He became pale, and started back from the window. The sudden movement had swept away his fur cap, and his few fair hairs waved mournfully in the wind. The sound of the hoofs died away upon the pavement.
Wegen sat upon the sofa, his cigar had gone out; he was utterly void of thought. He rang for his servant, so as to go to bed, when he suddenly recollected that it was only noon. He had his frock-coat with the Cross of the Order brought to him, and put it on; then he remembered that it was not today that he was to pay the decisive visit.
And should he, indeed, still pay the visit? Had she had not openly set herself free? Was this ride not an intelligible reply?
To be sure, now she must write to him herself, must spare him the humiliation of once more knocking in vain at her door. He did not leave the house; he expected the letter that contained the verdict of his death, but the letter did not come.
The ride had not remained unnoticed in the town; Kuhl was a public character--he was talked of in all circles. He had often been seen on horseback with the two Fräulein van Dornau; to-day he only appeared with the one. What had happened? The world's opinion is always ready to draw conclusions from facts, even if they be ever so premature. The intelligence spread from drawing-room to drawing-room, that Dr. Kuhl had come to a decision at last, and in favour of Cäcilie. Amongst the Dornaus themselves the liveliest scenes had been enacted. When Cäcilie had pronounced her immutable intention of rejecting Herr von Wegen's offer, her mother had sobbed and wept, and Olga even was roused to a fire of indignation that was almost unknown to her imperturbable calm; she pourtrayed Wegen's advantages in the most glowing colours, and cast the bitterest reproaches upon her sister. Were not her own secret hopes annihilated by such lamentable obduracy?
Cäcilie, however, with her wonted superiority, knew how to calm these excited emotions; she regained their entire sympathy by the declaration that she could not love Wegen, and would not marry without love; she moved Olga to tears by such noble sentiments. The sisters were soon perfectly reconciled to one another, and Olga even promised, at Cäcilie's desire, to receive Herr von Wegen, and impart the ungratifying news to him.
The following day, Wegen appeared in the frame of mind of a prisoner who is sure of a condemnatory verdict; it was a comfort for him that Cäcilie did not personally announce her decision. Olga received him, and from her lips the intimation that he was rejected sounded more consolatory.
Cäcilie desired the explanation to be, that, after mature consideration, she found she was not suited for the country, nor for the Masuren nobility; she should not be capable of making him happy, she therefore declined his offer with thanks, but counted upon his permanent friendship.
Wegen having expected this intimation, it had lost its crushing weight for him, but what he had not expected was such a kindly bearer of the fatal decision.
In his blind passion for Cäcilie, he had never troubled himself about Olga; she was cast too far into the shade by the radiance that proceeded from her sister. He had often hardly remarked her presence, and yet her appearance was grand and imposing enough.
In fact, he had been very blind; to-day he must confess it to himself, when he, like Scipio upon the ruins of Carthage, sat upon those of his first love. From want of an appropriate reply, which it is not so easy to find to such disclosures, he contemplated Olga at first with a mournful glance and rather absently, then with increasing interest, for she spoke in such a cordial tone to console him, and the more he looked at her, the more did he discover that she was a handsome girl, not so intellectual as Cäcilie, but certainly more calculated to make an impression upon peoples' minds in Masuren than her sister. These were vague ideas, which were reflected in the most shadowy outlines upon the remotest background of his mind; he would have repelled them energetically had they ventured farther into the light, as unseemly and impious.
Nevertheless he had already sinned against well-founded custom of immediately taking up his hat, after such an intimation, and retiring from the scene. Olga chatted so innocently, she led the conversation with such tact to indifferent matters, but these indifferent matters were full of a special interest for Wegen. Olga's heart was not with George Sand and thepèreEnfantin, even although she must talk about them with Dr. Kuhl, and was fairly at home in the great questions upon which the welfare of mankind depended, had even made a note of several stock-phrases; but when dress, family events, engagements, or the affairs of relations were under discussion, then her whole nature warmed, and she quite forgot that all these subjects were most heterodox, and in part were even opposed to the social programme of the future, by which she had been obliged to swear in Dr. Kuhl's chemical laboratory. She gave Baron von Wegen great pleasure by her unexpected knowledge of all his extensive family; she knew the Wegens of Labiau and the Wegens at Insterburg. She had even once spoken to the old uncle, whose heir he was, and who lived close to the Memel in the Lithuanian woods; she was able to distinguish between first cousins and those who were more distantly connected. She planted the family tree of the Wegens before him with as steady a hand as did Joan of Arc the standard with the lilies of the Valois; and he must indeed be a degenerate nobleman who would not thus be flattered and reminded of home.
And as a good genius watched over this conversation, seeking with a soothing salve to heal a wounded heart, the discussion, by means of a sudden turn, was led to the East Prussian cookery. That was a subject of conversation to which Wegen brought a cultivated mind, and Olga, too, was quite at home in it, although she did prefer to contribute her share more to the enjoyment than to the creation of great performances in the kitchen; but she was able to give accurate information about every fish in the sea, every beast in the forest, yes, even the dwellers in carp-ponds and pheasantrys, and to determine all the sauces which, as it were, are ordained for each. This conversation was so interesting to Wegen, that when he took up his hat he had quite forgotten the cause which brought him, the terrible defeat he had sustained. As the friendship which Cäcilie had promised to him was however not possible without continuing some intercourse, Wegen easily obtained permission to repeat his visits, and, in Cäcilie's name, Olga believed herself justified in granting it.
When he left the house, Wegen was not at all in the mental condition of a rejected candidate for matrimony, which is indeed one of the most crushing which paralyses and benumbs mortal nerves. He was astonished at himself when he hummed a Lithuanian popular air, which did not breathe the elegiac spirit of the prose of an expiring race of people, but which sounded quite lively and full of enterprise. He immediately called himself to order, but he could not quite suppress a disagreeable sensation; upon close self examination he discovered in himself, although in faint outlines, a dawning resemblance to Dr. Kuhl, whom he abhorred with all due sense of propriety. Cäcilie meanwhile had come out from behind theportière, and imparted a warm eulogium to her sister for the delicacy and adroitness with which she had acquitted herself of the disagreeable task.
When Cäcilie seated herself at the worktable, a slight smile of contentment hovered round her lips. Everything was going as she wished and had planned, and she flattered herself that she had attained the desired object.
Blanden devoted himself most zealously to looking after the people who had suffered from the fire on his farm, and to the necessary new buildings; he seemed to be inspired with a renewed breath of life; the impetus to labour and work, which had lain perfectly dormant within him since those occurrences at the sea-side roused him afresh. Winter meanwhile had set in, and made the solitude at Kulmitten still more dreary. Blanden's resolution to form a settled home became more and more fixed, and the picture of the beautiful singer as the future goddess of the house pervaded his waking dreams with daily increasing persistency.
He began, too, to care more about political matters, the progress of which latterly he had only silently watched. His conviction gained strength that, despite all obstacles, the Prussian State would obtain a constitution, and all the provinces be united by one common bond. Then a political career would be opened to him once again; he should no longer be dependant upon the judgment of his equals in this district; he could then stand before the population of the entire province as a candidate for election.
That the continuance of the provincial assemblies in their present state could not last much longer was his fixed opinion, but in order to gain distinct views of the new course which the future should disclose to him, he must make his name known in more extensive circles; he must be called the champion of the political movement. A welcome opportunity for it was offered to him by the assemblies of the citizens in the provincial capital, which assemblies had been recently formed, and he did not hesitate to intimate to the committee that he should deliver a lecture upon the French organisation and the July dynasty.
Meanwhile, in the newspapers he read an announcement of an operatic performance in which Signora Bollini should again take part; thus he inferred that she had returned from Riga. He immediately ordered his four black horses to be harnessed, and hastened to the capital by the shortest route. He arrived there amid a violent downfall of snow and terribly boisterous wind. He prepared to visit Giulia at once; his road led him past a churchyard, through the gateway of which a little funeral procession was passing. Closely concealed as the faces were in cloaks and furs, some of them appeared very familiar to him; they were the companions of those times, the late effects of which had prepared such bitter pain for him. He recognised them again, greatly as they were altered; not only was it the snow falling from heaven, it was also the snow of age that silvered their hair. He believed that he perceived amongst the followers the Breaker of the Seal, the former minister of the community, who was now deposed from his office of teacher. Whom did they bear to the tomb? Curiosity drove him to join the procession. When it had drawn near to the open grave, Blanden asked the person next to him who was being buried?
"Frau Hamptmann Salden," was the hoarse reply.
At that moment they began to sing beside the tomb; a violent gust of wind shook the snow from the cypresses, and whirled it up from every grave, which had been softly bedded in its lap. The shivering assembly seemed to be animated but by the one desire that the burial ceremony might soon be over.
Blanden rested his head upon a lofty tombstone, his tears flowed unrestrainedly. How deserving of tears every human life seems to be, when a thoughtful mind sums up its years in as many seconds! How mournful are his short-lived joys, and how many terrors does the span of time contain! No funeral oration disturbed his reflections; the ministers who would gladly have spoken beside this grave, dared not perform their office, and from the others accusations were feared which might have disturbed the peacefulness of the tomb.
While the wind buried in its gusts the sounds of the choral singing, Blanden thought of the youthful, beautiful Pauline; he thought of lovely Eva! Mother and daughter were blended in one picture; it was a shadowy portrait in which their features became united. But the one reposed in the ocean's lap, the other in wintry earth!
Already the clods fell with a hollow sound upon the coffin, thrown in hastily by half-frozen hands, and, after a hurried performance of the last verse of the hymn, the assembly rushed away as if carried off by the bride of the storm, which, howling hoarsely, swept over the lonely graves.
Blanden had maintained his concealment behind the monument and cypresses; now he stepped forth; sadly he cast the hard clods of earth upon the coffin; his soul wasonethought of love--oneprayer for forgiveness, because dark self-accusations were stirred in his heart. Deeply buried in meditation, he did not observe that the wind had become a hurricane, cracking the boughs of the trees on every side, casting one weeping-willow to the ground, that the earth groaned, and hardly permitted him to stand upright. The grave-diggers had already laid their spades aside, and taken refuge in the dead-house.
Suddenly something struggled before him through the snow; he saw a fluttering cloak, and a bare-headed girl upon her knees in front of him; stars of snow nestled in her tangled hair, glassy eyes stared up at him, and glowing kisses covered his hands.
It was half-witted Kätchen--he had recognised her at once.
"What brings you here? What do you want here in this tempest?"
"Beautiful Eva's mother is buried; I want what you do!"
"And what do you want of me?"
"Have had a little note for you, for a long, long time--now I can give it to you. Eva wrote it upon the ocean."
"Mad woman--and now, for the first time, you speak of it to me?"
"To others I would not show it, and to you I could not give it sooner. I am staying with Mother Hecht, the herbalist; you will find me there every evening."
And she kissed his hands once more, and the following moment had disappeared amongst the whirling snow.
The tempest became so violent that Blanden was obliged to take refuge in the dead-house, where he found several participators in the funeral who had also fled thither; amongst them a Gerichtsrath whom he knew. The former had never belonged to the pious community, but, as legal assistant, had often imparted advice to Frau von Salden, and had also conducted the case instituted against half-witted Kätchen. He gave information to Blanden which possessed great interest for the latter. Since Eva's death, Pauline had constantly been ailing, and succumbed to a consumptive disorder.
As to Kätchen--the prosecution in which Blanden was called as a witness--although she persisted in the most obstinate silence, no proof of her guilt could be obtained; she had been handed over to the supervision of an institution in which mentally disordered and weak persons were looked after by the State. The medical man had pronounced her dull, obtuse demeanour not to proceed from any malady of the brain, but to be partially the consequences of the defective bringing up by her tyrannical parents, partially to be connected with her physical development. In fact, after the expiration of a year an unmistakable alteration had taken place in her; she had commenced to speak more naturally, indeed, more distinctly and coherently, so that the medical man could release her from his establishment.
Blanden inquired why Pauline had returned to the town.
He learned that she had been obliged to sell her estate, and also that she had sought consolation amongst her friends; in the country solitude she had been verging on despair.
The storm, meanwhile, had somewhat abated; Blanden relinquished his visit to the singer, and hastened to his house, so as to be able to indulge in those thoughts and emotions which besieged him after the occurrence in the churchyard. He was in a mood in which life no longer seemed worth living; the ruin of youth and beauty filled him with deep melancholy, and the connection between human destinies, by means of which a load of guilt suddenly struck an innocent person, occasioned painful reflections. To him it appeared enviable thus to be buried beneath the snow, to repose in wintry earth.
But if he would not cast himself amongst the dead, he must extinguish the candles in the sable-draped mourning chamber of his soul, beside the sarcophagus of past love, and step forth once more into the day of life.
On the following afternoon he visited Giulia--he found her alone; her obsequious friend left the room. The Signora looked pale and sad; the colouring of her features, which can only be designated by the Italian wordmorbidezza, looked almost sickly. Her eyes, however, shone joyously as Blanden entered, but when he would have folded her in his arms she stepped back in decided refusal.
"The lady of the Lago Maggiore and Signora Bollini are not the same persons. The former appeared in a dream, which the intoxicated rapture of the south begets, the latter appears in the sober north, so well-known that the newspapers speak of her. Here, in this world of citizens, one dreams no more! That we are acquainted with the same secret only gives us the right of friendship, and in token of it I offer you my hand."
She uttered it all deliberately, but yet in a cordial tone.
"Indeed," replied Blanden, whom the Signora had completely won by these words, "it is folly to wish to bind ourselves to a past that is divided from us by the flood of time. With time we too have changed, and often that has become utterly strange to us which formerly had such irresistible dominion over us. I honour your sentiments, Signora! The claim upon love must always be conquered anew, at least grant me the hope that we may succeed."
"I cannot but fear that without the magic of the south, the prize would not reward the trouble undertaken in earnest. What am I to you here, where my name can be read at every street corner?"
"The magic of art, Signora, can everywhere produce anIsola bellawith its peep into enchanting distance."
"The magic of art! Oh, how rude, everyday life sweeps it away! Attend an operatic rehearsal, listen to the confused cries of the manager, the conductor, the bars of music constantly broken off; the musical howls of the chorus; visit the theatrical wardrobe, and look at the tinsel out of which the artistic work of our beauty is created for an evening's performance; listen to the criticising comments of our colleagues behind the scenes; you will be in doubt where you should seek the magic of art."
"Still it does exist, and before its power disappears the ponderous apparatus by which it must be called into life."
"Certainly in the emotions of creative and sensitive minds it bears an enduring life. But when the magic forsakes us, who should be the representatives of art? Is there a greater pain than the sensation of one's own uselessness, and in addition, when it is unmerited, when it was formerly foreign to us? A singer whose voice becomes weaker, who from day to day becomes more conscious of its decay, is more fitted for elegiac reflections than a crumbling ruin, around which ivy climbs."
"You speak, dear friend, of matters which it is to be hoped you do not know from personal experience?"
"Yet I do know them by experience. I tell it you in confidence; before the world I must seek to conceal it, my fame may be able to disguise for some time longer what is unavoidable--a good name has illimitable credit. But my enemies are already beginning to destroy it. A spiteful reporter in Riga made exaggerated allusions to the deterioration of my voice, and a local newspaper here, which bears the impress of Herr Spiegeler's intellect, hastened to print a copy of that criticism."
Blanden shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.
"You are mistaken if you estimate lightly this intentional undermining of a well-earned renown. It cannot be accurately shown out of what atoms an artist's fame gradually rises, nor how they are wafted into a whole, just as easily can it be blown into pieces! How quickly the colours glow in a gay, shimmering structure of clouds; fame, too, is but effulgence, and suddenly dead night comes to relieve its light. Singers, both men and women, are condemned before all others to outlive their fame."
"Nor do they receive it freshly in their hands at first."
"Oh, no, it withers for them--in their hands! Read the article which Spiegeler has to-day had printed upon my 'Somnambula,' such an article is a blight upon every blossom of renown. They are all tiny half-concealed pieces of malice, but they hit one's heart. Public opinion is easily led, to-morrow already I shall stand before hundreds who no longer believe in me. Ah fame! How paralysing is the sensation of being given up to the crowd's want of faith."
"All great artists have been exposed to such attacks."
"But not all have overcome them successfully! How many talents and geniuses have been destroyed by the indifference of the public, whose enthusiasm was nipped in the bud often by means of personal animosity on the part of the critic; often by their distorted comprehension! Only those are numbered in the history of art who bore away the prize, not the others who with equal courage and equal strength, undertook the race of life, but succumbed beneath the obstacles which often chance, but still more often wicked will, cast into their path. But for him who so labours without pleasure in a career of art, it is greater torture than all else that men do against their will, for what is art without enthusiasm, and enthusiasm is only augmented pleasure, which lays hold of men so that they may pour out upon others some of their own overflowing abundance."
"Is enthusiasm then dependent upon the approval of the many? Is it not the artist's voluntary devotion to his ideal?"
"It is dependent upon his happy mood, because to produce the beautiful is bliss and a favour of destiny. Read this condemnation, must not every glad emotion be crushed by it? I have irritated the critic, this is his revenge!"
Blanden was obliged to confess that this criticism of Spiegeler was a collection of flowers of the most pointed epigrams, that it was spiteful, and in its way annihilating.
"Even two years ago," continued Giulia, "I should more easily have risen above this scorn; at that time I was sure of my voice and my success, now it is different--"
"Two years ago! And was not then Signora Giulia secretly at my castle during my absence?"
"I do not deny it! Curiosity prompted me to become acquainted with my friend's home."
"And did you not enchant all the rooms of my castle with leaves of recollection and golden sayings?"
"It was a pardonable wish to awaken the recollections of a mysterious meeting by the traces which an equally mysterious visitor left behind."
"Not the charm of mystery brought us together at that time, it pressed its seal upon our happy meeting."
"Not in recollections does happiness lie, but in oblivion; I know no other now."
"You are melancholy, Signora! Shall you then retire from the stage?"
"Oh, you do not know," broke from Giulia, "with what heavy chains I am bound to the galley! Others may remain constant to it from fear of want. I should fall a victim to much greater misery. Behind the stage-scenery of my life stands a spectre, a fearful spectre, ready to step forth at any moment. If I renounce the glory of the stage, I fall completely into that spectre's gruesome power."
"I should have the courage to hazard a conflict with that ghost."
"That conflict would not bring me redemption. Oh, how I long for rest!"
Giulia's features assumed an expression of most intense exhaustion; she sank upon the sofa and hid her face in her hands.
Lieutenant Buschmann was announced.
"Count upon my help," said Blanden, "when and wheresoever you may need it. This knightly duty I owe to the gracious lady of the magic lake, and shall fulfil it as faithfully as ever knight served his lady."
Giulia rose, and, with a quiet smile, but a tear in her eye, held out her hand to bid farewell.
A dense throng was crowding through the unpretending entrances of the old-fashioned city garden; the citizens of Königsberg had there found a central point for their political and intellectual interests. Although excluded from the programme of these meetings, politics really formed the most vital artery of their life; for it was a period in which every matter in hand became converted into politics; the strongest material began suddenly to assume a political tinge of colour when it was held towards the light. The kernel of the Königsberg citizenship was present at these assemblies, and Blanden was perfectly right when he desired, by means of his lecture, to introduce himself in more extensive circles as the political agitator for the elections of the future.
At the entrance to the gallery which led into the room, there was much animation; there the claims were examined, for the assembly was a closed society. Any one who did not possess a card was rejected.
"Corpo di bacco," echoed a violent voice, "of what use arebigliettiwhen the people assembles?"
"No one is admitted without a card."
"Corpo del diavolo," cried the impatient man, "then I must first return to my friend,Che Seccatura!"
Blanden, who had just arrived, recognised the amber-merchant, who, in a violent manner, forced a passage through the thronging people, so as to obtain egress again.
In the room itself a large concourse of people was already gathered, forming an impenetrable wall. The large mirror, which was placed against the one side, reflected, head after head, mostly well-to-do respectable faces, a few ruddy with the northern climate, tingling in the hot room after the cold out of doors, all gazing out beneath the brims of their hats, because here John Bull's custom had, from necessity, become a silent law; nowhere, excepting upon the heads, could space be found for the hats.
That no Jacobin-club, however, was assembled here was betokened by the steady composure that was unmistakable in all present, and the dense clouds of tobacco which floated above their heads.
Any one wishing to force his way through, must let himself be carried on farther by a suddenly formed wave, or with nervous haste follow the ticket-taker who enjoyed an undisputed right of passage.
Blanden, at the first rush, could not attain the chief table; a subsiding wave, which came from the opposite direction, drove him back.
Upon looking around he perceived near to him several faces that he knew, also that of theombreplayer, Milbe, who again was not in Kulwangen, but was here prosecuting his political efforts.
Milbe possessed an evil conscience, because he had not given his vote to Blanden, and tried not to perceive the latter. Sengen von Larchen, however, who stood close by, delighted him with shaking hands cordially.
Gradually Blanden succeeded in reaching the vicinity of the platform, where he espied several leaders of the political movement. There stood a little man, with lofty, thoughtful brow and the soft gaze of a large eye, the only person in the assembly who had appeared in a black frock-coat, with white cuffs. His opponents might, perhaps, compare him, the most feared of all the politicians in the town on the East Sea, with Robespierre, on account of that cleanliness; his beardless face made a thoroughly frank impression. His firm figure was not possessed of any quicksilver flexibility; everything about him was precision--certainly clearness. Although he had made himself renowned by his questions, he appeared much more like a man who is ready to, and capable of answering; all sparkling wit was foreign to him; he loved plain inferences from given premises; his logic was pure as his cuffs. As the doctor does his patient's, so did he feel the pulse of the State, and prescribed his remedies to the invalid. He possessed the indomitable equanimity of a stoic, and looked upon the necessary combination of affairs of this world with the eyes of a Spinoza. He was one of the most insignificant in the Assembly, but, like the homunculus in the bottle, he drew the fiery trail of a great reputation after him, and wherever he appeared he was greeted with special respect.
Beside him stood another agitator, whose entire appearance denoted him to be devoted to colour; he was artistically draped in a cloak with a velvet collar, while every possible gaudiness of waistcoat and necktie peeped forth between the folds; his head, as the Brussels citizen says in "Egmont," would be a real delight to an executioner, so splendidly it contrasted with the average heads of the throng, so brilliant is its colouring, so luxuriant the well-cared-for beard. He was the humourist of the party, a flourishing author; by some compared with Jean Paul, by others with Börne, and his satirical bees fluttered around a flowery abundance of pictures. No greater contrast could exist than that between this overflowing humourist and the staid political medical man by his side--the former revelling in the luxuriant complacency of an enthusiasm for freedom, which poured flowers, fruit and briars out of its horn of plenty; the latter, the man of dry formulas, of determined demands.
Near them stood other men of the party, teachers at girls' schools, pedagogues of great oratorical fluency, and some worthy citizens of intellectual pursuits. The master chimney-sweep, who passes his snuff-box round yonder, speaks of Kant and Feuerbach, as if they were customers for whom he sweeps soot out of their chimnies; he knows the construction of the philosophical systems as accurately as the construction of coke stoves, and at home possesses a library which many a professor might envy.
Now the President's hammer is heard; an amateur orchestra, consisting of members of the union, sends forth its mighty sounds from the platform, then patriotic songs are sung. All betokens warm participation; it is a society that betrays internal life. Thus also thinks that renowned author, a tall figure, with a wreath of hair round the crown of his head, an idealist of the purest water, who is making studies here of superior sociability, and, amidst the din of the present, seeks to solve a problem of the future. The young doctor, who now ascends the platform, is well-known to Blanden--it is the poet Schöner; he pushes his long black hair from his brow, and, with flashing eyes, and fiery pathos, recites a poem which lauds the Baltic country as the new home of political freedom. During the recital he was quivering from head to foot like a Shaker who is moved by his religious enthusiasm, but it was this peculiarity that acted with such electricity upon the crowd. Tempestuous applause rewards these poetical efforts. The Robespierre in the frock-coat addresses a warm laconic eulogium to the poet after he had descended from the platform; the humourist, with good-natured blue eyes, looks pleasantly at him through spectacles, and lauds his grand talent. The master chimney-sweep closes his snuff-box vigorously, a species of applause that he loves, and does the poet the honour of inviting him to a game of chess, a peculiar distinction which is only vouchsafed to favourites. Blanden, however, could not but say to himself that political lyrics had already reached that ominous turning point where phrases compensate for thoughts, and every variety of detonating rockets and fireworks have superseded the steady flame of pure enthusiasm.
Now his turn came; he knew that his appearance in the Citizen Assembly would be looked upon with suspicion by many of his equals, but he kept his object firmly before his eyes. His equals had dropped him, he turned to the great Liberal party, that was not bound to one district or circle of Government.
He possessed no stentorian voice, but his organ did not lack power and warmth, and a certain elegance of delivery kept people's interest awake. Many considered it greatly in favour of so respected a representative of the nobility of the country that he not merely mixed in the circle of the Königsberg citizens, but also participated in their intellectual guidance. His lecture presented a picture of the charters of 1830, and the development of the French constitution under the July Dynasty; he then pointed out the advantages which advanced States like France possessed over Prussia by means of their constitutions, and alluded to the development of public life which with us still is numbered amongst our sacred wishes. But then he showed how the provisions of the French charters were circumvented by the Government, and cast no favourable horoscope for the latter in the existing state of dull, mental fermentation; he criticised the limited right of election and the system of two chambers with acumen, daring which public opinion at that time did not venture to follow. All the same, his speech reaped stormy approval. Blanden could not but admit that this applause rewarded every speaker, who spoke in the spirit of the Assembly, and that when the good master sweep opened his lips and snuff-box simultaneously, so as to launch from the platform a few telling sentences in which his pinches of snuff formed the punctuation, he was greeted with similar applause. Still Blanden believed he had by means of this speech opened for himself a road to political consideration; at last he felt himself to be exalted and calmed; his glance into the future appeared freer, he saw an attainable goal before him. Torn from his solitary brooding in the echo of similar sentiments which met him, he at the same time greeted the certainty that his political convictions would also find a farther soil ready to receive them, that the path to statesman-like importance lay open before him.
Blanden's lecture was followed by a debate which commenced with the tickets of the box of questions; the first one concerned political discourses, should they be entirely excluded from these sittings? The committee pointed out that the object of these meetings was not political but social; that these discourses, however, might touch upon politics.
"Who could exclude politics?" cried an energetic timber merchant, "the State is the principal interest for a citizen; I am such a thorough citizen, that I am overgrown with politics; I exhale politics and I inhale them, I wake and dream politics; I think politics aloud when I speak, and think politics mutely when I am silent; I feel politics, I teach and learn them; in short I may do what I will or others may do with me what they will, politics cannot be expelled from me. Whereof the heart is full, the mouth speaketh. Of that which one loves, one likes to speak; we all love our fatherland and like to talk of it. Thus we all think and feel, and therefore here in thegemeinde gartena short hour of politics, cannot be omitted."
That short hour of politics roused great exultation. Blanden, too, rejoiced at the citizens' warm interest in the Government's life, which had already become a matter that lay near their hearts.
The box of questions kept the debate on foot for a long time, then followed theconversazione. Choruses groaned through the old town hall; thereupon groups were formed, in the centre of which individual leaders were found who now exercised greater, now lesser powers of attraction; the political doctor had his little circle, the humourist his; poet Schöner recited a political dithyramb in a subdued voice; the master sweep related anecdotes, songs in sociable chorus resounded from several tables.
One little bit of by-play did not escape Blanden, who went from one group to another and with satisfaction--now here, now there--joined the open fight that had succeeded the closed conflict.
The Italian was leaning in a corner near the stove, and overwhelmed the ticket-taker, who neglected him, with terms of abuse whose melodious sound, as their sense was perfectly unintelligible to the other, did not in the least exercise the desired effect, until several honest German oaths hastened the man's tardy attention.
Blanden noticed how Böller the merchant, whom he had seen with Giulia, circled round the Italian as a hawk does round its prey. Now here, now there, the long, cadaverous figure rose amidst the crowd, and his eyes were fixed watchfully upon the amber merchant. The latter became uneasy; it had not escaped him that he had seriously aroused the merchant's attention, who was well-known to him, and he knew the cause too. Suddenly Böller disappeared towards one side of the city gardens, which possessed two entrances. Baluzzi followed the tall form with his eyes, and, without waiting for the refreshment ordered from the ticket-taker, hastened to leave the garden by the opposite door.
After some time Böller reappeared, and briskly traversed the groups, but far forward as he might extend his nose, he could not succeed in espying his victim. Disappointment was depicted on his pale small-pox-marked face as at the door he gave an order to an officer of justice who had come with him.
When the chairman's hammer, with three resounding blows, announced the conclusion of the sitting, Blanden resolved to seek half-witted Kätchen, at mother Hecht's, and to convince himself if she were really in possession of a few lines from Eva.
Recollection of the witches of Macbeth and the witches' kettle, in which they mixed wolves' teeth and hemlock-roots and tigers' intestines, was awoke in all who entered Mother Hecht's house and saw herself and her companions creep mysteriously round the large kettles that boiled upon the hearth. But no tigers' intestines were boiled there; they were those of peaceable domestic animals which were being prepared in a herb soup for the enjoyment of night wanderers.
An oil lamp shed a gloomy light throughout the kitchen, which at the same time served as the inn parlour. The flickering gleam of the flames assisted it in its melancholy efforts.
The Hecate, who urged the subordinate witches and night-fiends to feed the fire and to stir the kettles with all their might, was thefleckpreparer herself, asfleckis the name given to the intestines which were being prepared as a dainty morsel.
The little witches were somewhat more attractive than those of the Walpurgis night, although even they, to some extent, like Kätchen of Warnicken, peered into the world with stupid, gruesome frogs' eyes.
It was a singular company in that witches' kitchen. Any one who was not acquainted with its secrets must have imagined that some magic was at work, which should transform people now into a state of wild frenzy as if they had partaken of henbane, now vampire-like suck the blood out of their veins, for some of the guests were incessantly shaking, while others possessed corpse-like countenances of a ghostly pallor.
A few members of the Albertina had almost succumbed to this magic, and with hollow eyes stared into the flames which were hissing around the kettle.
The witches' kettle, it is true, was quite innocent; the magic did not proceed from it, but rather the counter-charm against oblivion of the world, against the internal conflict, against the weariness of life, which was written in all those features.
Blanden, in these surroundings, felt like Coleridge's "Ancient Mariner" upon the ship of death, where nothing but masks and visors grin at him.
Kätchen had perceived him enter, and hastened towards him.
"As soon as I can get away for a moment I will beckon to you."
Blanden was obliged to be patient. Meanwhile the room became still more full of the most divers nocturnal wanderers, who before cock-crow would be tired of drinking, or have fallen victims to intoxication.
A merry swarm of students of undaunted courage, coming from a drinking party, crowded in with merry songs, pushing before them a lame gentleman with a beard, whom they had met upon the threshold.
"The first dish for Spiegeler--he has done his part well."
"Ho, Kätchen, the first intestines for the reporter, because he is the priest who offers up the sacrifice."
"Bravo, Spiegeler, lame, divine messenger of fame, Mercury without wings."
Thus the voices resounded in confusion, and Spiegeler did, indeed, receive the firstfleckthat was produced from the kettle.
Blanden became attentive. These speeches concerned the critic who had attacked Giulia.
"My dear Herr Spiegeler," one voice could be heard saying, in whose precocious, instructive tones he soon recognised the wise Salomon of the sea side, "I grant you all possible laurels, and also the first of the intestines; because critics are like the Romanharuspiceswho, after the contemplation of entrails, can prophecy or speak the truth."
"Hush, Salomon is speaking."
"I also remark that I have not the honour of sharing your views as a critic, but still you are a man of intellect, and nothing is more interesting than when such men defend false views."
"Excuse me," said Spiegeler, as he laid his fork aside, "I must beg for a proof that my view is false."
"I am not in the humour now to prove anything," continued Salomon, "and you never are, for in your criticisms all proofs are wanting, as, indeed, in all such cases, it is just as Schiller says--
'The Almighty blew And the Armada flew to every wind.'
'The Almighty blew And the Armada flew to every wind.'
"Not of this, however, would I speak, but merely express an objection to your last sharp criticism; it had one trifling fault, it contained the opposite of what it had formerly said. But when a critic acts the part of a priest at the sacrifice, then, like the latter, he must also exhibit the most perfect purity. The Roman priests, when sacrificing, were obliged to be washed, sprinkled and perfumed so as to be worthy of their office."
"Well, and what more," said Spiegeler; stamping angrily with his crutches, he rose and adjusted his spectacles.
"Criticism is not infallible, but it has the privilege of acknowledging its faults; to-day it can blame what yesterday it praised; it suddenly looks upon things from another point of view, and all, gentlemen, depends upon the point of view! Everything advances and undergoes metamorphosis--and yet criticism should always remain stationary like a sculptured saint! What doctor does not alter his diagnosis after closer observation? To-day he discovers an organic disease where yesterday he only perceived a slight cold. Who would turn that into a reproach against him? We are deceived and bribed; the delusion disappears, it is no fault, it is progress. Criticism does not squint, it only sees more clearly to-day than yesterday."
"There we have it," cried Salomon, "that is exactly fitted for this witches' kitchen! Do not the witches in 'Macbeth' say--