"Glad to see you, esteemed colleague! Kindest regards from Frau von Berkow, and here she sends you Bemperlein and Julius to look at; cut copies are not taken back by the publisher!"
With these words there entered a small pale gentleman, with spectacles on his nose, and dressed in an old-fashioned but neat costume. He might be thirty or more, and held a boy by the hand.
"Heartily welcome!" said Oswald, hastily rising from his corner of the sofa in which he had been sitting, lost in thought, and half embarrassed; he shook hands with the new-comer. His eye rested with deepest interest on the boy, the son of the woman he loved. Julius was a charming boy. The blouse of dark green velvet, which he had fastened around the waist with a broad leathern belt, gave him the appearance of a charming little page. Dark curls hung gracefully around his well-shaped head; his face was almost girlish in its beauty and delicacy, and Oswald trembled as he held his soft warm hand for a moment in his own and looked into his large light-brown eyes. He felt as if he had touched Melitta's hand, as if he had looked into Melitta's eyes.
"It is very kind in you, Mr. Bemperlein," he said, mastering his confusion, "to have found time to come and see me. To tell the truth, I partly expected you to-day, especially because Bruno thought it was absolutely impossible that Julius should leave without having said good-by to him."
Here the door opened and Bruno rushed in, a huge slice of bread and butter in his hand. "Hurrah, Julius, sugar man!" he cried. "Lucky that you came! I should have run after you to Grunwald and whipped you in the open street. There! take a bite! The last piece of bread and butter we shall share for a long time! And now come! Let us run once more through the garden and the wood. You are going to spend the evening here, Mr. Bemperlein?"
"Non Monseigneur!" replied the latter, who had sunk into a chair and was wiping the perspiration from his brow; "our moments are counted. You would, therefore, oblige me by not extending your excursions beyond the garden, and especially by not throwing Julius again into a ditch, as you did the last time."
"Julius, did I throw you into a ditch?"
"No; but you pulled me out of a ditch when I had fallen in."
"Well, then, come along, sugar man," cried Bruno, lifting the light boy in his arms and carrying him bodily out of the room.
"That is a boy!" said Mr. Bemperlein. "By my life, what a boy! Really, my dear sir, I admire you."
"How so?"
"Because I see you dressed in a light summer coat instead of triple brass, like Horace's first sailor, and as everybody ought to be dressed, in my humble opinion, who has to do with such a sea-monster, such a shark, such a spiny ray--I mean Bruno."
"For heaven's sake, Mr. Bemperlein, if you wish us to be friends, do not tell me that you dislike Bruno."
"I dislike Bruno! I love him as I love a storm at sea which I can watch from the shore; like a wild horse that runs away with somebody else; like a thunder-storm which strikes a tree at a few miles' distance.--Apropos! that was a terrible storm yesterday! We did not reach home till eleven o'clock. Frau von Berkow told me you had been caught by the rain in the forest cottage."
"And you will really go to-morrow?" said Oswald, to turn the conversation.
"I will," said Bemperlein, in a plaintive tone. "I will not at all, my dear sir, but I must. That's the trouble. Alas! if I had my will I would never leave Berkow again as long as I live; and not even afterwards, for I would ask it as a last favor to be buried there. And, really, I do not like to think what is to become of me when I am gone. If you had lived, as I have done, seven years at one and the same place, and that place had been Berkow, and you had taken root there, so as to know every sparrow who builds his nest near your window, and every horse that is in the stable, and if you were then to try to tear yourself away, you would feel how painful that is."
The good fellow took again his handkerchief and passed it, under the pretext of wiping off the perspiration, several times over his eyes.
"I can understand that perfectly," said Oswald, with unaffected sympathy.
"You cannot understand that, my dear sir! You see, I commenced last year to train some ivy against my window, and all the summer and winter I fancied how pretty it would look in fall, when the window should be shaded by the leaves, from top to bottom, and we--I mean my canary-bird and my tree-frog--could hide behind the broad leaves. You do not know what very broad leaves the ivy has--as large as grape-leaves--and this fall the window will be completely filled up. But the room will be empty, and the sun will send its rays through the leaves, and the raindrops will run down on them, and not a soul will derive any pleasure from them."
"I think I can feel that with you," said Oswald
"Impossible, my dear sir, impossible!" sighed the other. "I tell you there is no such window in the wide world. In the deep embrasure stands an arm-chair, covered with black morocco, which Frau von Berkow gave me as a birthday present two years ago--a cushion, which she has herself embroidered for me on my last birthday, lies against the back--well, I cannot describe it all. But then, to sit there on a summer evening, when the voices of Frau von Berkow and Julius come up to me from the garden, and the smoke of my cigar floats away through the leaves----"
With these words Mr. Bemperlein blew two huge blue clouds of smoke from his cigar through the open window at which he sat, and shook his head sadly, as if to say, Here, that produces not the slightest effect; but you ought to see it in my arm-chair!
"Yes, indeed----" suggested Oswald.
"No, my dear sir, you cannot possibly feel as I feel. You do not know what a charming boy Julius is. I have been there seven years now, and if he has given me a single unpleasant hour, a single minute even, my name is not Anastasius Bemperlein. And then--Frau von Berkow--you do not know her."
Oswald turned his face, for he felt how the blood rose in his cheeks.
"You have no idea what an angel of goodness that lady is! What do I not owe her--all! Before I came to Berkow, I knew just as much of the air and the sun, of everything that is beautiful on earth, as a mole. I was a real bear, a perfect rhinoceros, and if I now look a little more like a man, I owe it all to her. And what has she not done for me in every respect! Once, I remember, I was laid up for weeks with typhoid fever. The first person I recognized, when I awoke from my stupor, was Frau von Berkow, and then old Baumann. It was an afternoon in summer, just as to-day. The bed curtains were half closed. Baumann and his mistress were standing at a little distance from me, near a table. 'If I am not to be sick myself, Baumann, I must ride out this afternoon for half an hour,' said Frau von Berkow. 'Don't let Bemperlein die in the mean time, you hear!' 'Yes, ma'am,' said old Baumann. But you must not think, my dear sir, that I think this kindness on the part of Frau von Berkow is anything like a special favor due to my special merits--far from it. I have seen Frau von Berkow lavish the same grace and goodness upon entirely indifferent persons. I really believe the heart of the lady is not made of the same material of which other hearts are made. I think she cannot help doing good and making others happy, just as a canary-bird must sing and a squirrel must jump, because it is their nature and they cannot help it. Pardon me, my dear sir, for detaining you with these things, which cannot possibly interest you, but really, my heart is too full--I cannot keep it from overflowing, and I trust you will not, for all that, set me down as a sentimental fellow."
"I can only assure you, Mr. Bemperlein, that your confidence is not misplaced, even though you will not allow me to sympathize with you fully."
"I will not allow you! It is my greatest wish that you should do so, especially as I came here, to tell the truth, with the very selfish design to ask your advice in a very important matter of business."
"My advice?"
"Yes, yours! I will tell you candidly how it happens that I come to you, as people used to go to a hermit in the woods to relieve them of their scruples. You have been appointed to that important voice by an authority from which I know no appeal--I mean by Frau von Berkow. I tried to explain to her this morning what I shall presently tell you, if you permit me. She listened to me with angelic patience from beginning to end, and then, placing her hand on my arm, she said, 'Dear Bemperlein, you ask for my advice?' 'Of course, madam,' said I. 'Well, then,' said she, 'dear Bemperlein, go over to Grenwitz, present my compliments to Doctor Stein, and tell him at full length what you have just told me, and what he says is my answer.'"
On Oswald's lip a proud smile began to appear. He saw in Melitta's humility a compliment paid him; he felt that she could give no clearer expression to her love than this avowal, that henceforth her life was bound up with his.
"How you are going to relieve me from my embarrassment," continued Mr. Bemperlein, "that is your part; you have been appointed my confidant, and you must play the part as well as you can. The thing is simply this, or rather not simply, but is, a very complicated matter. I am--I have--no, I cannot tell you all that here, I must have the pure heavens above me, for the thoughts which have brought about such a revolution in my mind have come to me under the pure heavens. You would do me a great favor, my dear sir, if you would accompany me to Berkow. I will make my confession on the way. Now I will go and call Julius, and say farewell to the baroness. You can get ready in the mean time, but, I pray, do not keep me waiting long. Ten minutes are amply sufficient, and I could not stand atête-à-têtewith the baroness for more than that. Then,au revoirin ten minutes; it will do no harm if it is in nine minutes."
When Oswald came down, Mr. Bemperlein was just bowing himself out of the sitting-room.
"Not a step further, baron! Uff! Now let us be off, my dear sir. Where is my Julius?"
They found the boys in the courtyard. Bruno was sitting on the edge of the basin of the headless Naiad, and was arranging Julius' curly hair while he was standing between his knees.
"How will you get along without your pony, Julius?"
"Well, I don't know. Perhaps I'll send for it."
"You happy fellow. I believe you would send for your mamma and for Mr. Bemperlein, if you could not get on without them. I wish I could go with you; I do not want to see this wretched hole any longer."
"Mamma says you are very fond of Doctor Stein--is that so?"
"I fond of him?" said Bruno, raising his head defiantly; "why should I be fond of him? He is perfectly indifferent to me. He does not care for me! He! Why, yesterday he has been running about all day long without me, and today he has not looked at me once; he is perfectly indifferent to me, you hear? You can tell your mamma so. Perfectly indifferent!" And thereupon he hid his face in Julius' curls and sobbed bitterly.
"What is the matter, Bruno?"
"The matter? Nothing! What should it be?"
"Bruno, I am going with Mr. Bemperlein," called Oswald across.
"Doctor, I am going with Julius!" Bruno called back.
"Where is Malte?"
"Am I Malte's keeper?"
"Malte is in the baron's room," said Mr. Bemperlein. "The drive has fatigued him very much, and the baron has made him lie down on the sofa, where he is snugly coiled up like a kitten. Which way shall we go?"
"Suppose we go through the forest?" said Oswald.
They crossed the drawbridge, which had not been raised for two hundred years, through the linden avenue into the wood, Mr. Bemperlein and Oswald ahead, Bruno and Julius following at a little distance. Bruno had put his arm around Julius' neck; he had no interest to-day in anything but his friend, whom he had always loved dearly, and on whose brown eyes he had written more than one poem, and whom he now, in the hour of parting, overwhelmed with caresses.
"You are going away, Julius," he moaned; "and when you have been away for three days you will have forgotten me."
"I shall never forget you, Bruno!"
"Ah! Are you quite sure of that? You have a better memory, then, than Oswald--I mean Doctor Stein. He told me the same thing, that he loved me like a brother, and since night before last he has forgotten that I am in the world. Now he is probably telling Mr. Bemperlein that he loves him like a brother--just look how he takes his arm! And nobody cares for me! Ah! I hate him! I hate everybody--except you, Julius."
While the poor boy was thus pouring out his love and his sorrow into his friend's bosom, and felt clearly that he also did not understand him, and that he was alone, quite alone on this joyless earth, Mr. Bemperlein spoke thus to Oswald:
"I told you, I think, my dear sir, that my father was a minister; nay more, my grandfathers on both sides were ministers, for my mother was a minister's daughter; my great-grandfather was at least a sexton, who had married the daughter of a shepherd--though of another flock. Farther I cannot trace my pedigree--butex ungue leonem! You see that all of my family have pursued the same business, to keep flocks--of men or of sheep. The spirit of my ancestors seems to dwell in me. It was always my passion to carry animals to pasture, and even now I can stand by the hour leaning against a fence and looking at calves and colts. There is no doubt something paradisiacal in this kind of enjoyment which reminds us of the earliest times of mankind and me of my early youth. Sir, my first friend was a boy who kept the geese on the common; then a swineherd became my Pylades, and the intimate intercourse with thisEumæus posthumushas given me a relish for certain parts of the Odyssey, which others lack who have not had the same previous training. When my Pylades obtained the rank of regular shepherd I left our native village, in tears, to go to college at Grunwald; there I entered an advanced class, but my teachers, as well as the boys, looked at me as a kind of monster; the latter mainly on account of my fabulous costume, of which a pair of trousers consisting of good ox-hide up to the knees was by no means the most remarkable part. My learning seemed to be as fabulous to the professors. I knew half of Virgil by heart; I read the New Testament as easily in the original as the others in the translation--and all this at thirteen! I am shocked even now when I think of it. Knowledge, however, was power, and I reaped the benefit at once. For my father, who had a numerous family, and who was as poor as a mouse in his own church, could give me next to nothing when I left home, except his blessing and letters to six families in town, who gave me as many free dinners every week. The seventh day, on which nobody invited me, became thus naturally my regular fast-day. I was, therefore, left entirely to myself; but I had no expensive habits; instead of them the talent to be content with bread and butter, to read with a train-oil lamp, and to write with pointed matches; to sit through my six hours' tuition, and to be able to give as many private lessons. Thus I could not only pay punctually the rent for my garret and the bills for the necessaries of life, but actually exchange, two months later, my ox-hide trousers, for another pair, of more suitable shape and material. But I kept forever the nickname of Leather-stocking, which my companions had given me, and which I had hoped to shake off on this solemn occasion. Other inconveniences at school I avoided mainly by a strict line of policy. I had found out that the biggest and strongest boys in any class were generally also the laziest and the most stupid. I never failed, therefore, to form an alliance with them, which was based upon these two fundamental principles: I write your tasks, and, in return, you neither molest me yourself nor allow anybody else to molest me. I must admit that the treaty was always religiously observed. When I was seventeen my teacher decreed that I had been for a year ripe for the University, and this was true, if we understand by it that I was as full of learning as the yolk of an egg, but in every other respect as ignorant and helpless as a chick that has just broke the shell. It was a matter of course that I must study theology. The sons of former captains are made cadets, and the sons of country parsons go to the seminary; that is as much a matter of course as any part of natural history. Well, I studied divinity; that is, I attended lectures diligently, and wrote whole wagon-loads of most abstruse erudition. Otherwise I continued very much the same kind of life I had led before; I had even kept my garret and gave my private lessons as heretofore, especially as one of my younger brothers was now staying with me who fell heir to all my little privileges. The three years' course passed away monotonously enough, but not unpleasantly. One day looked very much like all the others, only Wednesday appeared somewhat dismal to me, because on that day we had pork and beans for dinner, a dish which I have never been able to like, in spite of my liberal views on such subjects. It reminded me always too forcibly of the beautiful summer mornings when I sat by the side of my Eumæus posthumus, reading Virgil's eclogues, and I could not swallow anything. You may think that sentimental, but we all have our foibles. Of actual life I saw about that time as much as a camel sees of the desert in a menagerie. The number of my friends was very small, strictly proportioned to my means; for I have noticed that the wealthier students are seen in lots together, while the poorer walk singly through the streets. I do not know if it is so in life also. But I had an enormous respect for these wealthier students, for there are some even in Grunwald, and in my eyes every one of them who had a hundred a year was a Crœsus. These mustached puss in boots appeared to me like select creatures, and I could never quite comprehend how a government, otherwise so anxiously concerned for the repose of its subjects, could allow them to go about in such perfect freedom. I must confess that I lived this three years in constant apprehension of a challenge. Not that I am lacking in personal courage. I have fortunately had several times occasion to convince myself of the contrary; but I was afraid of the embarrassment such an event might produce. I always looked upon students' duels as the most abominable nonsense, injurious to health, but far more injurious to morality, for the custom compels young men to subject their thoughts and their feelings to a Moloch of barbarous notions about honor, the most ridiculous caricature of a moral code. It accustoms them thus, systematically, to that blind obedience which seems to me the true sin against the Holy Ghost. I do not know if we agree on this point, my dear sir?"
"Perfectly," replied Oswald. "Well," said Bemperlein, "and yet the most surprising thing to me is the length of time during which that intoxication lasts, long after the University years have been forgotten. There is a Baron Lylow living near us at Berkow, a man of forty, who has been married at least ten years. Well, yesterday, when I took leave of him, with Julius,--the children have always been very intimate,--the baron fell, after supper, to talking about his University time, and gave us--I mean his tutor and myself--a sketch of his heroic deeds in those days. Fortunately, my colleague had been a fast young man in Halle, and could tell the baron all about the present fashion as to duels. And now you ought to have seen how the good gentleman became excited, how he pitied the low state of students' minds in our day, how he regretted the small number of duels, the miserably small quantity of beer which was consumed at night, and so on. His eyes actually sparkled as he recalled the past glory, and he became so deeply moved that he finally gave vent to the pious wish that all the Rhenish Democrats, as he called them, those people who talked about freedom of the press and such stuff, might have but one neck, in order to make an end to all their cries by--here he made an expressive gesture with the hand."
"Of course," replied Oswald. "When these great men are young, they sing, 'Oh, Liberty, dear Liberty!' that is very poetical heard from afar, and they sing and drink and sing, till they verily believe they hold said opinions. But that is a mere hallucination, or if they ever really think of it in earnest, they mean by it the liberty to smash windows, to insult helpless men, to create a disturbance in public places, and to achieve other heroic deeds of the kind with impunity. Then comes another liberty--the liberty to remain forever, with undying respect, your most humble, obedient servant, as long as they are subalterns, and to treat the world like dogs when they become ministers. But we have drifted away from our subject. You were spared, I trust, the unpleasant alternative of hurting the feelings of those privileged beings, or your own honor?"
"Yes, thanks to my policy to keep my existence as unknown as possible, for what could a mouse like myself do against puss in boots? When my three years were over, and I had succeeded in my first theological examination, my fears were at an end, for nobody expects a candidate for the ministry to fight. I should have liked at once to accept a place as private tutor in the country, but my brother had but just entered the upper class at college, and I did not wish to leave him alone during the two years which he had still to stay there, as I saw that he was not as perfect in the art of writing with pointed matches, and the other secrets of life, as was desirable for the interests of the family of a poor country parson. For this second brother was expected to do unto the third as I had done unto him, and this younger brother was to enter the third class when the others entered the University, just as I began my studies when he entered the third class."
"But how could that be?" said Oswald, astonished.
"Well, you see, my dear sir," replied Mr. Bemperlein, "how it could be I cannot tell you, but that it was so I can swear to. I am the oldest of them all, and born the twenty-second of March; then comes a sister, two years younger, for she was born on the twenty-first of March; then a brother, then again a sister, then a brother, and again a sister. How many does that make?"
"Half a dozen, I should say," replied Oswald, smiling.
"Quite right--half a dozen, all two years apart, and all born in March with the exception of my youngest sister, whose birthday is in April. But then she is a kind of comet in the planetary system of our family. Just imagine, only eighteen, and already engaged!"
"I do not see anything extraordinary in that, with so lovely a sister as she no doubt is," observed Oswald.
"Nothing extraordinary!" cried Mr. Bemperlein--"nothing extraordinary? Such a baby! Marry! At eighteen! I do not even know if that can be done. You are laughing? Maybe. I never understood women, and I am sure I do not know how I should have learnt to understand them, unless the knowledge was given to me, on account of my special simplicity, in a dream. I remained, therefore, two years longer in Grunwald, coaching students and giving private lessons, by which I made enough to live very well--the fast day I still observed, but merely from old habit and to support my brother, as was my bounden duty. This brother gave me some trouble, which afterwards appeared to have been unnecessary, for he is already assistant-minister, although only four and twenty; but he learnt rather slowly, had weak eyes, and was inconceivably sensitive to cold and hunger. I saw, therefore, that it would be barbarous to put upon him the care of his next younger brother, who was then coming up to town, especially as he was weakly; he is now a hearty fellow of twenty, a brave, diligent youth, who will shortly pass his theological examination--well, but what was I going to say? Oh yes! He was then rather weakly and sickly, and needed much attention. But to provide for two----"
"And for yourself?" suggested Oswald.
"Well, that was the smallest part. But I saw the thing could not go on any longer so, and the offer to become tutor at Berkow was, therefore, most welcome. Full board, a fabulous salary--I was beside myself. Now I had both hands free, and could at last do something for my family."
"I should think you had been doing that to your full power, or rather beyond your power," said Oswald.
"Oh, nonsense," said the other. "My wish was good enough, but my strength very feeble, and now they needed support more than ever. My poor mamma had been suffering for some time, now father also was taken dangerously ill, and his iron constitution so undermined that he has never fully recovered, and we feared, of course, the worst. My three sisters, too, were still unprovided. How fortunate, therefore, that I had two hundred dollars in gold! I gave half to my brothers----"
"And the other half to your sisters?"
"And the other half to my sisters," continued Bemperlein, and rubbed his hands with delight.
"But what did you keep for yourself?"
"For myself?" said Bemperlein, quite astonished. "Did I not tell you I had full board? And now listen! I had been a year at Berkow, when one fine day the good lady sends for me, and after we have been talking about this and that, she says:--
"You have been here a year now, dear Bemperlein; now tell me candidly, how do you like it here?--That needs no answer, Madam, replied I.--Well, I am glad of that, said she, but have you no special desire?--Not that I know, said I.--But your salary is evidently too low, said she, with the kindest face in the world. I was so astonished at these words that I could find no answer.
"I must tell you frankly, she said, with angelic goodness, that I have looked at the time up to now only in the light of a trial, and that I regulated the salary accordingly. I never imagined that a man, to whom I can intrust my child's education with perfect confidence, could be paid with money at all; and if I now ask you to let me double the salary which you have heretofore received, I beg you to understand that I still remain your debtor.
"If I had been surprised before, I was much more so now, or rather, I was deeply moved--not so much by her generosity, as by the indescribable kindness with which the offer was made, so that the tears trickled down my cheeks. I stammered something about not being able to accept so much and such like, but then she became quite angry, so that I quickly recovered myself, and told her I would accept her present, not for myself, because that would be unwarrantable, but for those whom I had to support, because they could not support themselves.--Do with it what you like, she said, in going out, but remember that you owe something also to yourself. There the matter ended, but not so Frau von Berkow's goodness, which has no end. But I was going to tell you something very different; I mean, how I came to discover the error which had crept into the account of my life, and what that error is."
At this moment a horseman passed them at full gallop, who had turned a few moments before from a byway into the high-road. A large Newfoundland dog, whom Oswald at first took for Melitta's dog, galloped in long strides by the side of the horse, a superb jet-black thorough-bred, whose chest was covered with white foam. The horseman, as far as they could judge in passing, was a man of perhaps thirty, tall and thin, and, contrary to the custom of the country gentlemen of that region, in long trousers instead of top-boots; his seat on horseback was utterly unlike that of a country gentleman. But this was perhaps more the effect of negligence and the habit of carelessness than real awkwardness, for when he found himself suddenly close before the two wanderers, whom he had not noticed before in his thoughts or his reveries, he threw his horse with such force and skill on his haunches, that he proved his horsemanship beyond all doubt. "Excusez, Messieurs," he said, touching his hat and riding off again.
"Do you know that gentleman?" said Oswald, pausing and looking after the man, whose features seemed to him familiar and yet strange.
"Tiens!" said Mr. Bemperlein, also stopping; "that must have been Baron Oldenburg. Yes, it was the baron!" he cried, as he saw the gentleman stop when he reached the two boys, with whom he shook hands. "I should not have recognized him with his black beard and his sunburnt face. He looks like a veritable Cabyle. When can he have come back?"
"Has he been travelling?" asked Oswald, with assumed indifference.
"He has been travelling these ten years," replied Mr. Bemperlein. "Three years ago Frau von Berkow, the two Barnewitz, met him in Rome, and then they travelled together through Southern Italy. In Sicily they parted again. My friends prepared to return home, but the baron went on to Egypt, Arabia, and heaven knows where else his restless spirit has driven him. But we have again lost sight of our subject."
Mr. Bemperlein began his tale once more with his inexhaustible fund of details; but if Oswald had before only listened with one ear, his thoughts now were far away. That, then, was the man who had played so prominent a part in Melitta's life! So great a part! How great a part? She had never really loved him--perhaps--no, certainly never loved him--but is true love always the last reward of a woman's highest favor? Is there no such thing as desire without love? Or love without desire? Only a wish to hold him captive by all means, among them, by the memory of pleasure enjoyed. Has she ever been happy by the side of this man, at whose cradle the graces had failed to appear; happy, though not perfectly so, not as happy as she had hoped, but still? Oh! that thought brought intolerable torment!
The demon of jealousy was whispering and hissing bad thoughts in his ear, which made his blood boil and big drops of perspiration to break out on his forehead--no wonder, then, that he heard Mr. Bemperlein's tale only in a dream. This only he understood, that the strange man had only now begun to think of his so-called science, his long-cherished profession only now, when all the troubles of life seemed to be ended, and he could breathe, a free man, in the green solitude of Berkow. He had now only begun to make the acquaintance of the heroes of modern literature, especially of Shakespeare; and from the poets he had passed to the philosophers, here again above all in Spinoza finding a new world opening before him which he had not suspected in his scholastic studies. Under such influence he had been led to the study of nature, to botany, mineralogy, and physics; he had built himself, with old Baumann's aid, a small laboratory, where he had industriously pursued his new sciences, and there, alas! he had found, amid phials and retorts, that his orthodox faith, as far as the reading of the philosophers had not destroyed it already, had altogether evaporated!
"Thus matters went on for a while," said Mr. Bemperlein, "but the moment came when it was my duty to decide whether I should openly avow my apostasy from the faith of my fathers or not. A very lucrative cure in this region, which was in the hands of an uncle of Frau von Berkow, became vacant by the death of the incumbent. The gentleman thought he would please his niece by offering the place to me; I had nothing to do but to go the following Sunday and preach my trial-sermon. Now, you must know that when the thing was first mentioned to me I was so much overwhelmed by surprise and by fright, and so unwilling to hurt the kind man's feelings, that I said: 'Yes.' You know Frau von Berkow intended to send Julius to Grunwald, and thus I could not have stayed at Berkow any longer at best. I also sat down to compose my sermon. I had so far succeeded in avoiding every call to show my theological talent of declamation, and now I felt, to my horror, that I had completely forgotten the pulpit-talk, and, what was worse, the pulpit logic. Three nights in succession I began my Sisyphus work, but I never got farther than 'My dear brethren!' In the third night, when I had gone to bed quite in despair, and had fallen asleep in great sorrow, thinking what my good father and my worthy grandfather, whom I had known still, would have said if they could see their son and grandson in full incredulity, after he had been so carefully trained in orthodoxy, I had the following curious dream, which no doubt partly arose from an animated description Frau von Berkow had given me of the Louvre.
"I dreamt, then, I was entering into a lofty, large hall, with pictures and statues on all the walls. There sat God the Father himself, a handsome, bearded old man, and held forth his hand and created heaven and earth; then came Adam and Eve, in white marble--Eve pretty well preserved, but Adam had lost his head; then 'Cain's Fratricide,' a large oil-painting, and by its side 'Adam and Eve find the corpse of murdered Abel,' on which the form of the deadly pale youth, who looked like broken white lilies, was deeply touching. Thus I went on and on, looking at statue after statue and painting after painting. I was not alone in the hall; on the contrary, a crowd of people was moving along the walls and amid the forest of statues. Large groups were standing before some of the most prominent works; for instance, the passage of the children of Israel through the Red Sea, a gigantic fresco, and smaller groups before other paintings, less remarkable for historic importance than for the piquancy of the scene they represented. Thus I was much annoyed by a crowd of young people who stood before 'Lot drunk,' and put their heads together and laughed. Altogether, the deportment of the company appeared to me highly improper. The women were laughing and talking and coquetting; the men chatted and ogled, and a few, with long legs and long teeth,--probably English,--actually kept their hats on. Almost all had a book in their hands, into which they looked conscientiously from time to time, when they wished for information about one of the works of art. This book seemed to be a catalogue of the Museum, and I wished to obtain one, because I had forgotten the order in which the prophets came, and thus could not tell whether the bearded man in No. 8 was Habakkuk, and the young man in No. 9 Zephaniah, or not; I turned, therefore, to an old gentleman whom I had seen busy with a fly-brush, and whom I therefore took to be one of the keepers. As I approached him the man turned round, and what was my surprise when I recognized my own grandfather. 'What do you desire, young man?' he asked, in a severe tone. I repeated timidly my question. 'Here is a catalogue,' he said, taking one of the books which lay in large numbers on the table and handing it to me, 'it costs half a dollar.' I opened the book; 'I wanted a catalogue,' said I, 'you have given me--' 'To be sure,' said the old man, in a melancholy tone of voice, 'this is the catalogue of the Old Museum; the door to the New Museum, in which you will find the works of art from the year one of our Christian Era till the year 1793, when the Christian religion was abolished, and the goddess Reason ascended the throne--is there.' He pointed towards a fine flight of broad stairs, which led up to the other halls. 'You will do well to buy another catalogue there. It costs much less, and you must speak about it to your father, who holds there the same office which I fill here.' And thereupon the old man turned his back to me and began once more to dust the statues and pictures with his tall fly-brush. 'Excuse me, dear grandfather,' I said.--'I am not your grandfather,' replied the old man, quietly going on with his occupation. 'Well, are you the keeper?' I asked. 'Yes, indeed, keeper of the Museum, nothing else.'--'And where have they put all the works of art which have been produced since that time?'--'Since that memorable year,' said the old man, 'nothing worth speaking of has been achieved. A few schools of art have been formed here and there, but they have produced nothing that can be called artistic. The artists lack the proper faith, and without faith nothing great can be painted or sculptured or written'--when he said this he looked at me reprovingly--'Or written,' I repeated, abated, thinking of my unsuccessful efforts--'Or written,' he continued, 'and then the world has become so indifferent, and critics have become so very sharp and severe, that they have lost that naïve simplicity and dreamy security without which, unfortunately--but now I must beg you to leave; the bell has been ringing for some time, and you are the very last.' He accompanied me to the entrance, showed me the door, and invited me with a stiff bow to walk out. I did so--the door closed with a crash and--I awoke.
"After that dream," continued Bemperlein, "I made no more efforts. Without faith no sermon can be written, I said to myself, and even if one could be written it could not be delivered, at least not by a man like yourself, who has a little conscience left, and neither chick nor child, such as have tempted many an honest man to write and say things which he can only on that plea defend before God and the world. I felt clearly that I could not become a minister of the gospel, and I therefore wrote this morning to the patron of that church, thanking him for the honor he had done me, and declining his offer, because I had decided to accompany Julius to Grunwald. For, as I was writing the sentence, the idea occurred to me. I went at once to Frau von Berkow to tell her of my resolution, and she seemed to be delighted. Now, my dear sir, after you have had the goodness to listen to this long story of mine, pray tell me, what would you do in my place? Consider that I am already twenty-eight years old, and that I still have all my twenty-eight teeth. The wisdom-teeth have not yet appeared, perhaps because Nature has forgotten them, or because of a wise provision of Fate, which remembered how little I would often have to bite in this life."
"What I would do in your place," said Oswald, "if I were such a brave, conscientious, excellent----"
"Pray don't, my dear sir," said Bemperlein, blushing all over.
"I say conscientious, excellent man? Well, that question can easily be answered. I would do what you have already done. I would cheerfully turn my back upon the paradise of naïve thoughtlessness and harmless orthodoxy, after having, tasted of the tree of knowledge. I would not allow myself to be cooped up in that stall in which the hypocrites, the vile dogs in the sheeps' clothing of humility, are whining and howling so fearfully."
"Very well, very well!" said Mr. Bemperlein, rubbing his hands with delight, "and what would you do next, my dear sir?"
"Then," replied Oswald, "if I were you, I would remember what sufferings I had endured as a weak boy, and what industry and perseverance I had shown, simply in order to acquire a vast mass of knowledge which I am now glad to be able to forget again. I would remember this, I say, and now study a science which I should not wish to forget again, because I could be a pupil there without first fettering my reason, and because this science is fruitful for myself and fruitful for my fellow-beings."
"Excellent! excellent!" said Mr. Bemperlein. "Go on, go on!"
"In one word, I would devote myself," continued Oswald, "with all my strength to those sciences which you have already tried, and I would, for that purpose, return to Grunwald and enter my name once more as a student, but not in order to study Theology, but this time Medicine."
"The Medical Faculty in Grunwald is excellent," said Mr. Bemperlein.
"It is acknowledged to be one of the best in Germany," continued Oswald. "Then I would go to some other universities as long as the money lasts."
"Money like hay, money like hay," continued Mr. Bemperlein--"for six years a princely income and full board--I pray you, my dear sir, I have enough to live on for half a century."
"Then I would become a famous physician----"
"Do you know," said Bemperlein, standing still and looking back at the boys, in a whisper, "I have already poisoned some of Julius' rabbits secretly, and dissected them afterwards, and the frogs in the swamps behind our park have no reason to be friends of mine."
"Well done!" laughed Oswald. "And then I would marry."
"Really?" said Bemperlein.
"Well, of course, and--have a half-dozen little Bemperleins who would, after a while, all turn out great Bemperleins, bright, shining lights in modern science."
"And the girls?" said Bemperlein, laughing.
"The girls will marry brave, truthful men, and thus help to bring on the good time when we shall have, 'Oh Liberty, sweet liberty!'"
"Yes, yes," cried Mr. Bemperlein, "so must it come. Thanks, a thousand thanks, my dear friend; you have scattered the last clouds of doubt by your encouraging words. Tomorrow I go with Julius to Grunwald."
"I will give you a letter of introduction to Professor Berger," said Oswald; "he is connected with all the great men in Natural Science."
He tore a leaf from his pocket-book, wrote a few lines to Berger, and gave it to Bemperlein.
"Thanks! many thanks!" said the latter, taking the note. "The acquaintance with such a man may become very useful to me."
"Most assuredly. Speak quite candidly with him, without any reserve whatever, and then you may feel assured that he will not conceal from you anything that is in his heart. Perhaps he will advise you to go at once to a larger University, as, for instance, that at the capital. You must follow his advice."
"Nous verrons! nous verrons!" said Mr. Bemperlein. "But here we are at the park gate. Won't you come in?"
"No, no," replied Oswald, hastily. "I must get back to Grenwitz."
"Well, then, farewell! As soon as I have installed Julius in Grunwald, and as soon as I have obtained all the information I want from Berger, I shall be back again to take formal leave. In the mean time, farewell, my dear sir."
"Good-by, good-by!" said Oswald, pressing Bemperlein's hand, and then Julius', and taking Bruno back with him into the forest, as if an angel with a flaming sword was keeping watch at the park-gates of Berkow.
The boy and he walked for a time in silence through the wood. Bruno was too proud to begin a conversation with one who seemed to have forgotten him entirely, and Oswald was too busy with his own thoughts.... Every person with whom we happen to come in contact is a mirror which reflects our own image, and Oswald had beheld his own face in the crystal clear mirror of that man's pure, childlike soul--but how beheld? torn by passion, darkened by doubt, so that he was startled. "And this man," he said to himself, "comes to you for advice! the seeing to the blind, the healthy to the sick! He discovers an error in the account of his life, and he sits down and counts and counts till the sum is right, and all is smooth and as it ought to be again, while you, you rush through life like a reckless merchant, adding debt to debt, rushing from one speculation into another, unconcerned about the day of reckoning. That man would sooner cut off his right hand than use it to seize anything which he has not earned in the sweat of his face--you accept the gifts of the golden Aphrodite, and whatever else kind fate offers you, as if it were due to you, and grumble to find it not more than it is. Now you are already dissatisfied with Melitta's love, for which you ought to thank her on your knees; now you want her to have loved you before she knew you, or at least to drown all recollection of this man. 'If I could kill memory,' she said. Well, what is indifferent to us we forget easily enough, and what we do not and cannot forget--that is not indifferent to us. Then she hates this man? But hatred is the brother of sweet love! Perhaps she loves him still?--And where did he come from just now? From her! No doubt--Bruno, does this byroad lead anywhere else, except to Berkow?"
"No; and I really do not think the road is interesting enough to walk it twice the same day. Here is another one, which will bring us out of the forest and then along the edge of the wood almost to the house. Shall we go this way?"
"Very well!" said Oswald, falling back into his bad dreams. "Then he came from her. But that cannot be ... 'A rolling wheel has formed the woman's bosom; the lily-hills conceal what ever changes:'--the baron may have read that in the Fritjofs Saga as well as I. He is a learned man, and baron, and rich.--The man cannot miss it; but Melitta shall give me an account of it; she shall tell me that I have reason to hate the man as I do."
Bruno had walked in silence on the opposite side of the road. He noticed Oswald's excitement; he saw how his face grew darker and darker, how his lips trembled with pain, how his hand closed angrily; he saw that his friend was not happy. More was not needed to make the generous boy forget all his own sensitiveness, his own complaints; he came gently up to Oswald, and seizing his hand, he said:--
"What is the matter, Oswald? why do you not talk? Are you angry with me?"
"I, angry with you?" that was all the young man said; but there was enough in the tone in which he uttered these words, and in the look with which he accompanied them, to convince Bruno that his suspicion was groundless, and to let the long pent-up torrent of his affection break forth in wild haste. He embraced Bruno and caressed him amid sobs and tears.
"Bruno, Bruno, what does that mean?" called out Oswald, frightened by the boy's passionate tenderness.
"I thought you had ceased to love me," sobbed Bruno; "and look here, Oswald, if you cease loving me, I'll die."
The pale, death-like image, of which Oswald had dreamt so fearfully in his feverish excitement, reappeared before his mind's eye and gave a terrible meaning to the passionate words of the boy. Speechless with emotion, he drew the sobbing boy to his heart, and repeated within himself the vow to be a brother to the poor forsaken boy. Thus they stood in close embrace ... Red evening lights were playing in the tops of the pine-trees--the soft plaintive song of a little bird came from the forest--a sweet, solemn moment.
Suddenly hideous sounds fell upon their ear; they came from near by; loud threatening voices of men who seemed to be angrily disputing--scolding, cursing--then for a moment deep silence, and finally the loud cry: "Great God! Help! help! Is no one near! Here!"
Oswald and Bruno, who had listened for a moment breathlessly, rushed at full speed towards the place from which the cries came. They reached a place close to the forest, where people had been cutting wood, and here and there cords of wood were piled up in long rows. By the side of a four-horse wagon a man was lying on the ground, who kicked with hands and feet, while another man was bending over him, either to calm or to ill-treat him--they could not distinguish which! As they approached the latter rose--it was the steward, Wrampe--and cried: "Quick, doctor, for God's sake! The fellow is dying before my eyes."
The appearance of the man who lay on the ground was indeed fearful in the extreme. His face was distorted, the eyes rigid, so as to show only the white, foam on his lips, his hands closed, the body in spasms; Oswald could hardly recognize the gigantic servant who had excited Bruno's anger by his cruelty towards the horses.
Oswald had knelt down by his side; he wiped the foam from his mouth, he loosened his stiff cravat, and tried to make him lie easier.
"Is there nothing to put under his head?" he called to the steward, whose red-bearded face, full of helpless anxiety, looked inexpressibly foolish.
"Under his head? under his head? here!" and he pulled off his coat and put it as a cushion under the man's head.
"Is there no water near by?" asked Oswald again.
"Water near by? No; but in the coat pocket is a bottle--there it is--that may be as good--great God!"
Oswald washed the sick man's forehead with the brandy; he became more quiet.
"How did this happen?" he asked.
"Why, I don't know," cried the steward, in a sad voice. "I came riding up here because the fellow was idling too long in the wood, to help him to move faster; there he sits on a stump and does not stir. What are you sitting there for? I say. Why should I not sit here? says he. Are you drunk again? says I, for I saw his eyes were quite watery and his bottle lay empty by his side. Drunk yourself! says he. You infamous rascal! says I. Rascal yourself! says he. Well, doctor, I couldn't stand that, of course. So, down from my horse and a few good licks upon his back was all done in a moment. He, in perfect rage, makes at me--all of a sudden he falls down like an ox, and commences--a, great God, he is at it again. I never saw the like in all my life!"
The man had another attack of spasms. Oswald began to fear the worst "Quick, quick!" he said. "Down with the wood from the wagon; we must drive him home slowly. In the mean time somebody must go for the doctor."
"Yes, yes; I'll go for the doctor!" cried the steward, glad to escape, and one foot in the stirrup.
"You stay here!" commanded Oswald; "how can I lift the man without you? Are you not ashamed, Mr. Wrampe, to be such a coward? Take an example of Bruno!"
Bruno had helped Oswald as well as he could; now he was standing on the wagon, throwing down the wood with great energy. "I will go for the doctor, Oswald!" he said, jumping down.
"I presume that will be the best, Bruno," said the latter. "You know the road, and I cannot well leave him. Shorten his stirrups, Mr. Wrampe!"
"Directly," said the latter, but Bruno had done it already, and with one effort, without using the stirrups, he was in the saddle and had the bridle in his hand. The fiery horse, feeling the light burden, reared.
"He'll throw you," said the steward.
"Never mind," replied the boy. "Your whip! Up,allez!" and he cut the horse over the neck and galloped off at full speed. Oswald just saw how he leapt the broad ditch and took a short cut through the wood in order to reach the highroad more quickly, and thus to get through Fashwitz to the little town where the doctor lived.