there just the same as here, all is not gold
that glitters, yet it is true, that there one learns to see differently
and not always through the same glass. And one learns also that there
are many ways to salvation and many ways to happiness. Yes, Herr Baron,
there are many roads that lead to God, and there are many roads that
lead to happiness, of that I feel sure in my very heart. And the one
road is good and the other road is good. But every good road must be
straight and open, and lie in the sun, without swamps or quicksands or
will-o'-the-wisps. Truth is the main thing, and trustworthiness and
honor."

With these words Franke had risen and Botho, who had politely gone to
the door with him, gave him his hand.

"And now, Herr Franke, as we are bidding good-bye I will ask just one
thing more: Please greet Frau Doerr from me, if you see her, and if the
old friendship with her still continues, and above all give my
greetings to good old Frau Nimptsch. Does she still have her gout and
her days of suffering, of which she used to complain so constantly?"

"That is all over now."

"How so?" asked Botho.

"We buried her three weeks ago, Herr Baron. Just three weeks ago
to-day."

"Buried her?" repeated Botho. "And where?"

"Over behind the Rollkrug, in the new Jacob's churchyard.... She was a
good old woman. And how she did love Lena! Yes, Herr Baron, Mother
Nimptsch is dead. But Frau Doerr is still living (and he laughed), and
she will live a long time yet. And if she comes--it is a long way--I
will give her your greeting. And I can see already how pleased she will
be. You know her, Herr Baron. Oh yes, Frau Doerr ..."

And Gideon Franke took off his hat once more and the door closed.




                              CHAPTER XXI


When Rienaecker was alone again, he was as if benumbed by this meeting
and by all that he had heard toward the close of the interview.
Whenever, since his marriage, he had recalled the little house in the
garden and its inmates, he had as a matter of course pictured
everything in his mind just as it had been formerly, and now everything
was changed and he must find his way in a completely new world: there
were strangers living in the little house, if indeed it was occupied at
all; there was no fire burning in the fireplace any more, at least not
day in and day out, and Frau Nimptsch, who had kept up the fire, was
dead and buried in the new Jacob's churchyard. All this whirled round
and round in his head, and suddenly he also recalled the day when, half
seriously, half in jest, he had promised the good old woman to lay a
wreath of immortelles on her grave. In the restlessness that had come
over him, he was very glad that he had remembered the promise and
decided to fulfil it at once. "To the Rollkrug at noon and the sun
reflected from the ground--a regular journey to central Africa. But the
good old woman shall have her wreath."

And he took his cap and sword at once and left the house.

At the corner there was a cab stand, a small one, indeed, and so it
happened that in spite of the sign: "Standing room for three cabs"
there was usually nothing there but standing room or, very seldom, one
cab. It was so to-day also, which in consideration of the noon hour
(when all cabs are in the habit of disappearing as if the earth had
swallowed them) was not particularly surprising at this cab stand which
was one merely in name. Therefore Botho went further along, until, near
the Von der Heydt Bridge, he met a somewhat rickety vehicle, painted
light green, with a red plush seat and drawn by a white horse. The
horse seemed barely able to trot and Rienaecker could not keep from
smiling rather pitifully when he thought of the "tour" that was in
store for the poor beast. But as far as his eye could see, nothing
better was in sight, and so he stepped up to the driver and said: "To
the Rollkrug. Jacob's churchyard."

"Very good, Herr Baron."

"But we must stop somewhere on the way. I shall want to buy a wreath."

"Very good, Herr Baron."

Botho was somewhat surprised at the prompt and repeated use of his
title and so he said: "Do you know me?"

"Yes, Herr Baron. Baron Rienaecker of Landgrafenstrasse. Close by the
cab stand. I have often driven you before."

During this conversation Botho had got in, meaning to make himself as
comfortable as possible in the corner of the plush cushioned seat, but
he soon gave up that idea, for the corner was as hot as an oven.

Rienaecker had, in common with all Brandenburg noblemen, the pleasing
and good-hearted trait that he preferred to talk with plain people
rather than with more "cultivated" folk, and so he began at once, while
they were in the half shade of the young trees along the canal: "How
hot it is! Your horse cannot have been much pleased when he heard me
say Rollkrug."

"Oh, Rollkrug is well enough; Rollkrug is well enough because of the
woods. When he gets there and smells the pines, he is always pleased.
You see, he is from the country.... Or perhaps it is the music too. At
any rate, he always pricks up his ears."

"Indeed," said Botho. "He doesn't look to me much like dancing.... But
where can we get the wreath then? I do not want to get to the
churchyard without a wreath."

"Oh, there is plenty of time for that, Herr Baron. As soon as we get
into the neighborhood of the churchyard, from the Halle Gate on and the
whole length of the Pioneerstrasse."

"Yes, yes, you are quite right. I was forgetting...."

"And after that, until you are close to the churchyard, there are
plenty more places."

Botho smiled. "You are perhaps a Silesian?"

"Yes," said the driver. "Most of us are. But I have been here a long
time now, and so I am half a true Berliner."

"And are you doing pretty well?"

"There is no use talking about 'pretty well.' Everything costs too much
and one has to have always the best quality. And hay is dear. But I
should do well enough, if only nothing would happen. But something is
always sure to happen--to-day an axle breaks and to-morrow a horse
falls down. I have another horse at home, a light bay, that used to be
with the Fuerstenwald Uhlans; a good horse, only he has no wind and he
will not last much longer. And all of a sudden he will be gone.... And
then the traffic police; never satisfied, you mustn't go here and you
mustn't go there. And one is always having to repaint. And red plush is
not to be had for nothing."

While they were chatting together, they had driven along by the canal,
as far as the Halle Gate. And now a battalion of infantry with the band
playing spiritedly was coming straight toward them from the Kreuzberg,
and Botho, who did not wish to meet acquaintances, urged the coachman
to drive faster. And they passed rapidly over the Belle-Alliance
Bridge, but on the further side, Botho asked the driver to stop,
because he had seen a sign on one of the first houses that read:
"Artistic and Practical Florist." Three or four steps led into a shop,
in the show window of which were all kinds of wreaths.

Rienaecker stepped out and went up the steps. As he entered the door,
bell rang sharply. "May I ask you to be so kind as to show me a pretty
wreath?"

"A funeral wreath?"

"Yes."

The young woman in black, who, perhaps because she sold mostly funeral
wreaths, looked ridiculously like one of the Fates (even the shears
were not lacking), came back quickly with an evergreen wreath with
white roses among the green. She apologised at once for having only
white roses. White camellias were far more expensive. Botho, for his
part, was satisfied, declined to have more flowers shown him and only
asked whether he could not have a wreath of immortelles in addition to
the wreath of fresh flowers.

The young woman seemed rather surprised at the old-fashioned notions
that this question seemed to imply, but assented and immediately
brought a box containing five or six wreaths of yellow, red and white
immortelles.

"Which color would you advise me to take?"

The young woman smiled: "Immortelle wreaths are quite out of fashion.
Possibly in winter.... And then only in case ..."

"I think I had better decide on this one at once." And Botho took the
yellow wreath that lay nearest him, hung it on his arm, put the wreath
of white roses with it and got quickly into his cab. Both wreaths were
rather large and took up so much room on the red plush seat that Botho
thought of handing them over to the driver. But he soon decided against
this change, saying to himself: "If one wants to carry a wreath to old
Frau Nimptsch, one must be willing to own up to the wreath. And if one
is ashamed of it, he should not have promised it."

So he let the wreaths lie where they were, and almost forgot them, as
the carriage immediately turned into a part of the road whose varied
and here and there grotesque scenes led him aside from his former
thoughts. On the right, at a distance of about five hundred paces, was
a board fence, above which could be seen all sorts of booths,
pavilions, and doorways decorated with lamps, and all covered with a
wealth of inscriptions. Most of these were of rather recent, or even
extremely recent, date, but a few of the biggest and brightest dated
further back, and, although in a weather-beaten state, they had lasted
over from the previous year. Among these pleasure resorts, and
alternating with them, various artisans had set up their workshops,
especially sculptors and stone cutters, who mostly exhibited crosses,
pillars, and obelisks hereabouts, because of the numerous cemeteries.
All this could not fail to strike whoever passed this way, and
Rienaecker too was strangely impressed, as he read from the cab, with
growing curiosity, the endless and strongly contrasted announcements
and looked at the accompanying pictures. "Fraeulein Rosella, the living
wonder maiden"; "Crosses and Gravestones at the Lowest Prices"; "Quick
Photography, American Style"; "Russian Ball throwing, six shots for
tern pfennig"; "Swedish Punch with Waffles"; "Figaro's Finest
Opportunity, or the First Hairdressing Parlor in the World"; "Crosses
and Gravestones at the Lowest Prices"; "Swiss Shooting Gallery":


           "Shoot right quick and shoot right well,
            Shoot and hit like William Tell."


And beneath this Tell himself with his son, his cross bow and the
apple.

Finally the cab reached the end of the long board fence and at this
point the road made a sharp turn toward the wood and now, breaking the
stillness of noon, the rattle of guns could be heard from the shooting
stands. Otherwise everything was much the same on this continuation of
the street: Blondin, clad only in his tights and his medals, was
balancing on the tightrope, with fireworks flashing around him, while
near him various small placards announced balloon ascensions as well as
the pleasures of the dance. One read: "A Sicilian Night. At two o'clock
Vienna Bonbon Waltzes."

Botho, who had not seen this place for a long time, read all these
placards with real interest, until after he had passed through the
"wood," where he found the shade very refreshing for a few minutes, and
beyond which he turned into the principal street of a populous suburb
that extended as far as Rixdorf. Wagons, two and even three abreast,
were passing before him, until suddenly everything came to a standstill
and the traffic was blocked. "What are we stopping for?" he asked, but
before the coachman could answer, Botho heard cursing and swearing from
in front, and saw that the wagons had become wedged. He leaned forward
and looked about with interest, true to his fondness for plain people,
and apparently the incident would have amused rather than annoyed him,
if both the load and the inscription on a wagon that had stopped in
front of him had not impressed him painfully. "Broken glass bought and
sold, Max Zippel, Rixdorf" was painted in big letters on the high
tailboard and a perfect mountain of pieces of glass was piled up in the
body of the wagon. "Luck goes with glass" ... And he looked at the load
with distaste and felt as if the fragments were cutting all his finger
tips.

But at last the wagons moved on again and the horse did his best to
make up for lost time, and before long the driver stopped before a
corner house, with a high roof and a projecting gable and ground floor
windows so low that they were almost on a level with the street. An
iron bracket projected from the gable, supporting a gilded key placed
upright.

"What is that?" asked Botho.

"The Rollkrug."

"Very well. Then we are nearly there. We only have to turn up hill
here. I am sorry for the horse, but there is no help for it."

The driver gave the horse a cut with the whip and they began to go up a
rather steep, hilly street, on one side of which lay the old Jacob's
cemetery, which was half closed up because of being over full, while
across the street from the cemetery fence rose some high tenement
houses.

In front of the last house stood some wandering musicians, apparently
man and wife, with a horn and a harp. The woman was singing too, but
the wind, which was rather strong here, blew the sound away up hill and
only when Botho had gone more than ten steps beyond the poor old
couple, was he able to distinguish the words and melody. It was the
same song that they had sung so happily long ago on the walk to
Wilmersdorf, and he sat up and looked out as if the music had called
him back to the musicians. They, however, were facing another way and
did not see him, but a pretty maid, who was washing windows on the
gable side of the house, and who might have thought that the young
officer was looking back at her, waved her chamois skin gayly at him
and joined vigorously in the chorus:


     "Ich denke d'ran, ich danke dir, mein Leben; doch du Soldat,
          Soldat, denkst du daran?"


Botho threw himself back in the cab and buried his face in his hands,
while an endlessly sweet, sad feeling swept over him. But the sadness
outweighed the sweetness and he could not shake it off until he had
left the town behind and saw the Mueggelberg on the distant horizon in
the blue midday haze.

Finally they drew up before the new Jacob's graveyard.

"Shall I wait?" said the driver.

"Yes. But not here. Down by the Rollkrug. And if you see those
musicians again ... here, this is for the poor woman."




                              CHAPTER XXII


Botho entrusted himself to the guidance of an old man who was busy near
the entrance gate and found Frau Nimptsch's grave well cared for: ivy
vines had been planted, a pot of geraniums stood between them and a
wreath of immortelles was already hanging on a little iron stand. "Ah,
Lena," said Botho to himself. "Always the same.... I have come too
late." And then he turned to the old man who was standing near and
asked: "Was it a very small funeral?"

"Yes, it was very small indeed."

"Three or four?"

"Exactly four. And of course our old superintendent. He only made a
prayer and the big middle-aged woman, about forty or so, who was here,
cried all the time. And a young woman was here too. She comes once a
week and last Sunday she brought the geranium. And she means to get a
stone too, the kind that are fashionable now: a green polished one with
the name and date on it."

And herewith the old man drew back with the politeness common to all
who are employed about a cemetery, while Botho hung his wreath of
immortelles together with Lena's, but the wreath of evergreens and
white roses he laid around the pot of geraniums. And then he walked
back to the entrance of the cemetery, after looking a little longer at
the modest grave and thinking lovingly of good old Fran Nimptsch. The
old man, who had meanwhile returned to the care of his vines, took off
his cap and looked after him, and puzzled over the question, what could
have brought such a fine gentleman (for after that last handshake of
his, he had had no doubts as to the quality of the visitor) to the
grave of an old woman. "There must be some reason for it. And he did
not have the cab wait." However he could come to no conclusion, and at
least to show his gratitude as best he could, he took a watering pot
and filled it and then went to Frau Nimptsch's grave and watered the
ivy, which had grown rather dry in the hot sun.

Meanwhile Botho had gone back to the cab, which was waiting by the
Rollkrug, got in and an hour later had once more reached the
Landgrafenstrasse. The driver jumped down civilly and opened the door.

"Here," said Botho "... and this is extra. It was half an excursion
..."

"One might as well call it a whole one."

"I see," laughed Rienaecker. "Then I must give you a bit more?"

"It wouldn't do any harm ... Thank you, Herr Baron."

"But now feed your horse a little better, for my sake. He is a pitiful
sight."

And he nodded and ran up the steps.


There was not a sound in the house and even the servants were away,
because they knew that he was usually at the club at about this time,
at least during his wife's absence. "Untrustworthy people," he grumbled
to himself and seemed quite provoked. Nevertheless he was glad to be
alone. He did not want to see anyone and went and sat out on the
balcony, to be alone with his dreams. But it was close under the awning
which was down and had also a deep, drooping fringe and so he rose to
put up the awning. That was better. The fresh air, which now entered
freely, did him good and drawing a deep breath he stepped to the
railing and looked over fields and woods to the castle tower of
Charlottenburg, whose greenish copper roof shimmered in the bright
afternoon sunshine.

"Behind lies Spandau," said he to himself. "And behind Spandau there is
an embankment and a railroad track which runs as far as the Rhine. And
on that track I see a train, with many carriages and Katherine is
sitting in one of them. I wonder how she looks? Well, of course. And
what is she probably talking about? A little of everything, I think:
piquant tales about the baths, or about Frau Salinger's toilettes, and
how it is really best in Berlin. And ought I not to be glad that she is
coming home again? Such a pretty woman, so young, so happy and cheerful
And I am glad too. But she must not come to-day. For heaven's sake, no.
And yet I can believe it of her. She has not written for three days and
it is quite likely that she is planning a surprise."

He followed these fancies for a while yet, but then the pictures
changed and, instead of Katherine's, long past images arose again in
his mind: the Doerr's garden, the walk to Wilmersdorf, the excursion to
Hankel's Ablage. That had been their last beautiful day, their last
happy hour.... "She said then that a hair would bind too tight, and so
she refused and did not want to do it. And I? Why did I insist upon it?
Yes, there are such mysterious powers, such affinities that come from
heaven or hell, and now I am bound and cannot free myself. Oh how dear
and good she was that afternoon, while we were still alone and did not
dream of being disturbed, and I cannot forget the picture of Lena among
the grasses picking flowers here and there. I have the flowers still.
But I will destroy them. Why should I keep the poor dead things, that
only make me restless and might cost me what little happiness I have
and disturb the peacefulness of my marriage, if ever another eye should
see them."

And he rose from his seat on the balcony and passed through the whole
length of the house to his workroom, which overlooked the courtyard and
was very sunny in the morning, but was now in deep shadow. The coolness
did him good and he went to a handsome desk which he had had ever since
his bachelor days, and which had little ebony drawers decorated with
various little silver garlands. In the middle, surrounded by these
drawers there was a sort of temple-like structure with pillars and a
pediment; this temple was meant to keep valuables in and had a secret
drawer behind it, which closed with a spring. Botho pressed the spring
and when the drawer sprung open, took out a small bundle of letters,
tied up with a red cord, on top of which, as if put there as an
afterthought, lay the flowers of which he had just been speaking. He
weighed the packet in his hand and said, as he was untying the cord:
"Great joy, great grief. Trials and tribulations. The old song."

He was alone and need fear no surprises. But still, fancying himself
not sufficiently secure, he rose and locked the door. And only then did
he take the topmost letter and read it. It was the one written the day
before the walk to Wilmersdorf, and he now looked very tenderly at the
words which he had formerly underlined with his pencil. "Stiehl....
Alleh.... How these poor dear little 'h's' take my fancy to-day, more
than all the orthography in the world. And how clear the handwriting
is. And how good and at the same time how playful is what she wrote.
Ah, how happily her traits were mingled. She was both reasonable and
passionate. Everything that she said showed character and depth of
feeling. How poor a thing is culture, and how ill it compares with
genuine qualities."

He picked up the second letter and meant to read the whole
correspondence from beginning to end. But it distressed him too much.
"What is the use? Why should I recall to life what is dead and must
remain dead? I must destroy all this and I must hope that even memory
itself will fade with the reminders that awakened it."

Now that his mind was fully made up, he rose quickly from his desk,
pushed the fire screen to one side and stepped to the little hearth to
burn the letters. And slowly, as if he wanted to prolong the sweet
sorrow, he let leaf by leaf fall on the hearth and vanish in the
flames. The last thing left in his hand was the bunch of flowers and
while he was thinking and pondering, a change of feeling come over him
and he felt as if he must untie the strand of hair and look at each
flower separately. But suddenly, as if overcome with superstitious
fear, he threw the flowers after the letters.

One more flicker and all was wholly quenched and destroyed.

"Am I free now?... Do I want to be? I do not. It is all turned to
ashes. And yet I am bound."




                             CHAPTER XXIII


Botho gazed at the ashes. "How little and yet how much." And then he
replaced the handsome fire screen, in the centre of which was a copy of
a Pompeian frescoed figure. A hundred times his eye had glanced at it
without noticing what it really was, but to-day he saw it and said:
"Minerva with her shield and spear. But her spear is resting on the
ground. Perhaps that signifies peace ... Would that it might be so."
And then he rose, closed the secret drawer which had now been despoiled
of its chief treasure and returned to the front of the house.

As he was passing through the long, narrow corridor, he met the cook
and the housemaid who were just coming back from a walk in the
Zoological Garden. As he saw them both standing there nervous and
confused, he felt a movement of compassion, but he controlled it and
reminded himself, although indeed somewhat ironically, "that it was
high time that an example should be made." So he began, as well as he
could, to play the part of Jove with his thunderbolts. Where in the
world had they been? Was that the proper way to behave? Their mistress
might come home any time, perhaps even to-day, and he had no desire to
hand over a disorganised household to her. And the man too? "Now, I
don't want to know anything about it, I will not listen; least of all
to any excuses." And when he had finished his little scolding, he
walked on smiling, chiefly at himself. "How easy it is to preach and
how hard it is to live up to one's principles. I am a hero only in
words. Am I not myself out of bounds? Have I not, myself, fallen away
from correct and virtuous customs? That it has been, might be
tolerated, but that it still is, that is the worst."

So saying he took his former seat on the balcony and rang. His man came
now, almost more nervous and troubled than the women, but there was no
longer any need, for the storm was over. "Tell the cook to get me
something to eat. Well, what are you waiting for? Oh, I see now (and he
laughed), there is nothing in the house. All this happens so
conveniently ... Then some tea; bring me tea, that will surely be in
the house. And let them make a couple of sandwiches. Good Lord, how
hungry I am.... And have the evening papers come yet?"

"Very good, Herr Rittmeister."

The tea table was soon served on the balcony and a bit of something to
eat had also been discovered. Botho leaned back in a rocking chair and
gazed thoughtfully at the little blue flame. Then he picked up his
little wife's monitor, the "Fremdenblatt," and after that the
"Kreuzzeitung," and looked at the last page. "Heavens, how glad
Katherine will be, when she can study this last page every day fresh
from the source, that is, twelve hours earlier than in Schlangenbad.
And is she not right? 'Adalbert von Lichterloh, Government Referendar
and Lieutenant of Reserves, and Hildegard von Lichterloh, _nee_ Holtze,
have the honor to announce their marriage which took place to-day.'
Wonderful! And really it is fine to see how life and love goes on in
the world. Weddings and christenings! And now and then a few deaths
interspersed. Oh well, one does not need to read them. Katherine does
not, nor I either, and only when the Vandals have lost one of their
'alten Herren' and I see the name of my regiment among the death
notices do I read it; that interests me and it always seems to me as if
the old camp at Hofbraeu were invited to Walhalla. Spatenbraeu is still
more suitable."

He laid the paper aside, because the bell rung ... "Can she really ..."
No, it was nothing but a bill of fare of soups sent up by the landlord
with a charge of fifty pfennigs. But for all that he was much disturbed
all the evening, because he constantly imagined the possibility of a
surprise, and whenever he saw a cab with a trunk in front and a lady's
travelling hat on the back seat turning into the Landgrafenstrasse, he
would exclaim to himself: "That is she; she loves such doings and I can
already hear her saying: I thought it would be so funny, Botho."

However, Katherine did not come. A letter from her came next morning
instead, in which she said that she should return on the third day
after the date of the letter. "She wanted to travel with Frau Salinger
again, for, take it for all in all, she was a very nice woman, with
many pleasant traits, a great deal of style and also knew how to travel
very comfortably."

Botho laid down the letter and for the moment was sincerely pleased at
the thought of seeing his pretty young wife within three days. "There
is room in the human heart for all sorts of contradictions.... She
talks nonsense, certainly, but even a foolish young wife is better than
none at all."

Then he called the servants and told them that their mistress was
coming back in three days; they must have everything in order and
polish all the locks and other brasses. And there must be no fly specks
on the big mirror.

Having given these housekeeping orders beforehand, he went to the
barracks for his period of service there. "If anyone asks, I shall be
back at five."

His programme for the intervening time was, that until noon he would be
on the parade ground, then ride for a couple of hours and after his
ride dine at the club. If he did not find anyone else there, he would
at least find Balafre, which implied two-handed whist and a wealth of
true or untrue stories of the Court. For Balafre, however trustworthy
he was, made it a principle to set aside one hour of the day for humbug
and exaggeration. Indeed, with him, this activity took the lead among
the pleasures of the mind.

And the programme was carried out just as it was planned. The big clock
at the barracks was striking twelve as he sprung into the saddle and
after he had passed the "Lindens" and immediately after the
Luisenstrasse, he at last turned into a road that ran along beside the
canal and further on ran in the direction of Ploetzensee. As he rode
along, he recalled the day when he had ridden here before, to gain
courage for his parting with Lena, for the parting that had been so
hard for him and that still had to be. That was three years ago. And
what had there been for him in the meantime? Much happiness, certainly.
But it had been no real happiness. A sugar plum, not much more. And who
can live on sweets alone!

He was still brooding over these thoughts, when he saw two comrades
coming along a bridle path from the woods towards the canal. They were
Uhlans, as he could plainly see even from a distance by their
"Czapkas." But who were they? To be sure, he could not remain long in
doubt and before they had approached within a hundred paces, Botho saw
that they were the Rexins, cousins, and both from the same regiment.

"Ah, Rienaecker," said the elder. "Where are you going?"

"As far as the sky is blue."

"That is too far for me."

"Well, then, as far as Saatwinkel."

"That is worth thinking of. I believe I will join the party, that is,
provided that I do not intrude.... Kurt (and as he spoke he turned to
his younger companion), I beg your pardon. But I want to speak with
Rienaecker. And under the circumstances ..."

"You would rather speak with him privately. Just as you prefer, Bozel,"
and Kurt von Rexin touched his hat and rode on. The cousin who had been
addressed as Bozel, however, turned his horse around, took the left
side of Rienaecker, who was far above him in rank and said: "Very well
then, to Saatwinkel. We shall take care not to ride into the Tegeler
rifle range."

"At all events I shall try to avoid it," replied Rienaecker, "first for
my own sake and second for yours. And third and last because of
Henrietta. What would that interesting brunette say, if her Bogislaw
should be shot and killed and that too by some friend?"

"That would indeed give her a heartache," answered Rexin, "and would
also strike out one item in the reckoning between her and me."

"What reckoning do you mean?"

"That is the very point, Rienaecker, about which I wanted to consult
you."

"To consult me? And about what point?"

"You ought to be able to guess it. It is not difficult. Naturally I
mean an affair, an affair of my own."

"An affair!" laughed Botho. "Why, I am at your service, Rexin. But, to
be frank with you, I hardly know just what leads you to confide in me.
I am not a remarkable fount of wisdom in any direction, least of all in
this. And then, too, we have quite different authorities. One of these
you know very well. And moreover he is a special friend of yours and of
your cousin's."

"Balafre?"

"Yes."

Rexin felt that there was something like reluctance or refusal in these
words and stopped talking with some air of finality. But that was more
than Botho had meant, and so he led on a little further. "Affairs.
Pardon me, Rexin, there are so many affairs."

"Certainly. But however many there are, they are all different."

Botho shrugged his shoulders and smiled. But Rexin, evidently not
meaning to be stopped the second time through his own sensitiveness,
only repeated in an indifferent tone: "Yes, however many there are, yet
they are different. And I wonder, Rienaecker, that you should be the one
to shrug your shoulders. I really thought ..."

"Well, then, out with it."

"So I will."

And after a while Rexin went on: "I have been through the University,
and have served with the Uhlans, and before that (you know I joined
them rather late) I was at Bonn and Goettingen and I need no instruction
and advice when the case is a usual one. But when I examine myself
carefully, I find that in my case the affair is not usual but
exceptional."

"Everyone thinks that."

"To speak plainly, I feel myself engaged, and more than that, I love
Henrietta, or to show you my feeling more plainly, I love my dark
Yetta. Yes, this importunate pet name with its suggestion of the
canteen suits me best, because I want to avoid all solemn airs in this
connection. I feel sufficiently in earnest and just because I am in
earnest, I feel no need of anything like pompous or artificial forms of
speech. They only weaken the expression."

Botho nodded in agreement and refrained from every sign of derision or
superiority, such as he had shown at first.

"Yetta," Rexin went on, "is not descended from a line of angels nor is
she one herself. But where can you find one who is? In our own sphere?
Absurd. All these distinctions are purely artificial and the most
artificial are to be found in the realm of virtue. Naturally, virtue
and other such fine things do exist, but innocence and virtue are like
Bismarck and Moltke, that is, they are rare. I have observed very
carefully her life and conduct, I believe her to be genuine and I
intend to act accordingly as far as possible. And now listen,
Rienaecker. If, instead of riding beside this tiresome canal, as
straight and monotonous as the forms and formulas of our society, I
say, if we were now riding by the Sacramento instead of beside this
wretched ditch, and if we had the diggings before us instead of the
Tegeler shooting range, I would marry Yetta at once. I cannot live
without her. She has bewitched me, and her simplicity, modesty and
genuine love have more weight with me than ten countesses. But it is
impossible. I cannot treat my parents so, and besides, I cannot leave
the service at twenty-seven years of age, to become a cowboy in Texas
or a waiter on a Mississippi steamer. Therefore the middle way...."

"And what do you mean by that?"

"A union without formal sanction."

"You mean a marriage without marriage."

"If you like, yes. The mere word means nothing to me, just as little as
legalisation, sanctification, or whatever else such things may be
called; I am a bit touched with nihilism and have no real faith in the
blessing of the church. But, to cut a long story short, I am in favor
of monogamy, not on moral grounds, but because I cannot help it, and
because of my own inborn nature. All relations are repugnant to me,
where beginning and breaking off may happen within the same hour, so to
speak. And if I just now called myself a nihilist, I may with still
more justice call myself a Philistine. I long for simple forms, for a
quiet, natural way of living, where heart speaks to heart and where one
has the best that there is, faithfulness, love and freedom."

"Freedom!" repeated Botho.

"Yes, Rienaecker. But since I well know that dangers may lurk here too
and that the joy of freedom, perhaps all freedom, is a two-edged sword,
that can wound, one never knows how, I wanted to ask you."

"And I will answer you," said Rienaecker, who was growing more and more
serious, as these confidences recalled his own life, both past and
present, to his mind. "Yes, Rexin, I will answer you as well as I can,
and I believe that I am able to answer you. And so I implore you, keep
out of all that. In such a relation as you are planning for, only two
things are possible, and the one is fully as bad as the other. If you
play the true and faithful lover, or what amounts to the same thing, if
you break entirely with your position and birth and the customs of your
class, sooner or later, if you do not go to pieces altogether, you will
become a horror and a burden to yourself; but if things do not go that
way, and if, as is more common, you make your peace, after a year or
more, with your family and with the social order, then there is sorrow,
for the tie must be loosened which has been knit and strengthened by
happiness, and alas, what means still more, by unhappiness and pain and
distress. And that hurts dreadfully."

Rexin looked as if he were about to answer, but Botho did not notice
him and went on: "My dear Rexin, a short time ago you were speaking, in
a way that might serve as a model of decorous expression, of relations
'where beginning and breaking off may happen within the same hour,' but
these relations, which are really none at all, are not the worst. The
worst are those, to quote you once more, which keep to the 'middle
course.' I warn you, beware of this middle course, beware of half-way
measures. What you think is gain is bankruptcy, and what seems to you a
harbor means shipwreck. That way leads to no good, even if to outward
appearances all runs smoothly and no curse is pronounced and scarcely a
gentle reproach is uttered. And there is no other way. For everything
brings its own natural consequences, we must remember that. Nothing
that has happened can be undone, and an image that has once been
engraved in the soul, never wholly fades out again, never completely
disappears. Memory remains and comparisons will arise in the mind. And
so once more, my friend, give up your intention or else the whole
course of your life will be disturbed and you will never again win your
way through to clearness and light. Many things may be permitted, but
not those that involve the soul, not those that entangle the heart,
even if it is only your own."




                              CHAPTER XXIV


A telegram sent just as Katherine was on the point of departure arrived
on the third day: "I shall arrive this evening. K."

And she actually arrived. Botho was at the station and was presented to
Frau Salinger, who declined all thanks for her good companionship
during the journey, and kept repeating how fortunate she had been, and
above all how fortunate he must be in having such a charming young
wife. "Look here, Herr Baron, if I were so fortunate as to be her
husband, I would never part from such a wife even for three days." And
then she began to complain of men in general, but in the same breath
she added an urgent invitation to Vienna. "We have a nice little house
less than an hour from Vienna, and a couple of saddle horses and a good
table. In Prussia you have schools and in Vienna we have cooking. And I
don't know which I prefer."

"I know," said Katherine, "and I think Botho does too."

Hereupon they separated and our young couple got into an open carriage,
after having given orders for sending the baggage home.

Katherine leaned back and put her little feet up on the back seat, on
which lay a gigantic bouquet, a parting attention from the Schlangenbad
landlady who was perfectly delighted with the charming lady from
Berlin. Katherine took Botho's arm and clung to him caressingly, but
only for a few moments, then she sat up again and said, as she held the
great bouquet in place with her parasol: "It is really charming here,
so many people and the river so crowded with boats that they can
scarcely find their way in or out. And so little dust. I think it is
really a blessing that they sprinkle now and everything is drenched
with water; of course one had better not wear long dresses. And only
look at the baker's wagon with the dog harnessed in. Isn't he too
comical? Only the canal.... I don't know, it is still just about the
same...."

"Yes," laughed Botho, "it is just about the same. Four weeks of July
heat have not managed to improve it."

As they were passing under some young trees, Katherine plucked a linden
leaf, placed it over the hollow of her hand and struck it so that it
made a popping sound. "We always used to do that at home. And at
Schlangenbad, when we had nothing better to do, we would pop leaves and
do all sorts of little tricks that we used to do when we were children.
Can you imagine it, I really care a great deal for such foolish little
things and yet I am quite old and have finished with them."

"But, Katherine...."

"Yes, yes, a regular matron, you will see.... But just look, Botho,
there is the rail fence again and the old alehouse with the comical
and rather improper name, that we used to laugh at so heartily at
boarding-school. I thought the place was gone long ago. But the
Berliners will not let anything of that sort go, a place like that will
always keep on; all that is needed is a queer name, that amuses
people."

Botho vacillated between pleasure over Katherine's return and fleeting
moments of discontent. "I find you a good deal changed, Katherine."

"Certainly I am. And why should I be changed? I was not sent to
Schlangenbad to change, at least not my character and conversation. And
whether I have changed in some other ways, _mon cher ami, nous
verrons_."

"Quite matronly now?"

She held her hand over his mouth and pushed back her veil, which had
fallen half over her face, and directly afterwards they passed the
Potsdam railway viaduct, over the iron framework of which an express
train was just rushing. It made both a thundering and a trembling and
when they had left the bridge behind, Katherine said: "It is always
disagreeable to me to be directly under it."

"But it is no better for those who are up there."

"Perhaps not. But it is all in the idea. Ideas always have so much
influence. Don't you think so too?" And she sighed, as if some dreadful
thing that had taken a terrible hold upon her life had suddenly come
before her mind. But then she went on: "In England, so Mr. Armstrong,
an acquaintance at the baths, told me (I must tell you more about him,
besides he married an Alvensleben)--in England, he said, they bury the
dead fifteen feet deep. Now fifteen feet deep is no worse than five
feet, but I felt distinctly, while he was telling me about it, how the
clay, for that is the correct English word, must weigh like a ton on
the breast. For in England they have a very heavy clay soil."

"Did you say Armstrong.... There was an Armstrong in the Baden
Dragoons."

"A cousin of his. They are all cousins, the same as with us. I am glad
that I can describe him to you with all his little peculiarities. A
regular cavalier with his mustache turned up, and he really went a
little too far with that. He looked very comical, with those twisted
ends, which he was always twisting more."

In about ten minutes the carriage drew up before the door and Botho
gave her his arm and led her in. A garland hung over the large door of
the corridor and a tablet with the inscription "Willkommen"
("Welcome"), from which, alas, one "l" was wanting, hung somewhat
crookedly from the garland. Katherine looked up, read it and laughed.

"Willkommen! But only with one 'l,' that is to say, only half. Dear me.
An 'L' is the letter for Love, too. Well then, you too shall have only
half of everything."

And so she walked through the door into the corridor, where the cook
and housemaid were already standing waiting to kiss her hand.

"Good day, Bertha; good day, Minette. Yes, children, here I am again.
Well, how do you think I look? Have I improved?" And before the maids
could answer, which indeed she was not expecting, she went on: "But you
have both improved. Especially you, Minette, you have really grown
quite stout."

Minette was embarrassed and looked straight before her, and Katherine
added good-naturedly: "I mean only here around your chin and neck."

Meantime the man servant came in also. "Why, Orth, I was growing
anxious about you. The Lord be praised, there was no need; you are none
the worse for wear, only a trifle pale. But the heat causes that. And
still the same freckles."

"Yes, gracious lady, they stay."

"Well, that is right. Always fast color."

While this talk was in progress she had reached her bedroom, where
Botho and Minette followed her, while the other two retired to their
kitchen.

"Now, Minette, help me. My cloak first. And now take my hat. But be
careful, or else we shall never know how to get rid of the dust. And
now tell Orth to set the table out on the balcony. I have not eaten a
bite all day, because I wanted everything to taste good here at home.
And now go, my dear girl; go Minette."

Minette hastened to leave the room, while Katherine remained standing
before the tall glass and arranged her hair which was in some disorder.
At the same time she looked at Botho in the glass, for he was standing
near her and looking at his pretty young wife.

"Now, Botho," said she with playful coquetry and without turning around
to look at him.

And her affectionate coquetry was cleverly enough calculated so that he
embraced her while she gave herself up to his caresses. He put his arms
around her waist and lifted her up in the air. "Katherine, my little
doll, my dear little doll."

"A doll, a dear little doll. I ought to be angry at that, Botho. For
one plays with dolls. But I am not angry, on the contrary. Dolls are
usually loved best and treated best. And that is what I like."




                              CHAPTER XXV


It was a glorious morning, the sky was half clouded and in the gentle
west wind the young couple sat on the balcony, while Minette was
clearing the coffee table, and looked over toward the Zoological Garden
where the gay cupolas of the elephant houses shone softly in the dim
morning light.

"I really know nothing yet about your experiences," said Botho. "You
went right to sleep, and sleep is sacred to me. But now I want to hear
all about it. Tell me."

"Oh yes, tell you; what shall I tell you? I wrote you so many letters
that you must know Anna Graevenitz and Frau Salinger quite as well as I
do, or perhaps still better, for among other things I wrote more than I
knew myself."

"Perhaps. But you always said, 'More about this when we meet.' And that
time has now come, or do you want me to think you are keeping something
from me? I know actually nothing at all about your excursions and yet
you were in Wiesbaden. You said indeed that there were only colonels
and old generals in Wiesbaden, but there are Englishmen there too. And
speaking of Englishmen reminds me of your Scotchman, about whom you
were going to tell me. Let me see, what was his name?"

"Armstrong; Mr. Armstrong. He certainly was a delightful man, and I
cannot understand his wife, an Alvensleben, as I think I told you
before, who was always embarrassed whenever he spoke. And yet he was a
perfect gentleman, who always respected himself, even when he let
himself go and showed a certain nonchalance. At such moments, gentlemen
are always the most easily recognised. Don't you agree with me? He wore
a blue necktie and a yellow summer suit, and he looked as if he had
been sewed into it, and Anna Graevenitz always used to say: 'There comes
the penholder.' And he always carried a big, open umbrella, a habit he
had formed in India. For he was an officer in a Scotch regiment, that
had been stationed a long time in Madras or Bombay, or perhaps it may
have been Delhi. But any way it is all the same. And what had he not
been through! His conversation was charming, even if sometimes one
hardly knew how to take it."

"So he was too forward? Insolent?"

"I beg your pardon, Botho, how can you speak so? Such a man as he; a
cavalier _comme il faut_. I will give you an example of his style of
conversation. Opposite us sat an old lady, the wife of General von
Wedell, and Anna Graevenitz asked her (I believe it was the anniversary
of Koeniggratz), whether it was true that thirty-three Wedells fell in
the seven years' war? Old Frau von Wedell said that it was quite true,
and added that there had really been more. All who were present, were
astonished at so great a number, excepting Mr. Armstrong, and when I
playfully took him to task, he said that he could not get excited
over such small numbers. 'Small numbers!' I interrupted him, but he
laughed and added, for the sake of refuting me, that one hundred and
thirty-three of the Armstrongs had perished in the various wars and
feuds of their clan. And when Frau von Wedell at first refused to
believe this, but finally (as Mr. A. stuck to his story) asked eagerly,
whether the whole hundred and thirty-three had really 'fallen'? he
replied 'No, my dear lady, not exactly fallen. Most of them were hung
as horse thieves by the English, who were then our enemies.' And when
everybody was horrified over this unsuitable, one might almost say
embarrassing tale of hanging, he swore that 'we were wrong to be
offended by any such a thing, for times and opinions had changed and as
far as his own immediate family were concerned, they regarded their
heroic forbears with pride. The Scottish method of warfare for three
hundred years had consisted of cattle lifting and horse stealing.
Different lands, different customs,' and he could not see any great
difference between stealing land and stealing cattle."

"He is a Guelph in disguise," said Botho, "but there is a good deal to
say for his view."

"Surely. And I was always on his side, when he made such statements.
Oh, he would make you die of laughter. He used to say that one should
not take anything seriously, it did not pay, and fishing was the only
serious occupation. He would occasionally go fishing for a fortnight on
Loch Ness or Loch Lochy--only think what funny names they have in
Scotland--and he would sleep in the boat, and when the sun rose, there
he was again; and when the fortnight was ended, he would moult and his
whole sunburnt skin would come off and then he would have a skin like a
baby. And he did all this through vanity, for a smooth, even color is
really the best thing that one can have. And as he said this, he looked
at me in such a way, that I did not know how to answer for a moment.
Oh, you men! But yet from the beginning I really had a warm attachment
for him and took no offence at his way of talking, which sometimes
pursued one subject for some time, but far, far oftener shifted
constantly here and there. One of his favorite sayings was: 'I cannot
bear to have one dish stay on the table a whole hour; if only it is not
always the same, I am much better pleased when the courses are changed
rapidly.' And so he was always jumping from the hundreds into the
thousands."

"Then you must have met on common ground," laughed Botho.

"So we did. And we mean to write to each other, in the same style in
which we used to talk; we agreed on that as we were saying good-bye.
Our men, even your friends, are always so thoroughgoing. And you are
the most thoroughgoing of all, which sometimes annoys me and puts me
quite out of patience. And you must promise me that you will be more
like Mr. Armstrong and try to talk a little more simply and amusingly
and a little faster and not always on the same subject."

Botho promised to amend his ways, and as Katherine, who loved
superlatives, after describing a phenomenally rich American, an
absolutely albino Swede with rabbit's eyes, and a fascinating Spanish
beauty--had closed with an afternoon excursion to Limburg, Oranienstein
and Nassau, and had described to her husband in turn the crypt, the
cadets' training school and the water-cure establishment, she suddenly
pointed to the towers of the castle at Charlottenburg and said: "Do you
know, Botho, we must go there to-day or to Westend or to Hallensee. The
Berlin air is rather heavy and there is none of the breath of God in
it, as there is in the country where the poets so justly praise it. And
when one has just come back fresh from nature, as I have, one has
learned to love once more what I might call purity and innocence. Ah,
Botho, what a treasure an innocent heart is. I have fully determined to
keep my heart pure. And you must help me. Yes, you must promise me. No,
not that way; you must kiss me three times on my forehead like a bride.
I want no tenderness, I want a kiss of consecration ... And if we take
lunch, a warm dish, of course, we can get out there at about three."


And so they went on their excursion and although the air of
Charlottenburg was still less like the breath of God than the Berlin
air, yet Katherine was fully determined to stay in the castle park and
to give up Hallensee. Westend was so tiresome and Hallensee was half a
journey further, almost as far as Schlangenbad. But in the castle park
one could see the mausoleum, where the blue lights were always so
strangely moving, indeed she might say it was as if a bit of heaven had
fallen into one's soul. That produced a thoughtful mood and led to
pious reflections. And even if it were not for the mausoleum, still
there was the bridge where you could see the carp, the bridge with the
bell on it, and if a great big mossy carp came swimming by, it always
seemed to her as if it were a crocodile. And perhaps there might be a
woman there with round cakes and wafers, and one might buy some and so,
in a small way, do a good work. She said a "good work" on purpose and
avoided the word Christian, for Frau Salinger was always charitable.

And everything went according to the programme, and when the carps had
been fed they both walked further into the park until they reached the
Belvedere with its rococo figures and its historical associations.
Katherine knew nothing of these associations and Botho therefore took
occasion to tell her of the ghosts of the departed Emperor and Electors
whom General von Bischofswerder caused to appear at this very place in
order to arouse King Frederick William the Second from his lethargy, or
what amounted to the same thing, to get him out of the hands of his
lady love and bring him back to the path of virtue.

"And did it do any good?" asked Katherine.

"No."

"What a pity! Anything like that always moves me so painfully. And if I
consider that the unhappy prince (for he must have been unhappy) was
the father-in-law of Queen Luise then my heart bleeds. How she must
have suffered! I can never rightly imagine such things in our Prussia.
And you say Bischofswerder was the name of the general who caused the
ghosts to appear?"

"Yes. At court they called him the tree toad."

"Because he brought on changes of weather?"

"No, because he wore a green coat."

"Oh, that is too comical!... The tree toad!"




                              CHAPTER XXVI


As the sun was setting the young couple reached home, and after
Katherine had given her hat and cloak to Minette and had ordered tea,
she followed Botho into his room, because she thought it fitting to
spend the whole of the first day after her journey in his company, and
besides she really wished to stay with him.

Botho was content, and because she was shivering, he put a cushion
under her feet and spread a plaid over her. Soon afterwards he was
called away, on account of some official business which required prompt
attention.

The time passed and since the cushion and plaid did not quite suffice
to give the requisite warmth, Katherine rang and asked the servant to
bring a couple of pieces of wood; she was so cold.

At the same time she rose, to set the fire screen to one side, and in
doing this, she saw the little heap of ashes, which still lay on the
iron plate of the fire place.

At this very moment Botho came in again and was startled at what he
saw. But he was immediately reassured, as Katherine pointed to the
ashes and said in her most playful tone: "What does this mean, Botho.
Look there, I have caught you again. Now confess. Love letters? Yes or
no?"

"Of course you will believe what you choose."

"Yes or no?"

"Very well then; yes."

"That is right. Now I am satisfied. Love letters! That is too comical.
But perhaps we had better burn them twice; first to ashes and then to
smoke. Perhaps that will bring good luck."

And she took the pieces of wood that the servant had brought in the
meantime, laid them skilfully together and started to light them with a
couple of matches. The wood caught. In a moment the fire was blazing
brightly and as she drew the armchair up before it and put her feet
comfortably on the iron fender to warm them, she said: "And now I will
tell you the story of the Russian, who naturally was not a Russian. But
she was a very clever person. She had almond eyes, all such persons
have almond eyes, and she gave out that she was at Schlangenbad for the
sake of the cure. Well, one knows what that means. She had no doctor,
at least no regular physician, but every day she went to Frankfort or
Wiesbaden, or even to Darmstadt, and she always had an escort. And some
even said that it was not always the same one. And you just ought to
have seen her toilettes and her conceited airs! She would scarcely bow
to anyone when she came to the table d'hote with her chaperon. For she
had a chaperon--that is always the first requisite for such ladies. And
we called her 'the Pompadour,' I mean the Russian, and she knew that
we called her that too. And the general's wife, old Frau von Wedell,
who was entirely on our side and was quite indignant over this
doubtful person (for she was a _person_, there could be no doubt about
that)--Frau Wedell, I say, said right out loud across the table: 'Yes,
ladies, the fashions change in everything even in pockets large and
small and in purses long and short. When I was young, there were still
Pompadours, but now there are no longer any Pompadours. Is not that so?
There are no longer any Pompadours?' And as she said this we all
laughed and looked at the Pompadour. But the shocking person won a
victory over us for all that for she said in a loud, sharp tone (old
Frau von Wedell was rather deaf) 'Yes, Frau Generalin, it is exactly as
you say. Only it is strange, that as the Pompadours went out reticules
came in, and presently they were called Ridicules and such Ridicules we
still have.' And as she spoke she looked at good old Frau von Wedell,
who, since she could not answer, rose from the table and left the room.
And now I should like to ask you, what have you to say to this? What do
you think of such impertinence?... But, Botho, you are not saying
anything. You are not listening...."

"Oh yes, I am, Katherine...."


Three weeks later there was a wedding in Jacob's church, the
cloister-like court in front of which was filled with a large and
curious crowd, mostly workingmen's wives, some of them with children on
their arms. But there were some school children and street children
among them too. A number of carriages drove up, from one of the first
of which a couple alighted, who were accompanied by laughter and
comments, as long as they were in sight.

"Such a figure!" said one of the women who stood nearest.

"Figure?"

"Well, her hips."

"They are more like the sides of a whale."

"That is right."

And doubtless this conversation would have continued longer, had not
the bride's carriage driven up just at this moment. The servant sprang
down from the box and hastened to open the door, but the bridegroom
himself, a thin man in a tall hat and high pointed collar, was quicker
than he and gave his hand to his bride, a very pretty girl, who, as is
usually the case with brides was less admired for her beauty than for
her white satin dress. Then both walked up the few stone steps, which
were covered with a somewhat worn carpet, then over the court and
directly afterwards through the church door. All eyes followed them.

"And she has no wreath?" said the same woman whose critical eye had
shortly before looked so severely at Frau Doerr's figure.

"Wreath?... Wreath?... Didn't you know then?... Haven't you heard
anything whispered about?"

"Oh, so that is it. Of course I have. But, my dear Kornatzki, if
everybody paid attention to rumors there would be no more wreaths and
Schmidt on the Friedrichsstrasse might as well shut up shop at once."

"Yes, yes," laughed Kornatzki, "so he might. And after all, for such an
old man! At least fifty years have gone over his head and he looks as
if he might be going to celebrate his silver wedding at the same time."

"Yes indeed. That is just how he looked. And did you see his
old-fashioned high collar? I never saw anything like it."

"Well, he could use it to kill her with, if there are any more rumors."

"Yes, he can do that."

And so the talk ran on a little longer, while the organ prelude could
already be heard from the church.


The next morning Rienaecker and Katherine were sitting at breakfast,
this time in Botho's workroom, both windows of which stood wide open to
let in the air and light. Some mating swallows were flying and
twittering all about the yard, and Botho, who was in the habit of
giving them crumbs every morning, was just reaching for the basket
again for the same purpose when the hearty laughter of his young wife
who for the last five minutes had been absorbed in her favorite
newspaper, caused him to set the basket down again.

"Now, Katherine, what is it? You seem to have found something
uncommonly nice."

"So I have.... It is simply too comical, the names that one sees! And
always in the notices of weddings or engagements. Just listen...."

"I am all ears."

"Gideon Franke, Master Mechanic, and Magdalena Franke, nee Nimptsch,
respectfully beg leave to announce their marriage which took place
to-day ... Nimptsch. Can you imagine anything funnier? And then
Gideon!"

Botho took the paper, but only as a means of concealing his
embarrassment. Then he handed it back, and said in as careless a tone
as he could muster: "What have you against Gideon, Katherine? Gideon is
better than Botho."



FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: The reader need not take the trouble to look for the place
thus designated. We have found it necessary to change the names given
in the original.]

[Footnote 2: We feel obliged to suppress the passage in the letter, to
prevent anyone from feeling aggrieved; although no author need pay much
attention to the opinion of a mere girl, or that of an unsteady young
man.]

[Footnote 3: Though the names are omitted, yet the authors mentioned
deserve Charlotte's approbation, and will feel it in their hearts when
they read this passage. It concerns no other person.]






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