CHAPTER VII.

"Thy face, alas! so fair and dear,I saw it in my dreams quite near.It was so angel-like, so sweet,And yet with pain and grief replete,The lips alone, they are still red,But soon they will be pale and dead."

A few days later a little company was assembled in the sitting-room of Privy Councillor Rohan's house. It consisted of the privy councillor himself, his daughter, Franz, and a young lady who had been brought there by Mr. Bemperlein: Mademoiselle Marguerite Martin. They had had supper, after waiting a whole hour for Mr. Bemperlein. Now they were sitting around the fire-place. Upon a table near Sophie, where usually the tea-things were placed, stood to-day a small tureen, from which the young lady filled at rare intervals one or the other's glass. The conversation was not particularly animated; a veil of melancholy seemed to hang over them all. No stranger would have guessed that this silent melancholy company was celebrating what is ordinarily looked upon as a festive occasion--the eve of the wedding-day.

And yet this was the case. To-morrow in the forenoon the young couple were to be married in the church of the university by Doctor Black, and then an hour later they were to leave for the capital, where Franz had important business.

For at the eleventh hour before the wedding a great change had taken place in the plans which Franz had formed for the future. The sacrifice which he had wished to make in all quietness and secret, for the peace and the happiness of the family, had not been accepted. When he wrote his friend in the capital that he was compelled to decline the offered place as assistant physician in the great hospital, he thought the matter was settled. But his friend was not the man to abandon so easily a plan to which he had become attached. He wrote again, and--Franz had not anticipated this--he wrote to his father-in-law also. Thus the privy councillor learnt what, according to Franz's plans, was to have remained a secret forever. He fell from the clouds; but his decision was formed instantly with all his former energy. When Franz called on him half an hour afterwards he received him with the letter in his hand. At this decisive moment Roban found himself once more in the possession of all his original strength of mind and eloquence.

"Do you not see, dearest Franz," he said, "that this enormous sacrifice, which you make for my sake with a light mind, and, like all men born of woman, with a heavy heart, overwhelms me by its greatness, and annihilates me, so to say, morally? You have sacrificed your fortune for me. I do not underrate that, I am sure; but many a father has done that cheerfully for his son, why should not for once a son do that for his father? But when you refuse this place you sacrifice something which can no longer be counted and valued. You sacrifice your whole future. You sacrifice the ambition that fills every noble, manly heart, to reach the highest degree of perfection in the profession to which it belongs; but more than that, you sacrifice also what you have no right to dispose of--your duty towards your fellow-men. To whom much is given, of him much is expected and much demanded. You will find in the great city a sphere of action such as a Cæsar would envy, if a Cæsar could ever comprehend in what the true control over men consists. You will be there, in reality, what the flatterers in Rome called a Nero and a Heliogabalus:decus et deliciolae generis humani--ornament and a delight of mankind; for you will make the blind see, the lame walk, and those who are buried under the burden of their sufferings rise from the death-bed. And pupils, filled with enthusiasm by your words and your works, will go forth to every land, and thus your usefulness will extend infinitely, as that of every truly good and great man is sure to extend. What you can do in Grunwald, others can do also. What you can do there, few others can do; and it is right and proper that every soldier in the great army of progress should march in his own appointed place in the ranks.

"And now, setting aside these inner and moral motives, which bind you to answer to your friend's summons with an obedient Here! the actual circumstances also are more in favor of the step than against it. I know very well what motives you had for your refusal, but--pardon me, Franz, if I speak candidly--have you not perhaps underrated my strength, even if you did not overestimate your own? I am what the world calls a candidate for death; death has marked me already as his own, in order to hit me all the more certainly the next time, but the next time need not come so very soon. If you do not object to it peremptorily, I estimate my probable life yet some four or five years, perhaps even longer. During that time I shall hold my lectures and visit my patients as before, and if I cannot do it all by myself I shall choose an assistant, who will not be so dangerous a rival as my excellent son-in-law whom they already begin to prefer to myself. Seriously Franz we are here in each other's way. And when the question is, after all, how to make money, why then it is better you go to the east and shear your sheep there, and I do my shearing in the west."

Franz was not quite convinced by these arguments, but he felt that the privy councillor could not well act differently as a man of honor. So he went to his betrothed and told her he had received an offer to go to the capital. What did she say to that?

"Whether you ought to accept the call," replied Sophie, after a short reflection, "that I must leave of course to you and to papa to decide; for I do not understand that. But if it must be done, I shall certainly not say No! When do we leave?"

"I must be there at least at Christmas, but I have to go at once for a few days, in order to reconnoitre."

"Then I will go with you. You shall see that I am not so unpractical as you think."

One would have thought Sophie cold and unfeeling, from hearing her speak so calmly, almost coolly, of a plan which was decisive for her and Franz's future, and which separated her, if carried out, perhaps forever from her native town and her paternal home, from her friends and acquaintances, and from a thousand familiar habits. And yet she suffered unspeakably from the thought that she should have to leave her father, whom she loved so dearly and who loved her so devotedly. But she knew that he would adhere in the hour of decision to the principles which he had inculcated in his daughter, and that he would expect the same firmness from her. It was a hard struggle which these two noble hearts had to endure the night after the evening on which Franz had decided to leave Grunwald; a struggle such as every son of man has to go through once or twice--and alas! in many cases again and again--in his life; a struggle during which the perspiration runs in big drops from the pain-furrowed brow, and the suffering heart prays: Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass by me! But when on the next morning father and daughter embraced each other without saying a word, and held each other a long, long time, their eyes might gently overflow, but their brows were clear and their hearts sang heavenly melodies.

From that moment Sophie gave her whole mind to the one great purpose to arrange everything in the house so that her father might at least not miss the accustomed comfort when she should leave him. Especially was she anxious to find a person of her own sex who could fill her place at table and in the evening, and assume the general direction of domestic affairs. Her choice was soon made. The very day after that memorable conversation before the fire-place, Bemperlein had, at Sophie's express desire, brought Mademoiselle Marguerite to the privy councillor's house. Sophie had been much pleased with the pretty, black-eyed French woman, and congratulated Bemperlein sincerely on his selection. Then already it had occurred to Sophie, that Marguerite might, after her own marriage, manage her father's household. Now she hastened to carry out this plan. The father, upon whom the "little Lacerta," as he called the slim, slight figure, had made a very favorable impression, thought the plan "not so bad;" Franz "approved," and as for Bemperlein, it was a matter of course, that he adopted it with enthusiasm. He being the most suitable person for the purpose, was therefore deputed to sound Marguerite about her own views; and with such a fine diplomat as Anastasius Bemperlein, it was not surprising that his most delicate mission was crowned with the most brilliant success. Marguerite declared that she was willing to accept the proffered honorde tout son coeur, as soon as she was released from her present engagement. Nothing, therefore, was now wanting but to obtain the gracious dismissal of the Demoiselle Marguerite Martin from the position of subject to Baron Grenwitz. This was more readily accomplished, to everybody's surprise, than had been expected. The bright, sharp eyes of the governess had long been a serious inconvenience to the baroness, especially since many things had happened in her house, and were still happening, which could not bear very close examination. Besides, she had always had the principle that it was better to change her servants at certain intervals, since she thought she had found out by experience that "new brooms sweep well," and Marguerite had been allowed to remain long beyond the ordinary term. She therefore gave her, willingly the desiredcongé, and permitted her even in consideration of the peculiar circumstances, to go after a few days at once to the privy councillor's house. It was a matter of course that Marguerite had to sacrifice a quarter's salary, "in consideration of the serious inconvenience and evident pecuniary loss which her sudden departure caused the baroness," for the young "person" who had served the baroness during five years with indefatigable zeal, had, after all, done nothing but her bounden duty.

Thus Marguerite had become a member of the privy councillor's family, and could of course not fail to be present to-night at the great solemnity in the family circle.

She was, moreover, the only one who could keep up the conversation to-night without great effort. She tried, to be sure, to adapt herself as well as she could to the solemn aspect of things, and not to offend the feelings of the others by her own cheerfulness, but her innate vivacity did not allow her to be silent for any length of time, and every moment she broke out into a "dites moi donc, mademoiselle, savez vous me dire, monsieur le docteur?" like a merry little canary bird who begins to sing loud and joyously again after the first fright has passed away when it finds its cage buried in darkness.

"But I should really like to know where in all the world Bemperlein can be to-night," said Sophie, looking at her watch; "he promised to be here by eight, and now it is half-past ten."

"Perhaps miss Marguerite can explain the matter," said the privy councillor.

"Moi pas du tout!" replied Marguerite, glad to have a chance to say something. "I have not seen him since last night. I am almost afraid he is sick; he has looked quite excited andnerveuxfor some days."

"I was at his lodgings to-day," said Franz.

"Well?" inquired Sophie.

"Well, just think, I did not see the odd fellow at all. He called through the closed door that he could not see me; he had an important chemical investigation to carry on, and could not leave it for an instant."

"I hope nothing has happened?" said Sophie. "Had you not better go to his house and see, Franz?"

"Very well!" replied Franz, emptying his glass and rising.

At the same moment, however, there was heard suppressed laughing in the hall, where the servants seemed to be assembled. The door opened and a strangely accoutred personage entered. Two huge goose-wings fastened to the shoulders and a bow in the hand, with the requisite quiver and arrows on the shoulder, together with a wreath on the head, proclaimed him undoubtedly as Amor, although the spectacles on his nose hardly agreed with the proverbial blindness of the god of love, nor the black evening costume with the classic simplicity on which the Son of Venus generally presents himself.

This strange figure approached the company with graceful steps, remained standing at a respectful distance, bowed and spoke:

"Most highly honored, happy pair, most worthy father of the bride and most darling demoiselle:

"I am--to see it is not hard--The great god Amor.Where'er my flames burn in a heart,There I am, rich or poor.Whoever hears my arrows rattle,Forsakes the hope of doing battle;The arrow sent from my good bow,Strikes great and small and high and low.And who is wounded by my hand,Drops conquer'd on the sand.I now will show you of my art,A sample, which will make you start."

Here Amor took with great solemnity an arrow from his quiver, saying: Do not fear, ladies and gentlemen, the string is loose, and the arrows have, as you will please notice, huge India-rubber balls instead of points. Thereupon he placed the harmless arrow on the harmless bow and aimed it at Sophie, who caught it cleverly in her hand and pressed it with comic pathos to her heart. The same proceeding was repeated with Franz, except that it hit him on the head. After Amor had thus demonstrated that he was not idly threatening, he continued,

"Now two have been dispatched,And all their peace is gone;It can be clearly seenThat they're forever done.They know no rest and no repose,If snow comes down, or blooms the rose,Until the parson makes them one,And they are altogether gone.Then fare thee well, paternal home,I must through all the world now roam!Then fare thee well, oh father dear,We never shall again be here!Then fare ye well, oh friends of ours,Who were our joy at all good hours!Then fare ye well, good people all,I have to follow another call!To-morrow, with the evening star,I shall be gone, oh ever so far!"

The last words Amor uttered with deeply-moved voice. The faces of the company around the fire-place, which had at first beamed with merriment, had become graver and graver, and through the half-opened door, around which the servants were crowding, suppressed sobs were heard.

"Take a glass of our brewing, Bemperly," said Sophie, offering Amor a glass.

"Your health, Miss Sophie," replied Amor, emptying the glass at one gulp. "But now, sit down again; I have not done yet."

Amor stepped back again, rattled his quiver as if to convince himself that there were some arrows left, and then said:

"So fierce, as you have just now seen,Are Amor's arrows sharp and keen,Yet does at times he find it hard,When SHE keeps anxious watch and ward,The good young god is full of zeal--"

At these words he glanced adoringly at mademoiselle--

"But she thinks not of woe or weal,When he of tender love then speaks,'I do not understand!' she shrieks."

This allusion, quite intelligible to all present, called forth a universal smile, which changed into loud laughter when Mademoiselle Marguerite, who had hardly understood a single word of all that Amor had said, but who clearly saw from the laughter of her friends that something particularly witty had been uttered, turned round to Sophie and asked aloud: "I do not understand,qu'est-ce qu'il dit?"

Amor was clever enough to fall in with his own hearty laugh; but immediately he continued with greater gravity than before:

"Then comes the youth in greatest hasteAnd begs of me, who am Amor chaste,'With sharpest arrow hit, I pray,That wicked girl, so that she may--'"

With these words Amor laid his hand upon his heart:

"'Hereafter know how one does feelWhen one does love her with true zeal.'And I replied: 'my dear good boy,I help you forthwith with this toy,The sharpest arrow that is here,I'll shoot it at her from quite near,Whoever feels this sharp, good dart,With love will burn deep in his heart.'"

Amor showed the arrow which he had taken from the quiver while reciting the last words. To the India-rubber ball a slip of paper was fastened on which something was written, though it could not be read at such a distance. He aimed at Mademoiselle Marguerite and called out with a loud voice,

"'If that's not good to awaken love, Tell me what better is, my dear sweet dove?'"

The arrow flew from the bow into Mademoiselle Marguerite's lap. But Amor did not wait for the results of his heroic deed; he turned his back, adorned with the goose wings, and hurried out, followed by the loud laughter of the company.

"What is on the paper, Marguerite?"

"You must let us see the paper, mademoiselle!"

"Of course!" cried Sophie, Franz, and the privy councillor, who was highly amused by Bemperlein's unexpected dramatic farce. But Marguerite had hardly cast a glance at the paper, than her expressive face was covered with deep blushes. She tore off the paper hurriedly and threw it into the fire-place. But Sophie, who had anticipated this, pushed the paper aside before the flames could seize it, snatched it up and called out, "I have it! I have it!" Marguerite wanted to take the precious document from her, but Sophie ran away with it. Marguerite followed her, while Franz and the privy councillor laughed heartily at the efforts of the little Lacerta to reach up to the raised arm of Sophie, who was head and shoulders higher. In their haste the young ladies rushed at the door just as Bemperlein, who had in the meantime laid aside his Olympian attributes, was coming back, and thus it happened that Marguerite, unable to check her rapid course, ran right into his arms.

"Behold the sacred power of the god!" exclaimed Sophie, as she saw this, exulting. "Here, Marguerite, is your paper. I do not care to see now what was written on the prescription, since I have seen the effect."

With these words she made a deep courtesy and handed Marguerite the paper, who hid it hurriedly in her bosom.

"That was well done, Bemperly," said the young lady in her exuberance of merriment. "I must embrace you for it."

Hereupon she seized the blushing god of love by the shoulders and gave him a hearty kiss on the brow.

"I call you to be my witness, privy councillor," said Bemperlein, "that the ladies are fighting who is to have me, without my making the slightest advances, and that if Franz challenges me, I am not bound to give him satisfaction."

Bemperlein had brought new spirit into the company, and henceforth laughter and merriment were the order of the day. The good humor of the circle rose in proportion as the level sank in the punch-bowl. Only Marguerite was more quiet than before; but the joke had been carried quite far enough, and they did not tease her any more; they pretended even not to notice her, when she left her seat near the fire-place and began to walk up and down in the room, evidently buried in thought. Franz, Sophie, and the privy councillor were soon engaged in weighty family matters, and did not observe, therefore, that Bemperlein also had risen quietly, and joining Marguerite, had commenced a conversation in a low tone with her, which soon became so interesting that they had to adjourn to the deep bay-window, where the broad folds of a heavy curtain protected them safely against the glances of the company. Unfortunately, however, the stuff of which the curtains were made was not thick enough to break all the sound-waves completely, and thus it happened that after the lapse of perhaps five minutes those near the fire were suddenly startled by a noise which came from the window, and evidently arose from the sudden parting of the lips of two people, after they had rested upon each other for some time.

The origin of this very remarkable sound was the following:

The happy couple had--quite accidentally--wandered off into the bay-window; Mademoiselle Marguerite had at once desired to turn back again, but Bemperlein, bold as a lion, had seized her hand and said most impressively:

"Have you read what was on the paper?"

Marguerite had read it, of course, but she would not have been a little Lacerta if she had not answered the direct question by saying: "Non monsieur!"

"May I then tell you what it was?"

The little Lacerta began thereupon to tremble a little, not daring to say yes or no; Mr. Anastasius Bemperlein, however, interpreting her silence and her trembling in his favor, placed his arm around the slender waist of the little Lacerta, and whispered: "Mademoiselle Marguerite Martin, je vous aime de tout mon coeur?"

As she only trembled the more after this loyal declaration, and yet did not make any effort to escape from the arms of her knight, he said in a still lower and more impressive voice:

"Marguerite! do answer! Do you love me? Yes, or no?"

As Marguerite had answered this question with a very faint "Oui!" there was nothing left to do, for a man so perfectly at home in love affairs as Mr. Anastasius Bemperlein was, but to hold the lady more firmly in his arms and to press a loud sounding kiss upon her unresisting lips.

And this kiss was the noise which suddenly started the company at the fire-place. They looked at each other in silence. The privy councillor smiled; but Franz and Sophie, who had not quite so much self-control, broke out into loud laughter.

"Oh,mon Dieu!" exclaimed the little Lacerta, slipping, full of terror, out of the arms of her knight.

"Be quiet!" replied the knight. "They must learn it anyhow," said he, and seized the little lady by the hand, drew back the curtain, stepped, like the page in Schiller's Diver, "bold and brave" before his friends, and spoke:

"My friends, I have the inexpressible pleasure of presenting to you my dear betrothed, Miss Marguerite Martin!"

As Bemperlein had initiated Sophie, under the seal of secrecy, into his secret, and as the latter had communicated it under the same seal to Franz, and to her father, nobody could exactly be said to be much surprised, especially after the scene with Amor and the kiss in the bay-window. For all that the congratulations were none the less hearty. The men shook hands cordially, Sophie kissed Marguerite with more feeling than she usually showed, and it was some time before the stirred-up waves of deep emotion subsided again and left the surface once more calm and clear.

"We must authenticate such an event by a corresponding solemnity," said the privy councillor, who rang the bell, and ordered the servant who came in to bring up the last of twelve bottles of "Johannisberg Cabinet," which a sovereign once had presented to him after having been saved by the skill of the physician. And when the noble wine was sparkling in the glasses, he said:

"My dear ones! In the hour of joy we can easily speak of past sorrow, and, therefore, I propose to place the merry, pretty picture before us in a dark frame, which will make its bright colors appear all the more beautiful. While I was lying these last days helpless on my sickbed--I, whose office and duty it is to help wherever I can help--a word has constantly come back to me, a plaintive, tearful word, which once the poor Roman plebeians, overwhelmed with hard service, cried out before the patricians: 'Sine missione nascimur!'--that means, you girls, 'We are born to have no leave of absence!' You do not care whether our strength is used up in the endless wars which you carry on in the name of our country, but for your own good profit and advantage only; or whether our lands lie fallow and our wives and children are dying in misery. To arms! to arms! you call from year's end to year's end; and we have to serve from year's end to year's end: 'sine missione nascimur!'"

The privy councillor drank from his glass and continued, with deeply-moved voice:

"We also, we--the children of this nineteenth century--are born to have no leave of absence. The enormous tasks given us in science, in politics, in every department of human activity, claim from childhood up all our powers and consume them entirely. To arms! to arms! This is the unceasing cry which summons us also, whether our arms are the pen or the brush, the plough or the hammer, the compass or the lancet. And work--inexorable, imperious work--what does it care for the workman?--whether his temples are beating with fever, whether his brain is overwrought to insanity, or his limbs are trembling from exhaustion--work does not mind it. It rewards him with poverty, sickness, and suffering, and demands of the ill-treated, the oppressed, the labors of Hercules. Yes, my friends, we also are plebeians in the service of work as those Roman plebeians in the service of war, and we can complain with them and say, 'sine missione nascimur."

"And yet, I asked myself, how is it possible that we, weaklings and degenerate offspring as we are, can accomplish deeds by the side of which those of Hercules and other heroes appear like the play of pigmies? That our time, so often reproached on account of the prevailing laxity and indifference, nevertheless is like a parturient mountain, which produces--not a ridiculous mouse, but snorting steam-engines, gigantic works of industry and triumphs of inventive genius of every kind? It is possible only by the complete change which has taken place in the relative position of men. Then, work and conflict were in the hands of a few heroes, while the masses were following in idleness and laziness with loud cries. Now the individual, however great he may be, counts for little; the whole strength of our day lies in the masses, which are pressing forward in close columns, slowly but irresistibly, in the path of progress. This is not yet clearly seen by many. Rulers, princes, and princes' servants, who have a dim apprehension of the matter, would like to bring back the olden times for the sake of their brutal selfishness and their frivolous vanity--the times when the individual was everything and the masses nothing; but it is all in vain. The army of progress, endowed with the death-defying instinct of the migratory lemur, marches on in long, unnumbered lines, shoulder to shoulder, each man stepping in the footsteps of the man before him, and when here and there a vacant space occurs the lines are closed up again in an instant.

"And this thought, my friends, which I tried to see clearly before my mind's eye, had something marvellously soothing for me. I thought, what does it matter whether you break down to-day or to-morrow? Behind you follows a younger and stronger soldier who will at once step over you, fill your place, and accomplish with the very arms which fall from your releasing grasp greater things than you could ever have done."

As he said these words, the privy councillor pressed his son-in-law's hand; but Sophie, who had long struggled with her tears, threw herself sobbing in her father's arms.

"No, no, my child," said her father, stroking her soft hair lovingly. "You must not cry; I wanted to prove to you, and to you all, that we must not weep and wail, but rejoice at it, that we are invincible and immortal in others and through others. Yes, it is a beautiful and a true saying, which I read to-day in Freiligrath's Confession of Faith: 'On the tree of mankind blossom blooms by blossom.' I see all around me budding and blooming; a whole spring of mankind in miniature. How long will it be before these buds and blossoms will change into glorious flowers, and ripen to luscious fruit? Will I live to see it? I wish to do so, I hope so; but even if it should not be so--if I should not be permitted to see your children at my knee--well, then, you dear ones, sorrow must follow joy as joy follows sorrow; where blossom is to crowd upon blossom, there the dry wood must be cut out and thrown into the oven; and if we must part, we had better part, if not cheerfully, at least bravely."

While the privy councillor had been speaking, a dull sound of steps and the confused noise of suppressed voices had been heard before the windows in the street. Then all had been silent again; and as the privy councillor said his last words there arose suddenly, in the magnificent tones of an immense chorus of men's voices, gentle as the spring breezes, and yet mighty as a thunderstorm, the song:

"It is decreed in God's own councilThat thou must partFrom all that's dearest to the heart;Altho' in all this world the hardest isTo human heartFrom those we love for e'er to part!"

Those in the room were startled as if a voice from on high were speaking to them. Sophie leaned sobbing on her father's breast; the eyes of the men were brimful of tears; Marguerite even, although she did not understand a word, was yet so excited that she pressed her handkerchief to her face and wept aloud.

Then all rose and went to the bay-window. Below, in the very wide street, and forming a large semicircle marked out by bright lamps, stood the singers--members of the Mechanics' Club, which the privy councillor had founded years ago, and whose president Franz had been during the last weeks. Further out an immense multitude, head to head--men and women, citizens, students, poor people--all pell-mell, silent, motionless, as in a church.

And higher rose the mighty sounds:

"But you must understand me right,When men do part, they say with might,Till we meet again!Till we meet again!"

The music passed away; the lamps were extinguished. Quietly as they had come the crowds went away. It was dark again in the street; but in the hearts of those who were standing up-stairs in the bay-window, holding each; other in close embrace, it was bright, like a sunny morning in May.

The great woods of Berkow are leafless. Where formerly birds were singing in the green twilight, and beetles and midges humming drowsily there the cold autumnal winds are now whistling through the bare branches; and where dry leaves are yet hanging on old oak-trees, they no longer whisper to each other lovingly as in the beautiful summer time, but rustle weird and woefully. Only the evergreens look as if the season could do them no harm; but their fine foliage also is darker, and they look now, when all around is bare, blacker and more dismal than ever.

Rough autumn has blown through the thick yew-hedge and into the garden behind the castle, has swept the flowers from the whole parterre, and filled the trim walks with withered wet leaves. On the terrace, under the broad branching pine-tree, the favorite place of the mistress of the house, the little round table with the marble slab is still standing, because it is deeply rooted in the ground, but the green benches and chairs have been carried into the garden-house.

The open place before the house, which is divided off by a railing from the farm-buildings, looks melancholy. The shutters on this side of the house are almost always closed, and are only now and then opened by a wrinkled old hand, whereupon often, as just now for instance, the wrinkled old face that belongs to the hand, with its icy gray moustache, looks out for a few minutes to watch a wagon heavily laden with wood, which four powerful horses can hardly drag through the deep mud at the side entrance to the yard between two barns, where even in summer the passage is often quite dangerous. The old man contracts his brows angrily as he sees the servant whip the horses furiously, amid calls and cries and curses. He grumbles something about 'infamous fellow' in his gray beard; but he no longer raises his voice to give vent to a powerful oath or so, as he used to do; for after all it is not the servant's fault, but the tenant's, who has not been prevailed upon these five years to mend the road. This tenant is every way a vessel of wrath for the old man. He keeps his cattle in bad order; he is cruel to his hands; in the third place he knows, according to the old man's notions, nothing of farming; and, finally, he has a red nose, and is always hoarse, two peculiarities attributed to brandy, and equally disgusting to the old man's eyes and ears. And, above all, the terrible prospect of never losing sight of this man for the whole of his life (for his term has twenty years more to run, and the old man is not going to live so long); to have to drag him along, so to say, till his blessed end, like the abominable ball which the old man received in his leg on the battle-field of Waterloo, and which is still there to this hour--no, worse than this ball, for that only hurts in spring and in fall, and whenever the weather is not as it ought to be. But this rascal of a tenant--and the old man abandoned his thoughts to this unprofitable and inexhaustible subject, fixing his eyes all the while upon the bleaching bones of a buzzard which, he had shot many years ago, and which (as a solemn warning to all evil-doers in the air and on the ground) had been nailed to the barn-door, until the voice of a boy, who has just come from the garden and is looking around the yard, comes up to his ear:

"Hallo! Baumann!"

At the sound of this voice the face of the old man clears up, as when a ray of sunlight passes over a rough Alpine landscape. It is the same voice, at least the same tone of voice, which has warmed the old man's heart now for a quarter of a century and longer. He rests both his elbows on the window-sill and looks down upon the handsome uplifted face of the boy with the light-brown, hearty eyes.

"What is the matter, young gentleman?"

"Wont you take a ride with me, Baumann?"

The old man casts a glance of inquiry at the sky, where dark, heavy clouds are hanging low, looks down again, and says:

"It looks threatening, sir. I think we shall have rain, and perhaps snow, in half an hour; that is more thanvraisemblable."

"Why, Baumann, you always have something to say," says the handsome boy, grumbling; "the pony is getting stiff from standing so long, and I should like so much to take a ride."

"Well, well," says the old man; "we were only yesterday all the way to Cona."

"That is a great thing! Three miles! And the doctor says I ought to ride every day."

"Oh, if the doctor says so, I presume we must do it," replied Baumann, who has only been waiting for a good pretext to give way without dishonor. "I will just open the windows in the parlor here, and then I'll come down. In the meantime go ask the baroness, and say good-by to her."

"Yes; but make haste."

"Well, well," says the old man, and his gray head disappears from the window.

The boy hurries back into the house, but his mother is not to be found in the "garden-room," where she commonly sits; nor in the "red-room" adjoining, to which she retires when she wishes to be alone. The boy hurries from the garden-room--leaving the door, of course, wide open--into the garden, and down the long walk between the clipped yews of the terrace. As he does not find his mother here, and yet is in such a very great hurry, he considers whether he has not done all that could be done. He hesitates for a moment, and is just about to turn back, when it occurs to him that Baumann is sure to ask him, sometime during their ride: Young gentleman, did you say good-by to the baroness? and that he would be ashamed to have to say, No! He jumps with one leap down the steps which lead to the terrace and runs deeper into the garden, calling out from time to time: "Mamma! Mamma!"

"Here!" replies suddenly a female voice quite near; and as he turns quickly round a bush, which has been so well sheltered by old linden-trees that it has almost all its leaves yet, he nearly rushes into his mother's arms:

"What is the matter, wild one?" says Melitta, placing her hands upon the boy's shoulders.

"We are going to ride out," says the boy, who is in such a hurry that he can hardly speak.

"But the sky looks very threatening."

"Oh, Baumann says--no, Baumann says the same. But I amsoanxious to ride! Please, dear mamma, please!"

"If it were not so late," said Melitta, looking at her watch, "I should like to go with you."

"Oh pray, mamma, do that another time. You would have to change your dress, and then it may really commence snowing, and then we can't go at all."

"You may be right," replied Melitta, unconsciously smiling at the boy's naïve egotism. "Then make haste and get away. But put on an overcoat."

She kisses the boy on his red lips, and the boy runs away delighted. Five minutes later old Baumann has himself saddled the boy's pony--he never allows the grooms to saddle either the pony or Melitta's horse--and the two gallop out of the main gate into the bare fields.

When the boy had left her, Melitta resumed her walk in the avenues between the cunningly-trimmed hedges of beech-trees and the yew-pyramids. They were the same avenues through which she had walked arm in arm with Oswald on a beautiful summer afternoon when the sun was sending down red rays through the green foliage above upon the flower-beds in all their splendor. How the scene had changed since then? Where are the red rays of the sun now? where the green leaves? and where the bright flowers? Is this the same earth that exhaled a soft, balsamic breath, like the kiss of a loved one? the same earth which shone in its wedding garment? which embraced the high sky like a bride in the light of countless stars? And she, herself--she had changed almost as much; but in her, summer has not changed into winter. She has altered, but surely not for the worse.

As she now turns round, having reached the end of the long walk, and is coming up again in the pale light of the autumnal evening, she can be better seen than before. How graceful and light her step is! How delicately slender her figure appears as she now draws the silk shawl closer around her sloping shoulders and wraps it around her arms! How prettily the black fichu which she has tied over her head, fastening it under the chin, frames the lovely oval of her fair face! And how much more clearly the expression of goodness of heart, which always made the handsome face so attractive, strikes the observer now! And yet the soft brown eyes look so much graver! the charming mouth, whose red lips formerly looked as if they were made only to kiss and to laugh, is now firm and resolute. It looks as if the beautiful and noble psyche of the woman had freed itself of all that formerly held it in chains, and was now free from the mists of passionate thoughts, lighting up the sweet, kindly face in all its nobility and beauty as the chaste light of the moon lights up a soft, warm summer night.

What is she thinking of as she now comes slowly down the walk, her eyes fixed upon the ground? First of all, probably, of her son, who is recovering his full rosy cheeks, and growing up so strong and so hearty, just as Doctor Birkenhain has predicted. She has written to Doctor Birkenhain to-day to congratulate him and herself on the fulfilment of his prophecy. Then as she passes a little niche in the hedge where a low bench is still leaning against a small table--it must have escaped the eyes of old Baumann--she stops for a moment. On this bench she sat on that eventful summer afternoon with Oswald, when they had watched two white butterflies who were hovering on their delicate wings over the flower forests of the parterre and caught each other and chased each other and then rose into the blue ether, embracing each other, then parting again to flutter hither and thither into the green wilderness. "Will those butterflies ever meet again in life?" she had asked Oswald; and he had answered: "That may happen, but whether they meet with the same delight, that is another question." She had not seen Oswald again since the first night when she left for Fichtenau. If she should meet him again! She started at the idea, for she felt that she wished it. Had she not loved him very, very much? Had she not been unspeakably happy with him? But no! Prudence and pride commanded her to forget the faithless man who knew only how to conquer but not how to preserve his conquests.

She crossed her hands more firmly across her bosom, and her face looked almost dark, as she went on; but soon it brightened up again, and now she laughs to herself. What is it? She cannot help it. She must think of the expression in Oldenburg's face as she said the other night, when the weather was so terrible and he was just rising to say good-by and to ride home, "Had you not better stay over night, Adalbert?" and he had cast one sharp glance at her, and then refused the invitation with a certain haste and embarrassment. Oldenburg, whose morality was constantly decried so bitterly; who had the reputation of having had countlessliaisons dangereusesin his life; so carefully anxious, so tenderly concerned, for the good repute of a widow! Why did he treat her so differently from all other women, of whom he got tired so soon? Will he come to-night? The hour has passed at which the hoof of his Almansor is commonly heard on the pavement of the yard. The young widow looks anxiously up to the dark clouds, which are threatening more and more, and from which now a few scattered snow-flakes begin to drop silently, the first of the season, but melting in a few moments on the black ground. If Julius only would not ride too far! But old Baumann is with him, and that ought to be enough for the most anxious heart. Perhaps they have gone over to Cona and will return with Oldenburg, who has forgotten the hour over his books. They will be half-frozen when they come; it would be better to get tea ready for them.

Melitta hastened back to the house and ordered supper, and sent for the lamp, for it is quite dark now, and she would like to look a little at Oldenburg's diary. He had read to her not long ago some of his notes about his travels in Egypt, and as he could not finish them that night he had left the book and asked her to read it for herself; and as she laughingly reminded him of the danger of letting a lady read his diary, he had replied: "In that book, as in my heart, there in nothing that you may not know." On the contrary, he had desired she should read it all; he did not wish to appear better or different from what he was. That was speaking boldly; and, Melitta soon became convinced, acting boldly. For there were strange things recorded in these sketches, thrown off with a daring hand. Here the traveller's glance had rested on the voluptuous charms of dancing Ghawazees. There half-naked Indian women are standing by the shore turning the creaking wheel of the Sakyee in the burning heat of the sun. There, on the market-place of Asyut, black slaves are crouching, who had but yesterday come down from Darfoor on the large Nile boats. But amid all these sketches not one single trait of frivolous sensuality! He describes the dancing of these children of the Sun with the calm words of a professional critic. When he sees the poor woman at the waterworks, he curses the tyrannical government which forces even helpless women to work for cruel taxes, and in the slave market at Asyut his heart is heavy with grief that man should permit the image of God to sink to the level of a brute, or even below! "Sorrow! sorrow!" he cries; "such as man cannot imagine--and the most sorrowful is that when we see such degradation we begin to despair of man himself, for we cannot help acknowledging to ourselves that beneath the civilized sentiments that shine on the surface, deep down in the darkness of our heart the same fearful passions are slumbering, which here crop out in all their shameless nakedness, merely because they may do so with impunity under this burning sun." And thus he shows everywhere the deep, serious mind with which the traveller observes the manners of men abroad. The same deep love with which he ever makes the cause of humanity his own, so that it seems altogether incomprehensible how this man could ever be looked upon as an eccentric oddity and a frivolousroué. There is no lack even of statistical tables, reflections on political economy, and other evidences of a mind not only bold and deep, but also learned and most industrious. And between these are verses, especially on the first pages of the diary, which are evidently of a much earlier date than the sketches from Egypt; at least this is clear to those who, like the fair reader that night, are sufficiently familiar with the author's life to recollect the different events which have occasioned one or the other poem.

Thus she recalls perfectly well how the baron, then a youth of perhaps nineteen, once walked with a young lady who was then perhaps fifteen, in the woods, after they had just eaten a philippine at table. He was to lose who first forgot to sayj'y pensewhen he took anything from the hand of the other. She had cunningly made a most beautiful bouquet, and when the young man admired the flowers, she had said with a bashful smile, "Would you like to have it, Adalbert?" And when he, blushing at the unexpected favor, had taken the bouquet without saying a word, she had clapped her hands and cried out, "J'y pense! j'y pense!I thought you would lose it!" That was a long time ago, and the ink with which the poem was written had faded considerably. The poem ran thus:

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