Chapter II (1)

There is not much to be said of the period which now ensued. Outwardly everything went on as usual. The void made by the flight of the insubordinate member of the family seemed to be felt by no one except myself and the silent Uncle Joachim; at least, her name was never mentioned. True, pauses in the conversation at table were more frequent, and were usually broken--not always with much taste--by a remark from my little pupil. There had been no gayety before in this strangely constituted circle, and I don't remember ever having heard a really hearty laugh. But, since the event, the master of the house seemed to desire to keep his family under still more rigid spiritual control. The blessing invoked upon the food often extended into a short homily, and on Sunday afternoons he held services of his own, by the aid of some Lutheran tracts, from which he extracted so confused a theology that I was often compelled to exercise great self-control in order not to give the rein to my old love for debate. On such occasions he indulged in rancorous allusions to stray sheep and lost souls, spite of the presence of the servants, who nudged one another, and afterward let their tongues wag freely in the servants' hall.

I wished myself a hundred miles away, for it seemed to me as if the veil, which hitherto had only allowed me to see the vague outlines of persons and things in the household, was suddenly torn away, and I experienced a sense of almost physical discomfort, which increased with every passing week.

The most puzzling thing was that, spite of the promise I had given my worshiped idol at our last meeting, I had become suspicious even of her. When I imagined her in the society of the strange actor, my hand involuntarily clinched, and I was strongly inclined to pronounce the whole female sex, which had seemed to me so supernatural and adorable in this individual, nothing better than the body-guard of the enemy of mankind.

I was by no means reconciled to her, but on the contrary still more deeply wounded, when, a fortnight after her disappearance, I received the printed announcement of her marriage to Herr Konstantin Spielberg, theatrical manager. I had still cherished a secret hope that she would repent the false step into which her exaggerated sense of justice had led her, and withdraw from the turbid, bottomless swamp she had entered, pure as a swan that needs only to shake its wings to cast off everything that could besmirch it.

True, with my knowledge of her, I ought not to have been surprised that she should take upon herself all the consequences of her hasty step, yet it roused a feeling of such intense bitterness that it made me fairly ill, and for twenty-four hours I would see no one, as if the sight of any human face must awaken a sense of shame.

I knew that she had written long letters to her aunt and Uncle Joachim, letters in which she had probably attempted to justify her conduct. But I did not venture to make any inquiries about them. More than once, when I met her beloved uncle, my tongue was on the point of asking the question what threat he had used to deter his brother from pursuing the fugitive. I vaguely suspected that I should learn things in her favor. But, as the old gentleman did not commence the subject, I was forced to say to myself that, little friendship as he felt for his brother, he probably considered it unseemly to afford a stranger a glimpse of the circumstances that did no honor to the name they both bore.

Not until long after did I obtain a clear understanding of the matter.

Even from the poor, timid baroness, I could obtain no information, though, since the loss of her affectionate young confidante, she had shown me even greater kindness than before. Nay, since I had offered to supply Fraeulein Luise's place at the evening games of cards, I was regularly assured of her friendly feeling by a warm clasp from her little wrinkled hand on my arrival and departure. Very soon she bestowed upon me another office which her niece had formerly filled--that of her High Almoner. I now perceived, with reverent emotion, how from her invalid chair she was the guardian angel of all the poor and wretched in the village; and the wan little face, with its bony nose and low forehead, really gained a gleam of youthful grace when I informed her of the recovery of some sick person, or the gratitude of a poor woman to whom her help in some desperate strait had restored the courage to live.

Besides the quiet satisfaction I felt in my own modest share in these deeds of charity, I had one great pleasure--my little pupil was becoming more and more fond of me. Through all his ungovernableness he had retained a dim consciousness of right and wrong, and when he perceived the patient love I gave him he felt the obligation not to be indebted to me, and therefore vented his instinctive rudenesses on others. His progress in study continued to be extremely slow. But he disarmed my displeasure by a frank confession of his faults and laziness, and the entreaty that I would not attribute to ill-will what was a part of his nature.

I hoped to gradually obtain an influence over this perverse disposition, but I was not allowed time to do so. With this fact there was a strange story connected.

* * * * *

The day after the flight of the Canoness, as Fraeulein Leopoldine needed a companion, Mademoiselle Suzon had moved into the vacant tower-room below me. From this time, also, the Frenchwoman was present at the history lessons, during which she made herself very troublesome by asking foolish questions and coquettishly endeavoring to turn the tiresome teaching into empty conversation. But I said nothing about it, knowing that a complaint to the baron would have been futile.

Neither did I trouble myself about the extraordinary marks of favor with which the cunning creature began to annoy me.

One of the least of these was, that I rarely returned home from a walk without finding in my room a bouquet of flowers or a few choice fruits, filched from the garden or the green-house. Even at table she did not restrain herself in the least from making all sorts of advances to me, praising my lessons, repeating admirable remarks of which I had no recollection, and keeping up a fusillade of glances, which greatly incensed me, because it seemed to show distinctly that we were on the best possible terms with each other. In my innocence, I was mainly disturbed lest it should place me in a false light before the eyes of my employer and his wife. To Uncle Joachim I had made no secret of my dislike. The baroness's confidence in my honor and virtue, however, seemed immovable, and the baron appeared to be merely amused by this shadow of flirtation between his awkward tutor and the family friend, without seeing any cause for suspicion in it.

The affair pursued its course in this way for several weeks. Sometimes, from the open window beneath mine, I heard, instead of the dear "Orpheus" melody, most unmusical sighs and incoherent French verses, declaimed to moon and stars, but whose real object I knew only too well. Then I shut my own casement with an intentionally loud slam, and preferred to dispense with the delicious coolness of the autumn night rather than seem to listen to the tender soliloquies of this detestable hypocrite.

She perceived that she made no progress in this way, and resolved to risk a bold stroke.

It had already happened several times--accidentally, as I, unsuspicious novice, supposed--that, when going up to my room, I passed the Fraeulein's door just at the moment she was putting her shoes outside. I had then forced myself to exchange a few courteous words with her, but escaped her efforts to carry on a more familiar conversation in the dimly-lighted corridor as quickly as possible by a hasty "_Bonne nuit, mademoiselle!_"

How different would have been my demeanor if my former neighbor in the tower, whose shoes and speech were both less ornate, had met me here even once to say good-night!

One evening my game with the old lady had been unusually prolonged. Mademoiselle Suzon, after her victory at chess over the baron, and obligatory courtesy to the baroness, had glided out of the room; the master of the house, making no concealment of his impatience, paced up and down the spacious apartment, frowning angrily; the servants occasionally glanced sleepily through the glass doors, to see if it were not bed-time. At last we finished, and I could take leave of my employers. My old patroness pressed my hand with a friendly glance, the baron nodded silently, but, as it seemed to me, with a sarcastic smile. I took the candle from the servant who was waiting outside, and, in a mood of dull ill-temper which was now almost always dominant, mounted the stairs to my lofty lodging.

I thought the delay would at least insure safety from my tormentor. But as, walking on tip-toe, I reached the story where her room was situated, the door gently opened, and an arm in a white night-dress noiselessly placed the well-known pair of dainty shoes on the floor.

I stopped, holding my breath and shading the candle with my hand. But, as the door showed no sign of closing, I resolved to rush straight on and pretend to be deaf and blind.

But I had reckoned without my host. The door was suddenly thrown wide open, and the French spook, in a most bewitching _negligee_ costume, stood directly before me.

"_Bonsoir, Monsieur le Candidat!_" I heard her whisper, and then followed a long, half tender, half reproachful speech in her Franco-German jargon, of which I only understood that she was angry with me--yes, seriously offended, because I so openly shunned her. She could bear it no longer, and desired at last to know what grudge I had against her, why I treated her like an enemy. She knew, of course, that she could bear no comparison with Fraeulein Luise, to whom I had been so completely devoted. She was only a simple French girl, and had no other _qualites_ than her good heart and her virtue. But, since I was such a chivalrous young man, and treated everybody else so kindly and politely, she must suppose that she had given me some special offense; and, if this were the case, she would gladly apologize for her fault if she could thereby put an end to the icy coldness with which I treated her.

As she spoke, the wretch gazed at me with such an humble, childlike expression in her crafty black eyes, that I, poor simpleton, completely lost countenance.

I stammered a few French phrases--I should have found it more difficult to lie in German--assured her of my profound _estime_, and that she had made a deplorable _erreur_, and, with a low bow, was hurrying away, when I felt the arm that carried the candle seized in a firm clasp.

"I thank you for those noble words," said the smooth serpent, fixing her glittering eyes so intently on my face that I could not help lowering my own like a detected criminal.

"If you knew, _Monsieur Jean_, how happy your _sympathie_, your cordial warmth makes me! Ah, _mon ami_, I am not what I perhaps seem to you, a superficial, selfish creature, who avails herself of her position in this house to gain some advantage. If you knew how this dependence, this forbearance humiliates me! My youth was so brilliant, so happy! If any one had told me then that I should ever enter a foreign German household--"

And she now began to relate to me in French, with incredible fluency, the romance of her life, not more than half of which could I understand. But as, spite of my inexperience, I retained a sufficient degree of calmness to believe that even this half contained far more fiction than fact, I at last, relapsing into my former incivility, showed evident signs of impatience, and was just in the act of gently shaking off the hand that still held my arm, when her eyes filled with tears as she talked of her worshiped mother, and that honorable man, her father.

"You are exciting yourself too much, mademoiselle," I said. "It is late--you must go to rest--to-morrow, if you wish--"

Meantime I glanced into her room, which looked very untidy. The bed was already opened, and on the little night-table stood a candle which illumined the picture of the Madonna on the wall and a small black crucifix beneath it.

"Oh, _mon ami_!" she sobbed, pressing my arm as if she needed some support in her grief, "_si vous saviez! Mon c[oe]ur est si sensible--tous les malheurs de ma vie_--" and then came a fresh torrent of revelations of her most private affairs, till terror brought cold drops of perspiration to my forehead and, in my helplessness, I could finally think of no other expedient than to whisper: "Calm yourself, Mademoiselle Suzon! Somebody is coming--if we should be found here--!"

Her features suddenly changed their expression, she half closed her eyes, as if fainting, and murmuring with a gesture of horror: "Mon Dieu--je suis perdue!" tottered backward and would have fallen, had I not sprung forward and caught her with my free arm.

Instantly I felt her throw her arm over my shoulder, clinging to me as if unconscious, and while we stood in this attitude and undoubtedly formed a very striking group, which I myself lighted effectively with the candle I held aloft, hasty footsteps, which I had only pretended to hear, actually did come up the staircase, and at the end of the corridor appeared the tall figure of one of the footmen, who served as the baron's valet.

I was wild with rage and shame at having allowed myself to be caught in this suspicious position, and the thought darted like lightning through my brain that the whole scene had been merely a prearranged farce, to which in my good-natured simplicity I had fallen a victim! The fellow's manner strengthened this belief, as he grinned at me with insolent cunning. Besides, he had no reason to come here at this hour.

Yet I retained sufficient composure to say quietly: "Mademoiselle has been taken ill. Wake the housekeeper, Christoph, and see that she is put to bed. I wish her a speedy recovery."

With these words I unceremoniously laid her on the floor, and walked off as calmly as if entirely indifferent to what was happening behind my back.

Yet every one will understand that I could not fall asleep very quickly that night. Again and again I called myself an ass for having entered this clumsy trap, and for the first time in my life learned that a good conscience is not always a soft pillow. True, when I asked myself how a trained man of the world would have acted in this situation, I could find no reply. But my contempt for the female sex increased that night to such a degree, and gained so large an access of dread and horror, that for the first time I envied the anchorites who, to escape from the sight of these fiends, retreated to some wilderness, where if any appeared to them and might perchance lure to sin, though they did not come straight from Hades, at least the hermits could not be surprised by inquisitive lackeys.

* * * * *

The next morning, just after I had risen with so disagreeable a tang on my tongue from the scene of the previous night that I could not make up my mind to touch any breakfast, I suddenly heard a heavy step in the corridor outside, which I recognized with terror as the baron's.

I did not doubt for an instant that the hour of judgment had struck, and the whole affair had been planned to obtain a sufficient excuse for my dismissal--I was perfectly aware how little I had concealed my feelings toward the outlawed member of the family, the lost soul of this household. After the first shock of surprise, I really felt glad that the climax had been reached without any volition of mine, and armed myself with all the pride and defiance of a pure conscience.

What was my amazement when my employer, after knocking courteously, entered my room with his most cordial smile, which I had not seen for a long time, and sat down on my hard sofa with the utmost affability.

He began by requesting me to give my pupil a holiday, as the family intended to drive to a neighboring estate. Then he launched into praises of the good influences I had exerted over Achatz, and expressed the hope that I might still long devote myself to his education, even if the other duties of my office claimed my attention--for the old pastor could not remain longer; his sermons showed that he was falling more and more into the childishness of old age. He had determined to pension him very shortly, even if it were against his wish, and give the office to me, though I could not move into the parsonage till after Christmas, as a suitable residence must first be found for the old couple.

I was so surprised by this offer--after having prepared myself for the most furious rage--that I could only thank my kind patron with a few clumsy words.

"Oh, my dear Weissbrod," he replied, gazing out of the window with his handsome bright eyes, like an aristocrat who is accustomed to dispense favors, "you need not give me any special thanks. I know what I possess in you, and hope that we shall understand each other better in future. Of course, I should have wished you to treat me with more frankness, but I understand and pardon your reticence. You thought me a rigid judge of the conscience, from whom it would be best to conceal all human weaknesses. You ought to have believed me a better Christian, one who is mindful of the words relating to the forgiveness of his erring brother: 'I say not unto thee, until seven times; but until seventy times seven.' Besides, youth has no virtue, and a future pastor is not to blame if he remembers the proverb: 'The pastor when settling for life wants a wife.'"

He smiled with patronizing significance, rose, went to my bookcase, and, while gazing thoughtfully for the tenth time at the names of Neander and Marheineke on the backs of the volumes, remarked with apparent calmness:

"When do you expect to be married?"

I felt as if I had dropped from the clouds.

"Herr Baron," I replied, "I am very grateful for your kindness, but I have never had any idea of entering the estate of matrimony."

The baron took out a book, turned the leaves, and then said, still in the same tone of gracious familiarity:

"That I can easily believe, my dear Weissbrod. Young people do not always think of the consequences of their acts. But an honest man, and especially a servant of the gospel, will not hesitate to recognize the obligations he has undertaken. As I said, I do not reproach you for having permitted the matter to go so far. But, after the scene of yesterday evening, which could not remain secret, you will perceive that it is your duty to protect the honor of the lady you have compromised, and this can only be done by a speedy marriage."

He shut the volume and restored it to its place. Then, turning quickly and gazing at me with an inquisitorial expression, as if I were a convicted criminal, he smoothed his beard with his white hands.

But, thanks to the indignation which took possession of me at the perception of this base farce, I maintained sufficient composure to look him squarely in the face and answer coldly:

"I do not know what has been told you, Herr Baron. But, for the sake of truth, I must declare that it never entered my mind to carry on any love affair beneath your roof, and that my conscience absolves me from any obligation."

I saw that he turned pale, and with difficulty repressed a violent outburst of rage. At last he said:

"How you are to justify yourself to your conscience is your own affair. Mademoiselle has told me, with tears, that yesterday evening you took advantage of a moment's physical weakness, by which she was attacked, to embrace her, an act that did not occur without witnesses. I am disposed to judge such an impulse of gallantry leniently, on account of your youth and the attractiveness of the lady. But, as she is alone and defenseless in the world, it is my duty to protect her reputation, and I therefore give you the choice between proposing for her hand within twenty-four hours or resigning your position in my house, and with it all your prospects for the future. You must not make your decision in your first embarrassment. When we return this evening from our drive, there must either be a note from you in the young lady's room containing your proposal, or in mine your request for a vacation, as family affairs summon you as quickly as possible to Berlin. This request--unless you should change your mind while away--you must follow after a time with a petition for your final dismissal. You see that, even though you have forfeited my esteem, I treat you with Christian forbearance, but at the same time, as I am a foe to scandal and have confidence in you, I trust you will avoid any cause of vexation. I will now leave you to consider your own future, and wish you good-morning."

He nodded with affable condescension and, without waiting for an answer, left the room.

I was scarcely alone ere the repressed indignation that had been seething within me found vent in a convulsive laugh, and I felt tempted to rush after my noble patron and loudly inform him, outside the door of his clever accomplice, that I was not the dull simpleton they believed me, but saw through their preconcerted man[oe]uver, and was not at all disposed to let a bridle be thrown over my head. Fortunately I remembered that I did not possess a particle of proof, and should only make my cause worse by uncorroborated assertions. So I strove to calm myself, showed my pupil, who came bounding joyously in to bid me good-by, a cheerful face, and embraced him, a caress he received with innocent surprise, not suspecting that I was taking leave of him forever, and then watched from my window the departure of the family, which took place with the usual ceremony. In the servants' presence the baron always treated his wife with chivalrous courtesy, lifted her into the carriage himself, saw that she had the pillows for her back and the rug for her feeble knees, and always asked if she was comfortable, and whether she would not prefer to have the carriage open.

Mademoiselle Suzon helped him with kittenish suppleness. Spite of the nocturnal attack of faintness, her usual smile rested on her lips, and not a single upward glance at me intimated that above her lodged the robber of her honor, the man on whom depended the weal or woe of her future life.

* * * * *

As soon as the carriage had disappeared in the elm-avenue, I prepared to pack my effects, except my books, which I could not take with me without revealing my determination never to return. I do not know what impulse of prudence induced me to enter into the cunning farce my shrewd employer had marked out for me. Perhaps it was consideration for the kind mistress of the house or for my little pupil. The others certainly had not deserved to have me conceal the truth. After locking my trunk, I sat down and wrote the note to the baron, which was disagreeable enough for me. With great difficulty I resisted the temptation to inform him, on another sheet, that his hypocritical words had not blinded me in the least to the real motive of his conduct. But I deemed it more dignified to leave him to his own conscience, and, if the matter was as I firmly believed, he would be sufficiently punished.

Several other farewells were before me--my worthy pastor, old Mother Lieschen, with whom since the Canoness's departure I had chatted a short time on many evenings, and finally my honored patron, Uncle Joachim. I made the leave-taking with the first two as brief as possible. I felt reluctant to use deception toward the good old pastor, and yet I could not tell him the whole truth. But, spite of his eighty years, his eyes were still keen enough to perceive the real state of affairs, so that a shake of the hand was sufficient to make us understand each other.

Mother Lieschen was not in her hut. I could only leave a farewell message, in which I wrapped a small gift of money. Uncle Joachim I found in the fields, where he was overlooking the laborers in place of the steward, who was ill.

I thought it needless to maintain any secrecy toward him. He listened quietly, and his sharp, expressive features showed no signs of surprise.

"I have seen it coming," he said at last, sending forth vehement puffs of smoke from his short pipe. "The farce is excellent, though no longer perfectly new; such things have frequently occurred before, though the exit is usually different. Well, I'm not anxious about you, Sir Tutor, and I shall at least have the advantage of no longer seeing that intriguing woman's face opposite. Believe me, my dear friend, I, too, would gladly take to my heels and try to earn my bit of daily bread elsewhere, even if it should be as head-groom or steward on the estate of one of my former equals and boon companions. But there is my sister-in-law, poor thing. Who knows what her pious husband might do, if the last person in whose presence he is obliged to control himself should go away? You know the proverb about us natives of the Mark--that, though we never burned a heretic, we never produced a saint. Well, if there were a Protestant Pope, he should canonize that poor martyr for me on the spot."

Then, after we had shaken hands, he called me back again.

"You must do me the favor to keep this whole abominable story a secret, Sir Tutor," he said. "I could not blame you if you blazoned it abroad, for, after all, you are the one who is injured, and, if we can get no other satisfaction, to rage and call things by their right names relieves the bile. Still, remember that the honorable man who has thus injured you bears the same name as our Luise, to say nothing of myself. True, the girl has made haste to lay it aside. If you should ever meet her in the outside world, give her a tender greeting from Uncle Joachim, and tell her to bestow a sheet of letter-paper on him. Well, may God be with you, my dear friend! Heads up always, then we see the sun, moon, and stars, and not the wretched worms that crawl on this foul earth."

As he uttered these words, he clasped me affectionately in his arms, and kissed me on both cheeks. Then, turning abruptly away, he went back to his work.

In the afternoon I sat in the self-same butcher's cart in which I had made the journey to the castle. Krischan maintained a diplomatic silence, though I could not doubt that, like the other servants, he was perfectly aware of the nocturnal incident and its unpleasant consequences. Yet I perceived that the popular voice was not against me, for several times on the way I was obliged to refuse a drink from the worthy fellow's bottle. In the village, too, many tokens of a friendly and respectful disposition fell to my lot.

Yet, though this time the bays did not have the heavy box of books to drag through the sand, and my conscience was no weightier burden than it had been six months before, the drive, spite of the bright October weather, was a dismal one, and my heart was far from singing hymns as it had longed to do on the former occasion.

I could not help constantly reflecting that a few weeks before the one woman who attracted all my thoughts had passed over this very road to a future which I could paint only in the blackest hues.

* * * * *

I can not shake off the fear that in the preceding pages, which concerned my insignificant self, I may have been too verbose. Should this really be the case, I may confidently assert that the error is not due to the garrulity, or even the self-love, of a lonely man, but the desire of a conscientious biographer to omit nothing that could throw more light upon the acts of his heroine.

During the time immediately following her marriage, she disappeared entirely from the horizon of my own pitiful existence. I will therefore make my account of the succeeding years until she reappears as brief as possible.

My good old aunt in Berlin received me with her former love and kindness, though somewhat surprised that she must once more shelter in her little back-room the clerical nephew whom she had expected to speedily see shining as a brilliant light of the church in the glittering candlestick of a parish, while he now again seemed to be a dim little flame with a big "thief" in it.

True, she did not suspect the real state of the case concerning this "thief"--the hapless love for a woman who had utterly vanished that was secretly consuming me. I did not deny it to myself for a moment. I knew too well that all the joyousness of youth was irretrievably lost to me; and, as I perceived that the consolations of religion were powerless in my condition, I fell away more and more from my theological vocation, and during the first months gave myself up to a very God-forsaken, brooding idleness.

I carefully remained aloof from the circle of my former companions. I felt that the experiences of the past six months had separated me from them forever. Even in my outward man I had changed so much that two of my former most intimate friends passed close by me in the street without recognizing in the tall fellow with closely cropped hair, clad in a light summer suit and a straw hat, the apostle of yore, with his long locks parted in the middle, and clerical black coat.

On receiving my definite request for a dismissal, the baron, closely as he usually calculated, had sent me six months' extra pay as tutor, which I did not return, though I could not help regarding the modest sum as a sort of hush-money. Having been turned out of the house without any fault of my own, I thought myself entitled to some compensation.

This money, which I was not compelled to use for my own support, since my kind aunt feasted me as though I were the prodigal son, I devoted to one exclusive purpose, for which probably no theological candidate waiting for his parish ever used his savings--I went to the theater every evening.

True, my longing to hear the great Milder was not fulfilled. I do not know whether she was dead or had merely retired from the stage. But I heard other admirable singers, among whom Sophie Loewe and the fair-haired Fassmann made the deepest impression upon me, and in the drama I was just in time to admire the famous Seydelmann, and afterward, perhaps wrongly, rave over Hendrichs, though I never saw the latter enter without a feeling of aversion, which did not vanish until he had acted for some time. He reminded me, both in personal appearance and in many gestures, of another actor, whom I hated from my inmost soul because I believed that he was to blame for the darkening of the star of my life.

But the world represented on the stage, the creations of the authors themselves, captivated me far more than any individual artist--so bewitched me, indeed, that I do not remember having opened a theological work or even visited a church during the year and a half I spent in the capital. The hypocrisy whose bitter fruits I had tasted had disgusted me with the delicious wine pressed in the Lord's vineyard, till, with a sort of defiant rebellion, I fled to the world of illusion irradiated by the foot-lights.

No one will marvel that, in this mood, I even essayed my own powers as a dramatic author. Of course, it was no less a personage than Julian the Apostate whom, during five acts, I made atone in iambics for having desired to restore to honor the ancient Pagan gods. I still retained enough of the theologian to place Venus lower than the mother of the Saviour. Yet between the lines glimmered so skeptical a view of the world that this _exercitium_ in ecclesiastical history certainly would not have been reviewed _cum laude_ at my old college.

I had just finished the shapeless _opus_, and was considering whether I should offer it to a "rational artist," like Eduard Devrient, for his opinion, when a sorrowful event suddenly stopped my dramatic career.

My loving nurse and supporter fell ill, and at the end of a few days I was obliged to accompany her to her last resting-place. As she had lived upon a small annuity, her whole property consisted of old furniture and a modest wardrobe. I myself had spent all my money except a few thalers. Therefore, it was necessary to again obtain a firmer foothold than the boards of the theatre, which could not be my world.

A few private pupils whom I secured helped me out of my most pressing need. Meanwhile, I industriously watched the papers for advertisements for tutors, and almost every week sent to the addresses mentioned a letter containing copies of my testimonials and references, including the name of my first employer, but to my grief and anger I invariably received a refusal. Knowing myself to be so well recommended, it was a long time ere I could understand these persistent failures, till at last, one sleepless night, when anxiety about my immediate future sharpened my wits, I hit upon the most natural solution of the enigma--my former employer, in reply to inquiries about me, of course gave the most unfavorable information, thereby refuting his written testimony, partly to prevent my relating in a new position the true cause of my dismissal.

Therefore, when a tutor--who must also be musical--was wanted for two boys seven and eight years old on a country estate near the frontier of Pomerania, I quickly formed my resolution, borrowed from an actor, whose acquaintance I had made, the money to pay my traveling expenses, and hastened to wait upon my future employer in person.

I found the position to be everything I could desire. The owner of the estate was a vigorous, thoroughly aristocratic, that is, noble-minded, man of middle age, who was deeply interested in agriculture, and had therefore left the education of his two sons exclusively to his admirable wife, until they had outgrown her feminine care and teaching. When I had explained my situation, and told him enough of the cause of my short stay with the baron to enable the shrewd man to perceive my innocence, without suspecting the whole truth, we soon agreed that I should come on trial for a quarter. These three months became three years, and, as neither found any reason to complain of the other, I should probably have grown old and gray in this beautiful part of my native land, had not the strange wandering star of my life suddenly appeared again in the firmament and lured me into new paths.

I had entered upon my office of tutor without any thought of ever moving into the neighboring parsonage. This was partly because I had become doubtful of my vocation as a preacher, and partly because I did not grudge the excellent man who now filled the place the longest possible life, which indeed he needed in order to leave his six young daughters--who had early lost their mother--alone in this dreary world without anxiety.

The oldest, Marie, was just sixteen when I entered upon my duties in the family of Herr von N----. Never have I known a more exemplary girl than this pure and lovely young creature, who, spite of her extreme youth, took the whole burden of the housekeeping and the education of her younger sisters on her slender shoulders, without even seeming to feel its weight. Her violet eyes and waving light-brown locks gave her a claim to beauty, especially when she smiled and her teeth glittered bewitchingly between her pouting lips. Had I not been afflicted with so obstinate a heart, I should undoubtedly have lost it to this charming child of God, and now be settled as a worthy pastor and father of a family in some village in the Mark. But my thoughts, spite of my utter hopelessness, clung so steadfastly to one image that for a long time I went in and out of the worthy pastor's house, and ate many a piece of cake Marie had baked, without seeing the merry little housekeeper in any other light than as the well-educated daughter of a man to whom I became more and more indebted for my own development.

For, while a country pastor who enters his pulpit every Sunday for twenty years usually lets his spiritual armor grow tolerably rusty with the flight of time, this admirable man, in his quiet gable-room, had taken the most eager interest in all the struggles which in those days agitated the theological world, had entered deeply into the historical investigations of the Tuebingen School, and instantly fanned to a bright blaze the scientific interest which, during my rage for the theater in Berlin, had become completely extinguished--a blaze, it is true, that consumed to a sorry little heap the last scraps of orthodoxy with which I had covered my nakedness.

This is not the place to enter more fully into this spiritual question now struggling in the pangs of its birth. Only I must say that I looked up with actual reverence to this man who, from the depths of his warm, thoroughly evangelical nature, drew the strength--spite of casting aside the dogmatic traditions, whose foundations had been shaken in his soul--to beneficently fulfill his duties as pastor and proclaim the Word, without being faithless to its spirit.

I was not granted this gift, rooted in the purest philanthropy, and therefore capable of helping each individual to salvation in his own way. I was exclusively occupied with my own redemption, and, as I had entirely relinquished the idea of a parish, and for the present gave myself no anxiety about any other profession, I spent these three years, so far as my secret yearnings for my lost love permitted, very happily, and daily passed several hours with my teacher and friend, who treated me like a younger brother, and let me share without reserve everything that occupied his mind.

It was inevitable that I should be on the most familiar terms with his children also. From the first I had placed myself on a footing of merry banter, and asked the little girls to call me Uncle Hans. Marie persisted in addressing me as Herr Johannes. Yet an innocent familiarity, like that of blood relations, existed between us, and seemed to continue undisturbed when the child had matured into a maiden, and the eyes of the girl of nineteen gazed into the world with a dreamy earnestness that would have given a person better versed than I in reading the human heart much food for thought.

I noticed that she had lost some of her former vivacity, but was so unsuspicious that I jested with her about it, and drew no inference from her silence and blushes. True, the idea occurred to me that the young bird was fledged and longed to quit the overcrowded nest. But, as I knew with whom she associated, and that none of my employer's guests, who sometimes visited her father, had made the slightest impression upon her, I ascribed her changed demeanor to some anxiety of conscience--she often rummaged among her father's books--rather than any affair of the heart.

That I myself might be the cause never entered my dreams. All vanity had been shorn away with my beautiful fair locks, for with cropped hair I seemed to myself anything but attractive, and, since I had been obliged to atone for the bold hope of making an impression on the heart of the sole object of my adoration, by the keen disappointment of her marriage, I did not consider myself created to be dangerous to any woman.

So, one morning, when I had vainly sought my pastor in his study to return him a volume by David Friedrich Strauss, and on entering the little garden saw Marie sitting on a bench, holding in her lap a dish of green beans which she was preparing for the kitchen, I greeted her with a jest, though I noticed her tearful eyes, and asked if I could sit beside her a moment.

She nodded silently, and moved to make room for me. I commenced an indifferent conversation, but secretly resolved to question her, like a true uncle, about the cause of her melancholy. Her only friend, the daughter of a neighboring pastor, had just become engaged to a young agriculturist. I began with that, and asked if there was genuine love on the part of the girl, to whom I also had become attached. Marie, without looking up from her work, replied that this was a matter of course. How could people stand before the altar, and form the sacred tie, if there was no real love? Why, I answered, many a girl hopes that love will come after marriage, and only weds for the sake of having a home of her own, a husband, and children. True, I did not believe Marie capable of such conduct. She would never put this little hand--and as I spoke I patted the delicate little fingers resting on the beans--into that of a man whom she did not love with her whole heart.

Again I felt a violent tremor run through her slender figure; she made a visible effort to calm herself, but suddenly let the dish fall from her lap, tears streamed from her eyes, and, stammering almost inaudibly, "Excuse me, I don't feel well!" she rushed into the house as if flying from Satan himself.

I remained sitting on the bench as if a thunderbolt had struck me. It was long ere I could calm myself sufficiently to pick up the dish and carefully collect the scattered green pods.

What would I have given to be able, with a clear conscience, to follow the dear child, take her little cold hands in mine, and utter words which would have had the power to dry her tears.

But, deeply as my heart glowed with tender sympathy for this youthful sorrow, I did not doubt an instant that I should be doing her a far heavier wrong if I tried to console her without the "real love" than if I left her uncomforted.

At last, after vainly waiting in the hope that she would come back and turn the affair into a jest, I rose in great perplexity and went thoughtfully back to my employer's house, here also called the "castle," though it had no feudal aspect.

As soon as I was alone in my little room--my pupils were waiting for their lessons in the school-room--I went to the mirror and carefully scrutinized my face. Even now I could find in it nothing that seemed calculated to disturb the peace of a young girl's heart. The conversations with the dear child, which I could remember also contained nothing captivating, and, as I had again and again said that I should probably remain a bachelor all my life, I could not help acquitting myself of all blame in the sweet girl's unfortunate passion.

Yet the sudden discovery so agitated me that I felt unable to give my Latin lesson. I dictated a written exercise to the lads, and, while they were at work upon it, sat down by the window with the last newspaper, which had just been brought in, not to read, but to have some pretext for pursuing my idle and fruitless thoughts.

But, as my eyes wandered absently over the columns of the paper, they were abruptly arrested by a name which glared in large letters amid the small type of the advertisement.

_Konstantin Spielberg_.

How long a time had passed since I had either heard or read that name! In Berlin, where ever and anon--always blushing as if I were betraying my secret--I had inquired about this object of my silent hate, no one seemed to know whether he was alive or dead. He appeared to have won no special repute as an artist, and, since his withdrawal to the provinces, his former colleagues, several of whom I knew, had heard nothing about him. As such wandering stars only diffuse their light in their immediate vicinity, the small local sheets that came to us made as little mention of him as the large journals of the capital.

Now, in his erratic course, he had come so near us that I could not avoid suddenly discerning him with the naked eye.

There stood the notice. "Konstantin Spielberg, with his renowned dramatic company, has arrived in St. ----," the nearest Pomeranian capital to us, "and intends, during the next six weeks, to give performances to which respected citizens, the nobility, and the art-loving public are invited."

At any other time this intelligence would undoubtedly have agitated me, but without stimulating me to any decision. In the strange situation in which I found myself since my last interview with my friend's daughter, this shadow from former days seemed to me like a sign from Heaven. I instantly resolved to repress all the emotions contending in my soul and convince myself, with my own eyes, how this man's wife fared, and whether she needed any assistance from the friend whose confidence she had certainly sorely betrayed.

I went at once to my employer and requested him to give me a week's vacation. Both physically and mentally I was in a strangely upset condition, which perhaps was only due to stagnation of the blood, and would be relieved by a short pedestrian excursion.

My request was granted without hesitation, and that very afternoon I found myself, with a light knapsack on my back, but my heart doubly burdened by two hopeless love-affairs, on the sunny highway that led to the Pomeranian frontier.

* * * * *

I might have reached my destination that night. But, swiftly as I had commenced my walk, after the first hour it became difficult for me to put one foot before the other. I constantly repeated to myself: "How will you find her? And how will she look when you suddenly take her by surprise without having previously inquired whether your visit would be agreeable or not? Quite probably she will shrink from you, as if you were a ghost recalling a time she would prefer to have buried, and you can be off home again.

"What then? And what is to be done about the other, whom you really never ought to see again, if you desire to be an honest man."

Under the influence of such thoughts I stopped, at the end of a few hours, at a respectable village tavern, the last in the territory of the Mark, and spent the sultry night uncomfortably enough in the thick feather-bed. The next morning I continued my snail's pace. Never in my life had I felt more plainly, and with deeper shame, how pitiful a thing is our much-lauded free-will. For in fact I was nothing more than a puppet which a child pulls by a string, and it made the matter none the better because the boy whose plaything I was had gay wings on his shoulders and wrote his name Cupid.

It was about ten o'clock when I reached the little city--a place as ugly, dreary, and lifeless as any other Pomeranian town on an August morning. But, as I walked over the rough pavement of the main street, my heart throbbed as if I were entering some enchanted city, where in a crystal castle I should find the princess in a giant's power, and, after perilous adventures, secure her release.

I first inquired at the hotel, fully expecting that I should find the "renowned" traveling company had lodgings there. But, when I had thrown my knapsack into one chair in the public-room of the "Black Eagle" and myself into another, and the waiter had brought me half a bottle of Moselle, I was better informed at once.

The actors had spent only one night with them, and the very next day hired the back of the commandant's house for a month. Until six years ago a regiment of infantry had been stationed here, and the colonel had occupied Count X----'s old house facing the Goose-Market. When the regiment was ordered to another garrison, the house was not rented again. Now the manager had hired the back building, formerly used for the offices and adjutant's residence, at a very low price. The performances were given at the Schuetzenhaus near the Stettin Gate. The actors were splendid and drew large crowds.

"Does the manager's wife play too?" I asked, and, as I spoke, my hand trembled so violently that part of the wine was spilled from my glass.

No. The manager's wife never appeared. It was said that she was a lady of noble birth, who had run away with her present husband. But she was a very beautiful lady, and nobody could tell any evil of her. Did not I want something to eat? The _table-d'hote_, at which there was nobody now except one commercial traveler, would not be ready for two hours.

I rose after hastily swallowing a single glass, let the officious youth brush my hat and clothes, and then requested him to direct me to the actor's residence. Perceiving my interest in him, he brought me the bill for that night's performance. The "Ancestress," a tragedy by Grillparger, with spectral apparitions: first row, six good groschens[3]; second row, five silver ones; pit, two good ones; children, half price; commencement at six o'clock. I read the names, of which I knew only the manager's: Jaromir--Manager Konstantin Spielberg. An uncomfortable feeling of mingled cowardice and repugnance again overpowered me. For a moment I actually hesitated whether I should not strap on my knapsack again and walk straight out through the opposite gate. But the puppet was fastened to its platform, and the naughty boy pulled till his toy was obliged to roll where he wanted it to go.

The Goose-Market was a rectangular piece of ground, in which grew dusty acacia-trees. On one of the narrow sides stood the colonel's former residence, a by no means ugly two-story building, in the style of the reign of Old Fritz, with a flight of steps leading to the door, and a stone escutcheon on the cornice above. But all the windows were closed with shutters, and a cat lay asleep in the sentry-box beside the steps.

My waiter led me to the side entrance, whose door was unlocked, and through the wide gateway into the shady court-yard, in whose center a large chestnut-tree spread its boughs in front of the windows of the rear building. "Please go up the stairs at the back," he said. "Somebody is always at home; but, if you want the manager, you'll find him now at the rehearsal. A very diligent artist, as the president of the district court says, and the rest of the company do well, too. But our little city deserves it, for everybody here raves about art. Well, you will see for yourself."

He bowed affectedly and left me alone, which made me very happy. For the accursed throbbing of the heart grew madder than ever, and I was forced to lean against the trunk of the chestnut ere I was able to walk through the court-yard.

The lower story of the back building seemed to be wholly occupied by stables and coach-houses. In the upper one, all the windows stood open, and their freshly washed panes glittered all the more brightly from the contrast to the thick dust on the doors and sills. At last I plucked up courage and mounted the dark stairs.