Edwin was scarcely in his room, to which a footman with a very bewildered expression, had lighted him, when his excitement passed away and bitter indignation and wrath took possession of him. He experienced the gnawing discomfort which seizes upon everyone, when, while he does not regret having yielded to a noble impulse, he must curse the circumstances which forced him to disturb a social circle with his righteous anger. He was a guest and had quarrelled with another guest of the house, a house governed by the rules of society, which as far as possible stifle all natural sounds, smother to a malicious whisper the cry of indignation, and give vent to an implacable hatred, not in the presence of ladies, but only in some lonely spot before two male witnesses. He must have appeared like a man without education or courtesy, a moralizing pedant. True, there were no means of justifying himself--even to the most frivolous of these children of the world--for his inability to breathe the same air with this man. But could he use an expedient, which would have compelled him to expose the secret, the honor of his friend? No; he must now submit to the consequences of his action, and no matter how much he reflected upon the affair, he could think of no other course which he could have pursued, without lowering himself in his own eyes. He felt that he could do exactly the same thing again in a similar event. So in the midst of all his annoyance, he experienced the satisfaction of having been faithful to himself, and began to reflect more calmly what course he should now pursue.
He could remain in the castle no longer. Even if he could be sure of not meeting Lorinser again, he thought it his duty to aid the master of the house, in causing the strange scene in which he played a principal part to be forgotten as quickly as possible; this could be most effectually done by the departure of the disturber of the peace, and moreover Edwin wished to avoid any farther discussion of the matter. Let them scoff at him and talk behind his back as they chose, let the enemy who remained behind reap all the advantage from having kept the field--what did he care? The one person, whose opinion he valued, would not misunderstand him; that he knew, that, the last glance with which she followed his retreating figure, had told him.
But had he come to the castle to chastise a worthless scoundrel, and might he now leave feeling that his business had been well performed? Could he leave her who had confessed that she had no friend but him, who in the greatest complication of her fate, grasped his hand in despairing terror? he was helpless to aid her it was true, but she had appealed to him with the certainty that at least she would be compelled no longer to bear her burden unaided by human help or sympathy. If he suddenly failed her again, would it not sunder the last tie that bound her to life? And yet, how could he hope to afford her any real assistance? He scarcely knew how to help himself in the violent conflict of feelings which her presence had aroused. He sat down on the sofa before the little gilt table and buried his face in his hands.
A discreet knock roused him from this profitless reverie. At his "who is there?" the little physician entered, with many apologies for disturbing him at so late an hour. The great interest he felt in his old friend's son had brought him there; he had received through the servants who were greatly alarmed by the unprecedented scene, a confused report of what had occurred, and thought he would not be charged with indiscreet curiosity, if he applied to the right quarter at once. He now, unasked, related that after Edwin had left the hall, Lorinser had made a full confession and thereby completely regained his former position. An old affair with a young girl, in whom Edwin had been likewise deeply interested, was the cause of this mortal hatred. Disappointed love had induced the poor creature, whom in spite of the most sincere affection he could not resolve to marry and be faithless to higher aims, to attempt to commit suicide. Fortunately she was saved; but all the blame for the act had been laid on his shoulders--in, short, it was a regular romance, and he seemed to have related it very well. At least when he closed, the beautiful princess' eyes were full of tears, and Count Gaston cordially shook hands with him. In the opinion of these men of the world, it was of course rather a credit to the pious gentleman that, in spite of his theological wisdom, he too had had hisbonnes fortunesand such a romantic adventure into the bargain.
Edwin laughed fiercely.
"My dear friend," continued the little man with a crafty face, which vainly endeavored to wear an expression of friendly sympathy, "I understand your feelings as indeed every one does, even the vicar, who as he has repeatedly declared, cherishes no ill will toward you notwithstanding your violent conduct."
"Indeed? Does the worthy man forgive me? Well, thatisludicrous!"
"He praised you most warmly and apologized for your extraordinary conduct. If he had known at that time, that you cherished an unrequited love for the unfortunate girl, who lived in the same house--"
"My worthy patron," interrupted Edwin rising, "I'm really very grateful to you, uncommonly grateful for your friendly communications. But as my feelings, although you assure me you understand them, are still misapprehended, and as I have my own reasons for not expressing my opinion of the Herr Vicar's romance with the 'frankness and honesty' which you take for your motto, I should consider it a favor if you would leave me to myself and return to your patient. If, however, you should find occasion, you may assure all who have admired the narrators talent, that not only his style, but his inventive faculty also is yet to be equalled; in a word, that no more shameless liar ever existed than this fox in the sheep-skin of humility. And now I'll wish you as good a night's rest as I trust to obtain for myself."
While uttering these words, he had accompanied the bewildered little man to the door, opened it with a trembling hand, and closed it by no means gently behind him. He was in a tumult of excitement, the blood throbbed wildly in his temples, another moment and it would have been impossible for him to have suppressed his indignation. He would have poured forth all the bitterness of which his heart was full upon the wretched sneak whose face, with its friendly simper, put him fairly beside himself.
As soon as he was alone, his oppressed heart found relief in a loud, scornful laugh. Then he went to the dressing table which stood beside the silk canopied bed and drank a glass of water. By degrees his blood grew calm. He went to the lofty bay-window, threw it wide open, and let the pure night air fan his hot brow. "Am I not a fool?" he said to himself, "to allow myself to be so much excited by that which was only natural, and to be expected? Should it vex or humiliate me to be the loser in a contest with such a master of hypocrisy? And ought I to grudge the miserable knave, who has nothing better, this victory and its costly trophies--a princess' tears and the pressure of a count's hand? Fie upon me for allowing myself to be so overpowered with disgust. I'm really indebted to this noble tale-bearer, for opening my eyes to the true state of affairs. But away--away--away from here, before the moon has disappeared behind the forest!"
He went back to the little table, opened his portfolio and commenced a note to the count. After the disturbance of the peace of the household, he wrote, of which he had unfortunately been the cause, he thought it his duty to his host, as well as to the rest of the guests, to continue no longer to be a recipient of the hospitality which had been so kindly offered to him. He regretted that consideration for others prevented him from giving explanations which, although his conduct might appear an offence against etiquette, would justify it in every other respect. As for the cause which had brought him here, he was fully convinced that he had no power to undo what had been done and effect a reconciliation. Perhaps, he concluded, time, which works so many wonders, may bring about what at present the count positively refuses to think of, and make a separation between two incompatible natures, appear the only means of safety.
He had just sealed the note and was writing the address, when there was another knock at his door. "Come in!" he exclaimed indignantly, for the thought darted through his mind that the count might come to see him in person and thereby render useless the letter, which would have spared him any verbal explanations; then the door opened and Toinette entered.
"Is it you?" he exclaimed rushing toward her. "Do you come to me?"
She threw back the dark shawl she had wrapped around her, and he saw that she wore a simple dress and had laid aside all her jewelry.
"I could not help coming to you," she said in her usual tone. "I wanted to speak to you, and you--you're going away; I knew it, before seeing the letter upon your table. You would have gone without bidding me farewell. Would you not?"
"Perhaps it would have been the best course," he replied, clasping her hand, which hung loosely by her side. "Tell me yourself, my dear friend, have we ought to hope for, from any words we might exchange? Fate does not turn for words. And yet I could hardly have made up my mind to leave without a word. I intended to have gone to the farm house on the other side of the forest, and from there to have sent you a note, to say I would wait to hear from you in case you had any commissions for me. But you have anticipated me. Are we not in danger of interruption here?"
"What does it matter?" she replied with a gesture expressive of the most utter indifference, as she seated herself on the sofa. "You mean, will it not compromise me to make you a visit by night? Perhaps so. But that's unfortunately not sufficient cause for separation. Otherwise I should not have waited till I could visit a friend. The first person I chanced to meet would have suited my purpose, the chevalier, or our dear cousin Gaston, for instance, if I could break the chain so easily." Then glancing at the letter, she added: "What did you write to him?"
"Do you wish to read it? It's at your service."
"No; it makes no difference. You're going away--that says all--and I--I must stay here."
He looked at her as she uttered these words in an expressionless tone, as if only talking to herself. Her dilated eyes were fixed in a terrified gaze, on the candles burning in the silver candlesticks as if her life were fading and she was striving to rekindle the glimmering spark by these tiny flames. Her face was colorless, but inexpressibly attractive in its utter self-forgetfulness, which made the beautiful woman seem like a helpless child that, frightened by the dread of ghosts, files to some brilliantly lighted room and gazes straight at the lamp, that it may see no spectral faces to right or left.
"What really brings me here," she said after a pause, "is a question I wanted to ask you, but mind, I'm speaking to the philosopher, and not to the friend of former days."
"Offormerdays?"
"Let me go on. I want to ask you whether there is any justice on earth. Or no, you need not answer. It's perfectly evident that gifts are differently apportioned among men. That there is no justice, even in heaven--not even according to the representations of religious people--is also unquestionable, else what would become of the doctrine of election? 'Many are called, but few chosen.' For why did not the 'so-called gods,' of whom your friend spoke that day of long ago, endow all their creatures equally, if they had the power to be just? Intentional partiality, voluntary malice--no, that would be too fiendish. But now tell me, why must we endure degradation, neglect, to better the condition of the children of happiness, yes, even expulsion into bad company--such as you've found beneath this roof? Is not self-defence in mortal peril allowable? To help ourselves I mean, when one is wretched, disinherited, starving perhaps, and full dishes are carried past him? Or do you think it a sin to break one of the ten commandments under any circumstances? What? Are the gifts, powers, and happiness of men to be different, and yet must they have but one rule for their actions? Is the fainting beggar who plucks an apple from a stranger's tree, as great a thief, as a man who has plenty to eat and breaks into a treasury? Answer! Why may we not philosophize a little as usual? You would find me a better pupil now, for I've gone through the primary school and learned all the absurdities of this great world by heart--yes indeed, byheart, and it ached enough at the task."
"Dearest friend," he replied, "if you knew howmyheart aches, aches till it's ready to burst, you would ask no philosophy from me. When I see and hear you, I have enough to do, not to give utterance to the fiercest cry of woe that ever burst from the lips of a thinking mortal. What could I say to you--except the most pitiful commonplaces. You question me about the mystery of life. The clue to it, which one and another fancies he has found, is but a new enigma; and it is equally mysterious that there should be men who are forced to rack their brains about this mystery until their hearts break, while others have never a sleepless moment, but await the solution as patiently as the answer to a charade which is to appear 'in our next number.' Meantime it is ordered--or we must see to it ourselves--that life and its work, thoughtless everyday work, withdraws us from our agitating search for the solution to the riddle. Dear Toinette--"
"I know what you're going to say," she quickly interrupted. "My idleness is the cause of all my sorrows. If I had something to do, I should not have time to ponder four and twenty hours a day over what I most lack. Is not that what you were about to say? To establish a child's school or hospital, make clothes for deaf mutes, or in my old age strive to cultivate a talent for painting or playing on the piano--all I these would be delightful occupations! But I'm not affectionate enough for one, or vain enough for the other. I don't love human beings, my friend, I mean abstract human beings, mankind. And yet, I know now that my only talent would have been love; but the love I mean, is love for one man and that man's children, and because I learned this too late--I must go to ruin--to ruin.
"But no," she suddenly exclaimed, and a passionate flush crimsoned her cheeks as she pushed the table aside and rose from the sofa. "I will not go to ruin, will not yield the right of self-defence and suffer my claim to happiness to be wrested from me, as it is from every disinherited soul. Words are of no avail against the decrees of fate, didn't you say so, Edwin? You're right, we must act, if we desire to win the respect of the 'so-called gods;' therefore I've come to you, my friend. Do not look at me so! You know what has brought me here, even if a wretched remnant of cowardice does not suffer me to express it. Be merciful, spare me, and tell me that you know all and will not thrust me from the only place where I can find happiness--your heart, Edwin!"
"Toinette!" he exclaimed--but he could say no more. She had thrown herself into his arms and hidden her streaming eyes, her glowing lips upon his breast.
"Calm yourself!" he ventured to murmur in her ear after a long pause, his lips touching her hair; suddenly she raised her head, and her face wore an expression of such blended happiness and anguish, that all his strength failed. "This is too much!" he faltered. "Spare me! You do not know what I have suffered!"
"I do know," she whispered amid her kisses. "I knew it in the first hour we were together--you're still mine, as you have ever been--you're mine, mine--as I've been your's, ever since I became a woman."
At this moment the clock in the old castle tower slowly struck twelve. A shudder ran through the frame of the man who clasped to his heart the woman who had been the object of his first love. It seemed as if a cold spectral hand was passing over his heart, quenching the fierce glow that threatened to destroy him. He released his lips from hers, and gently pushed away the slight figure that clung to his breast. "What have we done?" he exclaimed, retreating a step and averting his eyes.
"We have drunk when we were thirsty," said the impassioned woman, without lowering her glance. "Oh! it was but a drop on the hot stone! Why do you no longer look into my eyes, Edwin? Are you ashamed that you still love me, because in the old days I was childish and cold, and knew not what I did? The curse was still upon me, the curse of my birth, for which I've had to atone through all these years of suffering, to become at last another creature, a happy creature, new born through your love, Edwin! When I first saw you, early this morning, my heart received a blow that burst the lid of the coffin in which it was buried; and in the forest, how your every word, your glance, the pressure of your hand said to me: 'what are four years to a feeling that's eternal? I'm the same man, whom once you made miserable, but now all will be well again, since my happiness is yours.' Look into my eyes, Edwin, and tell me, if you can, that I have deceived myself!"
She had approached him and taken his hand. He did not withdraw it, but the glance that met hers was now so sad that she shrank back and let it fall.
"You have seen aright, my poor friend," he said in a hollow tone. "Iamthe same man, whom you made miserable. Yet nevertheless you have deceived yourself. What is now my happiness cannot be yours. Don't you know it? Have you entirely forgotten that I no longer belong to myself? My life is bound to another, and this other is dearer, should be dearer to me than my own existence."
"I know it," she replied, as she approached the little table and quietly rested both hands upon it. "But if it's true that this woman, to whom in an outburst of pride and anger you gave your hand, really loves you, will she be able to endure the sorrow, when she sees that she alone stands in the way of your happiness? I, if placed in such a situation, would rather die than assert a light which I had obtained in an unguarded moment, and which had at last become a sin against the claim of nature."
He gravely shook his head. "Listen to me," he said. "Sit down there, my beloved friend, and let us honestly endeavor to find some way out of this labyrinth. It would be easier for you to understand me, if you knew the woman whose life is so firmly bound to mine that nothing can separate us, not even what you call the claim of nature. She knows all. I've concealed nothing of what I suffered through you--"
"And you will be silentnow?"
"I should not wish to be so, even if I could. There's no one on earth, since I lost my brother, who is so well acquainted with my every thought, every emotion of my heart. She's really my other self, my better self, far gentler, stronger, and more self-sacrificing than I, and I can never think of what I owe her during these years, without wondering at my own levity, that I do not feel oppressed by these debts, nay that I often imagine I can repay them daily with interest. If you knew this loving, lovely creature--"
"Spare me the embarrassment of knowing her now through your description. I will go, I see I have too long--"
"No, not so, you must not go so! You must hear me out, Toinette. This will perhaps be the last conversation we shall ever hold. Shall we make the wound this parting will cause still more painful by petty irritation? What I've told you is literally true. But if I love this woman as my better self, I feel for the first time at this moment--no, since early this morning--that no matter how we may estimate self-love, it cannot become a passion, an intoxication, a rapture of mingled happiness and misery. Oh! passion! which you call the claim of nature; I call it fate! It will be long ere the tempest will be laid which your kiss has roused in my soul. Now do you see that you have no reason to be ashamed of that caress? Nature has asserted its claim, fate has had its way; that's nothing of which mortals need be ashamed. But now the will must assert its power, we must open our eyes and question whither blind passion will lead us--say 'Halt!' to its further progress, and do our duty, no matter what it costs us. Don't you think so too my brave friend?"
He waited for her assent, for a glance which would tell him that she agreed with him. But she was looking steadily at her clasped hands, which rested quietly on her lap, and only after a long pause said as if to herself:
"The game's unequal. However--va banque!"
"What do you mean, Toinette?" he replied. "Do you wish to imply, that I shall return to what has hitherto formed my happiness, and find it as before, and that you will remain on the verge of the abyss? But now answer me one question--should I offer you my hand on the spot with the intention even at the price of my self-respect to lead you out of this house of gilded misery, do you believe that a man who had sacrificed for you his most sacred possessions, his duty, the proud consciousness of self-respect, the faith he had sworn to his better self in the person of a high hearted woman--"
"Hush!" she hastily interrupted. "It's needless to say more. Your admirably wise words torture me. Your talk of passion is but a form of words. You reason, you moralize, you think of a future in which you may repent of what you've done for me. But I, Oh! God--I've nothing but this hour, no consciousness of what may come, or of what has been! You're here with me, and the world beyond, all others beside ourselves, everything which you call sin and fate and duty and remorse--I know not. I am conscious only of this: that you're the only man on whose breast my restless heart has tasted the bliss of one moment's repose--never, never to taste it again, and he stands and philosophizes, while I--am dying!"
Her eyes, which became gloomily fixed upon vacancy, suddenly overflowed with tears, she convulsively pressed her hands to her face and burst into uncontrollable sobs.
"Toinette!" he exclaimed, "by all the saints, you wrong me. I--if you suspected what a superhuman battle I am fighting, what torture that moment in which you tasted repose has conjured up for me--Toinette, be merciful--spare me--let us help each other, instead of aiding each other to be wretched. No one else will help us. We have no belief in the eternal torments of hell, in an avenging God, or a redeeming Saviour. But we know what is right, Toinette, we know that all the bliss of love's greatest rapture would become a poison, if bought with the heart's blood of others whom we were compelled to sacrifice. We look for no eternity, in which to atone for the sins of the present. We can only be honest and brave and good here upon earth, and we will be, my poor love, for you have an heroic soul, which can find its real happiness only in refusing to be bowed by any fate, and in conquering or dying in the conflict."
He paused, and bending over her laid his hand upon her head, as in the old days he had stroked Balder's curls. Suddenly she started, her tearful eyes wandered around the room in bewilderment, and she said hastily: "Do you hear nothing? Steps are approaching along the corridor. Who can it be? but no matter! What is to come, may come--"
There was a low knock at the door, then it was quickly but cautiously opened, though only wide enough to enable some person to speak. "The Herr Count is coming up the stairs," said a woman's voice. "I think he is on his way here."
"Very well, Rose," replied the countess, hastily wiping her eyes. "Come in and sit down yonder. This is the only person who is faithful to me," she continued turning to Edwin, as a tall, homely, pock-marked woman entered, and without even casting a curious glance at the pair, seated herself in the chair beside the bed. "If I had not had Rose, to whom I can tell everything--how do you know the count is coming here, Rose?"
"I don't know, but I'm almost sure of it. The rest of the company went to their rooms half an hour ago. The Herr Count remained alone in the blue drawing room, I could see him from your chamber, standing at the window. His Excellency's rooms were dark, and besides he never comes up here at this hour. Only the Herr Doctor's apartment was lighted. I saw the Herr Count look up here--then he suddenly drew back--I thought he might perhaps have something to say to the Herr Doctor. There, hark! Don't you hear him now?"
All listened silently. A hesitating step approached over the carpeted floor of the lofty, vaulted corridor, paused as if irresolute, and then approached Edwin's room.
"What shall we say to him?" whispered Edwin.
"Nothing. He would not understand the truth. Don't you say a word to him; I know how he must be addressed."
The next moment there was a knock at the door, and the count entered.
His first glance fell upon Toinette, who sat on the sofa in the full light of the candles. Evidently surprised, but without losing his self-control, he paused on the threshold and looked at the two others with an inquiring glance.
"I'm disturbing you," he said coldly. "I saw you still had a light in your room, Herr Doctor, and wanted to say a few words to you. If I'd been aware, that I should not find you alone--"
"You interrupt our conversation just at the right time," said Toinette calmly, without avoiding her husband's glance. "We've been philosophizing a little, as we used to do in old times; there's no end to that, especially when people look at things from such different points of view. Rose almost fell asleep over it. We'll have another argument to-morrow, dear friend. I think I shall finally convince and overpower you. My best troops are yet to be brought into the field."
"Let us conclude a truce," said Edwin with a painful effort. "Really, Countess, another such victory, and my cause will be lost."
"No, no, Doctor, you won't escape so. Do you know that he means to leave us early to-morrow morning? I shall make you responsible for his stay. And now good night. I won't trouble the gentlemen to escort me to my room. Come, Rose, it's time to go to sleep, and we have still to hold a council about my toilette."
She rose hastily, held out her hand to Edwin not daring to raise her eyes to his, nodded to her husband and left the room with her faithful maid. The two men stood face to face for a moment in silence.
"Is it true that you're going?" said the count at last.
"You see I had already taken leave of you," replied Edwin, pointing to the letter, which still lay on the table. "I thought I should do you a favor by avoiding any verbal explanation, in relation to a matter which is painful both to you and to myself, and unfortunately hopeless also."
"So you, too, think we must fear--" He pointed to his forehead.
Edwin was silent. He was reflecting, whether a tacit agreement might not perhaps afford a means of escape. He rejected the subterfuge.
"You have appealed to my old friendship for your wife, Herr Count," said he. "I owe it to her, and to yourself, to tell the truth; how matters have reached this point, and what share wrong and misfortune have played, I cannot and will not attempt to decide. But in the present condition of affairs, I see but one means of salvation--to restore her freedom. Misfortune is inevitable, if this state of things continues--not the one you or the doctors fear: I've never seen a clearer brain or more gloomy soul than the countess has. She'll not lose her reason, but probably with entire deliberation go to destruction."
"You mean, Doctor--she might--"
"I know that she has never particularly loved life, that she hates it now, and that it will not require much to burst the overloaded vessel. I shall leave this house early to-morrow morning, Herr Count. My presence can avail nothing, prevent nothing. But once more I entreat you to make a hasty, strong, and noble resolution, consent to a separation, if you wish to preserve this precious life. This is the only way of rescuing what still remains to be saved. Perhaps the future will voluntarily restore what you can no longer hold by force."
The count had approached the window, and with folded arms was gazing out into the night. Suddenly he turned, so that the candle light fell full upon his deeply flushed face.
"I'm very grateful to you, Herr Doctor," he said with icy coldness, "for having communicated to me your--of course humble--opinion. In regard to what I ought to do or leave undone, you'll permit me to consult my own wishes, and decline friendly suggestions with my best thanks. For the rest, I regret that you have reasons for leaving my house to-morrow, but as I cannot boast of so old a friendship with you as the countess, it would be indiscreet to inquire into these motives in order perhaps to set them aside. I wish you a pleasant journey. A carriage will be ready to convey you to the railway station at any hour you may desire. Once more accept my most sincere thanks for the delay I have caused you, and if you should ever come into this neighborhood again--" He bowed carelessly to Edwin, whose tongue seemed paralysed, and with a calm smile and patronizing wave of the hand left the room.
"And this is the end!" burst from the oppressed heart of the man who was left alone. He went to the table, took the note and tore it into tiny fragments. A feeling of bitter sorrow, in which all thought of the past and future were merged, overwhelmed him, his mind seemed to be in a dull stupor, a heavyweight rested on his breast, which he tried to throw off by long panting sighs; he took no note of time; not until the clock struck two did he rouse himself from this bewilderment, and remember that for more than an hour he had been standing in the same spot, gazing at the same figure on the silk tapestry. His limbs had grown stiff, and his joints ached as he walked toward his bed. He threw himself on the silk coverlid, still in his clothes, which he no longer thought it worth while to remove, and closed his eyes. The candles were still burning, and the moon shone so brightly into the window, that sleep refused to visit his eyelids. As if he were haunted by the illusions of fever, voices echoed in his ear Toinette's passionate confessions, his own wise answers, which had had so little power over his own heart, and the count's cold, formal words, which whenever they recurred to his memory sent the hot blood to his brow. Moreover, a faint perfume of violets surrounded him, which recalled the moment when her curls had rested on his breast; he fancied he felt her glowing lips press his, her tears on his cheek, her exquisite form in his arms, clinging to him as a shipwrecked sailor stretches out his arms toward the land.
"This is too much!" he faltered--"I would that daylight were here and I were a thousand miles away!"
Suddenly the candles flickered and expired. He started up, and saw the first grey light of morning creeping over the trees. "It's time," said he, "quite time! This is not a house in which I can sleep."
He dipped his face in the wash basin, rubbed his cheeks and temples till the last lingering odor of violets had been washed away, then with trembling hands seized his traveling satchel, threw the strap over his shoulder, and left the room.
No one met him as he passed along the dark corridors and down the wide staircase. Beside the main entrance was the room occupied by the porter, who slept with his door open and looked up in alarm when he saw a guest standing equipped for travel so early in the morning. The thaler he felt in his hand only partially enlightened him, he nodded sleepily when Edwin told him to give his compliments to his master and to say to him that he had set out before daybreak, because he preferred to walk in the cool of the morning. The man then opened the little side door adjoining the main entrance and took leave of the departing guest with an awkward bow.
The dogs barked as Edwin crossed the wide courtyard, but he met no human being. Outside were the dark woods, veiled by the light transparent haze of early dawn, and a heavy dew was beginning to fall. Like a flying criminal who avoids the highways, Edwin turned and plunged into the dense shadow of a side path. The burden that would not suffer him to breathe freely still rested on his heart, but his senses were cooled by the fresh air of the forest, and his rapid pace did him good. At last he came to a spot which he remembered to have visited the day before. In a field appeared the solitary farm house, with its steep gable roof and an open barn by the road side tempted him to rest a moment. The floor was covered with sheaves, and the air full of the strong odor of the fresh wheat. He threw himself down in the first corner, and although he intended to remain awake in order to be far on his way when the sun rose, the many exciting scenes of the previous day made sleep overpower him irresistibly.
The farmer's servants found him there, when a few hours later they came to commence their work. But as they remembered having seen him the day before, and as he had liberally rewarded the boy who had shown him the way, they glided softly out to let him sleep a little longer, wondering among themselves that a gentleman who was a guest at the castle, should prefer a couch of straw. When the sun had risen higher, the farmer himself came to the barn, this time determined to wake the stranger. The countess' maid had come to ask whether the gentleman who had been there yesterday had not called again. He had suddenly disappeared from the castle, and she had a message for him.
When the sleeper started up, the girl was standing with her back to the light, which entered through the barn door, and had a thick veil over her face. Edwin drew back. At the first glance, still under the influence of his dream, he fancied that he saw before him the woman from whom he had resolved to fly. Her voice first undeceived him.
"The countess wishes you a pleasant journey, regrets that the Herr Doctor did not take leave of her himself, and begs him to read the letter she sends, as it contains a commission which is of great importance to her."
"Does she want an answer?"
The faithful girl shook her head, declined almost with an air of offence the money he tried to press upon her, and instantly left the barn.
No sooner was Edwin alone, than he read the following lines, which were hastily scrawled with a pencil.
"You've gone, you fly from me, I expected nothing different. But you'll come back, I know, and then you will never leave me again. Edwin! What a night! What a fate! I've examined my own hearty mentally reviewed all your cruel, honest words--all are right--but here power overcomes right. We belong to each other, Edwin, we were created for each other from the beginning; how else would it have been possible for your love to continue despite our separation, and me tardy, sorrowful recognition that you're the only man, to whom I owe all I have and am,--all; honor, life, soul, and body. You're going now, Edwin. You'll try to forget me. Do so! You must first learn that all resistance is unavailing, that when you do yield, you may submit to the superior power of Nature without a murmur, without remorse. Then we'll be happy, my beloved--I will make you happy. Oh! I'm so rich; my treasure was only buried, evil spirits guarded the spot. But I know the word that will break the spell--and it will be yours, and I shall know wherefore I live. Till then farewell, unless it be a mockery to say it; for how can you fare well when you may not clasp me to your breast. As for me I have became accustomed to the pain of your absence; I have spent four years in this seeming death, and only lived two moments--on your heart. But let us not torture ourselves-don't be too long--we've so much lost time to retrieve. When you come I shall have arranged all, the place of our refuge, the way to reach it, everything except how it will seem when you are free and mine, and tell me that you love me;--there my thoughts fail!--
"INETTE."
The sun is high in the heavens, as a traveler walks along the road which leads from the railway station to the count's castle. The stalwart figure of our old friend, Heinrich Mohr, is recognizable at the first glance; the bold face and shapely cut nose we remember but not the cheerful expression that hovers around the lips and forms so striking a contrast to the scornful defiance which once marked the mouth.
He arrived by the early morning train, and on receiving Edwin's note, which he found awaiting him, instantly set off on foot in order to reach the castle before the heat of noon. As hat in hand, he walks along the little foot path beside the highway, whistling and looking up into the overhanging foliage, he seems a type of perfect strength and happiness. And yet something is apparently lacking. Suddenly pausing he draws forth a pocket book, in which is pasted the photograph of a little boy not quite three years old, with a grave earnest face, and gazes at it as intently as if it were a map of the country which he carried to guide him on his way. And in fact this child's face has shown him the way to a happy, peaceful life.
Just as he closes the pocket book, he sees some one approaching him. "Edwin!" he calls. "Gracious Heaven, how do you chance to be here? You look as if you'd just risen from the grave. Eternal Gods! What has happened?"
Edwin paused. Mohr saw him move his lips without emitting a sound; then he tried to smile, but he only accomplished a sorrowful distortion of the face. He looked as pale as if he had not a drop of blood in his veins, his eyes were sunken, and his hat was thrust far back on his head.
"Heinrich!" he gasped at last, with a violent effort, "it's well that I have met you--I--I don't know what might have happened--it was too much at once."
"But man, speak, tell me--where--what has occurred--have you seen a ghost?"
"You've said it, Heinz--and it will not leave me in peace. Listen, but don't tell any one; I'm the old Tannhäuser and come straight from--"
His voice failed, his eyes suddenly closed, his knees trembled, and if Mohr had not hastily sprung forward, his head would have struck the trunk of a oak which stood close to the road.
At this moment a traveling carriage, piled with luggage and drawn by four handsome horses from the count's stable, passed them. The fair-haired princess was leaning back on the cushions beside Prince Batároff, the young prince occupied the front seat, and beside him, laughing and talking in the gayest manner, was Lorinser.
The travelers' servants, a maid and two valets, followed in a light hunting carriage, engaged in eager conversation, while a bottle of wine from the castle cellar circulated freely between them and the count's groom, who was driving.
No one in either carriage noticed the group on the foot path, or heard Mohr's call to stop and take in the fainting man. Not until they had passed, did Mohr, who looked after them cursing the cold hearts of aristocrats, see the face of his mortal enemy. The blood froze in his veins, and he let his friend fall from his arms as if about to rush after the carriage. Then he suddenly regained his composure.
"Drive on," he murmured. "That devil's no longer to be feared. We have here to deal with other powers of darkness!"
Three or four hour's ride by rail from the scene of these incidents is situated the little Thuringian city where Edwin had become a teacher of mathematics and Franzelius had founded his printing office. The house for whose purchase Papa Feyertag had advanced his son-in-law a considerable sum, stood on the principal street, and the unpretending old front bore a striking resemblance to a proof sheet stained with printer's ink and scrawled over with various marks and dashes. Only the sign over the door, was new, and bore in white letters on a black ground the inscription: "Printing done by Reinhold Franzelius." It was an old one story frame buildings with, a tile roof blackened by age and as high as the house itself, and it contained, besides the work shop, a number of chambers for the journeymen, and store rooms for paper and other articles. On entering the house, the door to the left bore the sign "office," and to the right was the entrance to the composing room, from which a narrow passage led into the back building, where the presses were.
In the upper story, in a plainly furnished but spacious sitting room, sat two women, in whom we recognize the fair-haired Reginchen from Dorotheenstrasse, now Frau Franzelius, and the zaunkönig's daughter, now Frau Doctor Edwin. The years that have elapsed have not passed over the heads of either without leaving their traces, but the changes show to the advantage of both. When we last saw Leah, she was lying on the green sofa in the family sitting room at the 'Venetian palace,' with haggard cheeks paled by hopeless passion, and we were only permitted to see how the expiring spark of her young existence was rekindled by the touch of love. Since that time her life has expanded into a quiet, soul-full beauty, which is not striking at the first glance, but soon shows the more thoughtful observer that there must be something unusual about the young wife. She still wears her hair as she did in the days other girlhood, wound in heavy braids about her head, and fastened behind with two silver pins, almost in the style of the peasant girls of Rome or Albano. The delicate, softly rounded oval face has grown fuller, and no longer wears a sickly pallor, but the complexion is still of alabaster whiteness, so that the eyes, which are her most beautiful feature, glow with a still darker lustre. It would be difficult to say what was most attractive in the countenance, the quick intelligence of the eyes, or the sweet gentleness expressed in the curves of the full lips. Even her figure has gained an added charm, although her matronly dignity makes it more perceptible than ever that the grand outlines of the head would have better suited a prouder figure. But when she is seated this is not noticeable, especially when she laughs, when the thoughtful eyes and kindly mouth harmonize so perfectly, that no one could desire any alteration in the young wife's appearance.
Reginchen, who sits beside her in a light flowered calico dress, with her fair hair brushed plainly under an almost coquettish little white cap, has also perceptibly gained in beauty and fullness of figure, nay her form, once as slender as a swallow's seems disposed toembonpoint. But the round, childish face, on the contrary, has elongated, the rapid merry upward glance of the blue eyes is changed for an expression of quiet cheerfulness, only sometimes darkened by a slight cloud, when the noise made by the two little black haired boys grows too loud, or one or both, in playing with a large brown rocking horse, stumbles over his brother's legs. These two little fellows, now just three years old, are the famous twins, Edwin and Balder, whom Reginchen gave her Reinhold in the first year of their marriage. They are, as Edwin has already told Marquard, ridiculously like their father, grave, black eyed, white-teethed little prodigies, with voices which really afford a most favorable augury for the future of the young tribunes of the people, who despite their turbulent, unruly conduct, are the kindest hearted little fellows in the world, and cling to their mother in particular with such wild, jealous tenderness, that when both fall upon her at once, Reginchen is in considerable danger of being strangled and suffocated by her own children. Totally unlike these comical miniature editions of their father, is the youngest child, a delicate, quiet, fair-haired little girl about a year old, still a nursling, and whose presence a blind man would scarcely notice. The father declared her Balder's living image, and racked his brains for a long time to try whether this child, whom he loves with special tenderness, could not be given some name which would likewise recall his never to be forgotten friend. But Reginchen, willingly as she indulges her Reinhold's every wish, had a decided objection to Baldriane or Waltharia, and insisted that this tender spring blossom should bear her grandmother's honest name, Friederike, to which, since Reginchen, as the true daughter of a shoemaker, and knows how to put down her little foot at times, he made no objection.
When Leah, as was her daily habit during Edwin's absence, came at twilight to see her friend and neighbor, the latter had just nursed the child and was holding it quietly in her lap, where it was falling asleep.
"Excuse me if I remain seated," she said in a low voice, though the two young bawlers, the twins, had no respect for their little sister's slumber. "Riekchen is just going to sleep; I can lay her in the cradle in a few minutes. I'm so glad you've come. We should have sent for you to-day at any rate. Father's here; he arrived unexpectedly without any other reason than because he couldn't live any longer without seeing the two boys. He scarcely looked at Riekchen--to be sure, it will be a long time," she continued with a low laugh, "before the dear child is old enough for the 'explosive effect' father's always talking about. He asked about you, too, and wanted to go at once to give you a message from your parents, but he began to talk to my Reinhold in the old strain about progress and the welfare of the people, and they didn't stop till it grew dark, and as it's Sunday evening Reinhold took him to the workmen's union. There, now she's asleep, now the pet can be put down. Have you shaken hands with Aunt Leah, boys? They look horribly. Their father brought home some chocolate cigars, and its no use to wash them. Will you keep quiet, you little good for nothings?"
Little Edwin, after hastily shaking hands with Leah, had climbed on the sofa, clasped both arms around his mother's neck, rumpled her cap, and pressed his curly black head against her's, playing all sorts of tricks and stammering loving words in his broken language. Balder was also endeavoring to climb up the other side of the sofa, so that the sleeping child opened her large blue eyes again and stared with a frightened gaze at the black kobold. Leah could not help laughing, and hastily went forward to take the sweet little thing in her arms. The maid-servant was called in to assist, and her powerful arms at last succeeded in pulling the wild twins away from their mother and out of the room.
"They'll kill me!" exclaimed Reginchen in comic despair, as Leah re-entered. "Reinhold might manage them, but he only laughs instead of helping me. And I, with the best intentions--but sit down, dearest, and let's talk to each other a little while. You can't imagine how much trouble it costs me to get a half hour to myself. How often I envy you your quiet house, and you have the whole day to read and write and think. I, with our great household, and the care of all the workmen, to whom I fill a mother's place--isn't it comical," she laughed, fastening her cap straight again, "to look at me and think what I used to be, and what I am now. It would be a sin to complain, but I'm sorry for one thing--that there's no chance of my husband's teaching me anything, as I am always begging him to do. But in the evening, when I have him an hour to myself and might read and learn something, my eyes close, and the finest poem or novel is not half as delightful as my bed. When I complain of this to Reinhold, he laughs at me. He thinks I'm well educated enough; he's still so much in love, that he doesn't see my deficiencies. But when I get to be an old woman and sit with my old husband, and can scarcely understand half the things he's thinking and writing--well, it will be his own fault, so he can't complain. I only speak of it, because it always gives me a pang when you find me so among the children--and I can't divide any of the blessing with you. But you see every joy has its thorns, even that which seems most enviable. You, as a compensation, live alone with your husband, and he tells you everything he thinks, and you two are so completely one all day long that you needn't desire anything else. Ain't I right, dearest?"
She had nestled close to her silent friend, who listened with a peculiar, almost triumphant smile. "You're a little hypocrite," she now said, taking Reginchen's face between her hands and pressing a hasty kiss upon her brow. "You know very well, how I feel beside you--and because you've a kind heart and love me, want to make me believe you'd sell your three children for the title of Doctor, you wicked mother. But just because you were only acting, and I, with all my culture, am not so skillful in hypocrisy as you--you cunning child of nature--come, let me whisper something in your ear, that no one has yet heard--not even he who has the best right to hear it--and you must also promise me that not a soul shall know it, not even he from whom you usually have no secrets. Your hand upon it, Ginchen!"
She held out her hand for her friend to clasp; but the wife and mother started up with a cry of joy, that vividly recalled the little house swallow of former days, exclaiming: "Is it true? Are you sure? Oh! dear, dearest Leah--" and she threw her arms around her neck in a tumult of the most enthusiastic delight; "let me kiss and hug and congratulate you, and no seven seals shall close my mouth, since I guessed it before you said a word, and besides how could I conceal it? Reinhold always says he reads my face better than a page printed in the clearest type, the tease! and now your father and mother--everything will be well again, and I take back every word I just said, merely to drive away your longing. No! without a child--all the learning of a whole library couldn't make me happy, or you either, dearest, and because I knew that, I've always half grudged myself my own happiness, and often--God forgive me the sin--thought whether it wouldn't be better, if we didn't live in the same city; that's all my wickedness, and now I'll keep still and you shall punish me soundly for my deceit, and then let me kiss you for the good news. Merciful Heavens, what will Edwin say!"
During this enthusiastic outburst of joy she had been dancing about the room like a crazy person, and now suddenly sat down in Leah's lap, threw her arms around her, and humbly bent her head, as if expecting the chastisement would be given in good earnest. Leah bent toward her. "You're a sweet child," she said, secretly drying her tearful eyes in Reginchen's hair. "Come, be sensible. And I'm entirely in earnest about keeping the matter a secret. Who knows whether I may not be disappointed? Have I not twice cherished the hope, only to be doubly unhappy? That's why Edwin must know nothing about it until I'm perfectly sure. Oh! darling, I'll never, never forget that you have rejoiced with me. It seems as if I had discovered to-day, for the first time, that you really love me, and what a precious treasure you are. The man would not deserve you at all, who would question of the books you had read or the subjects you were able to discuss."
They held each other in a close embrace, and then with all the unwearied energy of a woman's fancy, Reginchen began to picture the happy future Leah might now expect. But she insisted that she should be required to keep the secret from her Reinhold only so long as Edwin himself knew nothing of it. She asked when he would return. Since the arrival of the letter Edwin had written at the hotel, which was now four days old, Leah had not heard from him, and therefore concluded he would not remain much longer away. "This is the first time," said she, "that we've been separated so many days, and I know that if he didn't consider it necessary for his health, he wouldn't have stayed half so long."
"But it's strange he doesn't write oftener," said Reginchen. "When my Reinhold has to go to Leipsic on business, I get half a dozen letters from him. You must train your husband better. Besides writing's his trade."
"You don't know him, dearest. Precisely because he's in the habit of telling me everything, it's hard for him to communicate with me, even an hour every day, by his pen. He feels a sort of defiance against the separation. He won't learn to be satisfied with a little, and if he can't have all, prefers to get nothing."
"It may be so," replied her friend. "Besides, it always seems to me as if you two really didn't need to speak to each other at all, but exchanged your thoughts without the aid of words. But only let little Leah come, and she'll give you some entirely new thoughts. Reinhold's letters and mine contain nothing but anecdotes about the children; if any one else should read them, he would laugh at us. But we're perfectly serious."
Steps ascending the staircase interrupted these confidential outpourings. The father-in-law and son-in-law, who had returned from the workmen's meeting, entered, Franzelius exactly the same us in the old days, only thanks to his little wife, with hair somewhat more smoothly brushed and cravat more evenly tied, while the black eyes under the bushy brows beamed with a quiet, almost shy expression of love and happiness, which he owed to the same little wife also. Papa Feyertag, on the contrary, was scarcely recognizable. The once benevolent face, with its smile of superiority, had assumed a strangely eager, excited expression, which together with a half grown grey moustache rendered it by no means attractive. Instead of the neat, quiet dress which he was in the habit of wearing on Sundays in his shop, his short, thick set figure was clad in the fashionable garb of a tourist, a mustard colored shade of cloth, variegated with little points and dots from head to foot, and in addition a ridiculous little hat with a blue ribbon. He was heated, and seemed to break off an angry conversation with his son-in-law as he perceived the visitor. Reginchen cast a hasty glance at her husband, which the latter answered with a slight shrug of the shoulders, but when a lamp was brought in and the simple supper placed upon the table, the cheerful mood that usually reigned in the household soon returned, and even the old gentleman became more good natured. He told Leah that his wife, who had never been farther from Berlin than Potsdam or the Müggelsee, had this time also obstinately refused to visit her daughter in her own house. She declared she could not eat anything that was not cooked in Berlin water, and during the one night she spent at Potsdam, she had been unable to close her eyes, because there were no good beds out of Berlin. "What's to be done, dear Frau Doctorin? Women are women. I tried to conquer her by rousing her jealousy, and threatened to persuade the Frau Professorin, I mean Madame König, your step-mother, to come with me, as your father unfortunately cannot stir from home on account of his gout. She knows I think your mother a very beautiful lady, in spite of her forty-five years, and we're always joking together. But she also knew very well, that it was only a joke, for that young couple--your parents I mean--can't be so easily separated. They gave me the kindest messages for you, and asked why you didn't come to Berlin. After all, you owe it to your parents to do so, and you might be so comfortable in their new house."
"A teacher of mathematics, who has learned how to calculate and has opportunities in abundance for doing so, doesn't find it as easy to travel, as a house-owner in the capital," replied Leah with a faint blush. "Besides Edwin needs his vacations to regain his strength, and Berlin, as he always says, is a great human mill, where one is ground to powder in a fortnight."
"Why, he lived there more than fourteen years, and was always well," said the old man. "'But every one to his taste.'" He, for instance, could not endure to stay six months in such a little place as this town, where his children lived. He should feel like a great pike that had wandered into stagnant water and could not find its way back to the flowing river again. "The future, dear Frau Doctorin," he continued, "belongs to the great cities; smaller ones are dying out. I shall not live to see the day--but you and my children may perhaps do so, at any rate the little ones sleeping yonder--when Germany will have no cities nearer to each other than fifty miles; but then to be sure each will be a city indeed, containing at least eight hundred thousand inhabitants, without counting the suburbs. The culture which the present time demands of men, is not possible to be attained without great means and the arts and sciences can be properly fostered only in the great centres of commerce. I heard a lecture delivered before our society," he continued, "which will soon appear in print. I will send you a copy as soon as it is published."
"And where's the bread and meat for the great cities to come from, dear father?" asked Franzelius, who had been silently listening, and meantime making great havoc in these two articles, which his wife had set before him.
"That's the business of the railroads," replied the shoemaker, without the slightest embarrassment. "The country people, or rather the members of the great rural industrial societies, will go out every morning through the open country, till the fields, attend to the cattle, and return by rail in the evening to the city, which they'll reach in time to witness William Tell or hear Lucca. Why should these worthy people be forever excluded from all education and culture, merely because hitherto no theatres, concerts, and universities have existed in the villages?"
"They'll have to stay in the country over night very often during the haying season," Franzelius dryly remarked.
The old man cast a side glance at him, to see if he were in jest or earnest, but no satirical lines were to be discovered in his son-in-law's open, honest face. Nevertheless the old apostle of progress, evidently irritated, relapsed into silence, and it was long ere Leah could succeed in restoring him to his former cheerful mood. She told him of Heinrich Mohr's happy marriage and fatherly pride, and asked about Reginchen's brother, who was also married and had obtained an excellent position in Russia, as engineer of a new railroad. At intervals her eyes sometimes met those of the little fair-haired wife, twinkling merrily with joy over the secret so recently disclosed, as if they wanted to ask: "what's all this chatter to the great news we both know of?"
When the clock struck nine, in spite of Reginchen's remonstrances, Leah prepared for her departure. She knew that the members of the household retired early and rose betimes. When she was about to shake hands with Herr Feyertag also, he declared he would not be refused the pleasure of escorting her home. "It's only around the corner," said Leah, "and this is such a small town, that the streets are perfectly safe at night without masculine protection." But the old man would not be denied. He seized his little hat with the blue ribbon, patted his daughter on the back, and shook hands with his son-in-law somewhat formally. They need not wait up for him, he said. He could not retire so early, and would stroll about in search of adventure.
When they found themselves in the street and about twenty paces from the house, the singular man suddenly stopped short and said to his companion:
"You've probably perceived, Frau Doctorin, that I have something on my mind. Do you know the real object of my coming here? It was not, as my daughter thinks, on account of the two black haired boys, though I love the little fellows well enough to eat them, but because of a dream. You see, a short time ago, I came home rather late from one of our meetings, where there had been some very good speeches, and fretted before I fell asleep, because I was always obliged to hold my tongue, since, as my friend the assessor says, I've taken rather a passive than an active part in education. 'Well,' I thought, 'every one has not the gift of being a great orator, and he who makes comfortable boots for people does his share toward healthful progress.' Just then I fell asleep, and just imagine what I dreamed. I was standing out of doors on the parade ground, and suddenly I saw something dark coming toward me, moving in regular rank and file, and making a great deal of dust; but the columns were very low, not more than two feet above the ground. As it drew nearer, what did I see? Nothing but boots and shoes, regularly divided into regiments, like an army, according to the various styles; jackboots, dancing shoes, slippers, spatter-dashes, in short everything that has ever been manufactured in a shoe-maker's shop, and in fact, as I instantly recognized by the shape and workmanship, in my own. Now I knew at once, without being told by any one, that these were the boots and shoes which had passed through my hands since the time I was apprenticed; the collected work, so to speak, of my life. 'Now,' a voice seemed to say, 'you can see what you've accomplished in this world, and whether you've any right to imagine you've been of any special aid to progress.' I tell you, Frau Doctorin, it was horrible to see how the little black army, exactly like the roaches and beetles on a kitchen hearth, thronged past me into the Thiergarten and through the Brandenbourg-Gate--mere feet without any bodies--and I stood there like a beaten cur, covering my face with my hands, and at last, in spite of my horror, unable to keep from laughing aloud which awoke me.
"When I told the dream to my wife, she only said in her quiet way: 'Now you see what comes of your stupid fancies, Feyertag. The vision means nothing but: "Cobbler stick to your last!"' I made no reply, I know how limited her views are, and women are women. But I've made a firm resolution to have nothing more to do with shoe-making. The rest of my life I will devote to higher purposes, caring for the head instead of the feet, helping those whom people try to stretch on the same last till they get moral corns--I mean grow stupid--and to getting the air, which is called freedom of thought. I instantly said to myself: 'your son-in-law is just the right man to aid you. You must get him, and then set off on a journey; he has the tongue, you the money, like Moses and Aaron, and then you can visit the various workmen's societies and every-where provide for true culture and enlightenment.' But would you believe that the man, who formerly made such fine speeches, and wrote articles on every conceivable subject, can't be induced to move in the matter. When I explained my plan to him to-day, he looked at me very quietly, and only said: 'That's all very fine, father, but I can't help you; my business will not permit me to go wandering about the world.' And in the evening he took me to a workman's society he has established here, where every thing was quiet and orderly, it must be admitted, but where there was no display of rhetoric at all. Reinhold had brought a book written by a certain Buckle, about civilization and the history of the world and such things. But it was terribly prosy and circumstantial, there was not a trace of vital questions, points of view, and humane learning, and much of it was incomprehensible to me, so that I wondered they all listened so quietly, as if to a sermon. When the reading was over, I thought: 'Surely Feyertag, you ought to open the horizon of the capital to these provincial people, and I began very fluently to make a speech; for my friend, the assessor, had said something like it day before yesterday, and I've long been familiar with rhetorical tricks and practice them every day before my apprentices in the work-shop. I only lacked courage in Berlin. But do you suppose it made any impression on these country block-heads? Neither the absolute and the ablative nor realism had the slightest effect--I might as well have talked to the walls! Of course, in such stagnant water, people have no idea what the stream of the spirit of the age, and purpose, and representation, and the French Revolution, and self-government--you know what I mean, Frau Doctorin. But these narrow minds! When I concluded and asked whether any one wished to discuss the matter, only one man rose; he said he had not understood me, I must explain what I meant more clearly. But Reinhold looked at his watch and said it was too late for this evening; they could return to the subject at the next meeting. But I clearly saw that he only wanted to prevent me from interfering with his Buckle's civilization, and therefore closed the meeting. He has grown narrow-minded, Frau Doctorin, his wife and children and his business--everything else is a matter of indifference to him. He didn't tell me as plainly as my old wife did, but it amounted to the same thing--I'd better stick to my last."
"It's your own fault, Herr Feyertag," replied Leah smiling, while the old man took a pinch of snuff from his little box. "Why did you make our friend so happy, by giving him the most charming wife in the world, so that he's now far too well satisfied with his own little family circle, to think of roaming about the world. Stay a few weeks here and see how he provides, not only for himself, but for all who share his labor, and you'll surely no longer be angry with him because he wants to stick to his last."
Herr Feyertag's only reply was a shake of the head. Meantime they had reached Leah's home, a low one story house in a side street, where there was not even a light burning. The maid-servant had heard them coming, and appeared at the door with a little lamp.
"When will your husband come back?" asked the old man sighing. "He, I hope, will understand me, and make the matter clear to Reinhold, too."
"I'm expecting him very soon. But you must come and see me to-morrow at any rate, and we'll discuss this subject farther. Believe me, dear Herr Feyertag, you'll not accomplish much with Edwin either. We're so happy in our narrow sphere, and he in particular, feels that without moving from this place, he can influence the whole world--I doubt very much whether he'll approve or support your plan. However--I won't prejudice him though. Good night."
She cordially shook hands with him, and then entered the house, while the disappointed shoemaker, drawing the hat with the blue ribbon low over his brow, walked back muttering and gesticulating to the main street, to find at some ale house more appreciative souls.