Chapter VIII: Wilhelm to Natalia

Man is of a companionable, conversing nature: his delight is
great when he exercises faculties that have been given him, even
though nothing further came of it. How often in society do we
hear the complaint that one will not let the other speak; and in
the same manner, also, we might say, that one would not let the
other write, were not writing an employment commonly transacted
in private and alone.

How much people write, one could scarcely ever conjecture. I
speak not of what is printed, though that, in itself, is
abundant enough, but of all that, in the shape of letters and
memorials and narratives, anecdotes, descriptions of present
circumstances in the life of individuals, sketches, and larger
essays, circulates in secret: of this you can form no idea, till
you have lived for some time in a community of cultivated
families, as I am now doing. In the sphere where I am moving at
present, there is almost as much time employed in informing
friends and relatives of what is transacted as was employed in
transacting it. This observation, which for several weeks has
been constantly forced on me, I now make with the more pleasure,
as the writing tendency of my new friends enables me, at once
and perfectly, to get acquainted with their characters and
circumstances. I am trusted: a sheaf of letters is given to me,
some quires of a travelling-journal, the confessions of some
mind not yet in unity with itself; and thus everywhere, in a
little while, I am at home. I know the neighboring circle, I
know the persons whose acquaintance I am to obtain: I understand
them better, almost, than they do themselves; seeing they are
still implicated in their situation, while I hover lightly past
them, ever with thy hand in mine, ever speaking with thee about
all I see. Indeed, it is the first condition I make before
accepting any confidence offered me, that I may impart it to
thee. Here, accordingly, are some letters which will introduce
thee into the circle in which, without breaking or evading my
vow, I, for the present, revolve.

THE NUT-BROWN MAID.

_Lenardo to his Aunt._

At last, dear aunt, after three years you receive my first
letter, conformably to our engagement, which, in truth, was
singular enough. I wished to see the world and mingle in it, and
wished, during that period, to forget the home whence I had
departed, whither I hoped to return. The whole impression of
this home I purposed to retain, and the partial and individual
was not to confuse me at a distance. Meanwhile the necessary
tokens of life and welfare have, from time to time, passed to
and fro between us. I have regularly received money, and little
presents for my kindred have been delivered you for
distribution. By the wares I sent, you would see how and where I
was. By the wines, I doubt not my uncle has tasted out my
several places of abode; then the laces, knick-knacks, steel
wares, would indicate to my fair cousins my progress through
Brabant, by Paris, to London; and so, on their writing-desks,
work-boxes, tea-tables, I shall find many a symbol wherewith to
connect the history of my journeyings. You have accompanied me
without hearing of me, and, perhaps, may care little about
knowing more. For me, on the other hand, it is highly desirable
to learn, through your kindness, how it stands with the circle
into which I am once more entering. I would, in truth, return
from strange countries as a stranger, who, that he may not be
unpleasant, first informs himself about the way and manner of
the household; not fancying, that, for his fine eyes or hair, he
shall be received there quite in his own fashion. Write to me,
therefore, of my worthy uncle, of your fair nieces, of yourself,
of our relations near and distant, of servants also, old and
new. In short, let your practised pen, which for so long a time
you have not dipped into ink for your nephew, now again tint
paper in his favor. Your letter of news shall forthwith be my
credential, with which I introduce myself so soon as I obtain
it. On you, therefore, it depends, whether you will see me or
not. We alter far less than we imagine; and circumstances, too,
continue much as they were. Not only what has altered, but what
has continued, what has by degrees waxed and waned, do I now
wish instantly to recognize at my return, and so once more to
see myself in a well-known mirror. Present my heartiest
salutations to all our people, and believe, that, in the
singular manner of my absence and my return, there may lie more
true affection than is often found in constant participation and
lively intercourse. A thousand compliments to one and all!

_Postscript._--Neglect not, also, my dear aunt, to say a word or
two about our dependants,--how it stands with our stewards and
farmers. What has become of Valerina, the daughter of that
farmer whom my uncle, with justice certainly, but also, as I
thought, with some severity, ejected from his lands when I went
away? You see, I still remember many a particular: I still know
all. On the past you shall examine me when you have told me of
the present.

_The Aunt to Julietta._

At last, dear children, a letter from our three-years’
speechless traveller. What strange beings these strange men are!
He will have it that his wares and tokens were as good as so
many kind words, which friend may speak or write to friend. He
actually fancies himself our creditor, requires from _us_, in
the first place, the performance of that service which _he_ so
unkindly refused. What is to be done? For me, I should have met
his wishes forthwith in a long letter, did not this headache
signify too clearly that the present sheet can scarcely be
filled. We all long to see him. Do you, my dears, undertake the
business. Should I be recovered before you have done, I will
contribute my share. Choose the persons and circumstances, as
you like best to describe them. Divide the task. You will do it
all far better than I. The messenger will bring me back a note
from you.

_Julietta to her Aunt._

We have read and considered, and now send you by the messenger
our view of the matter, each in particular; having first jointly
signified that we are not so charitable as our dear aunt to her
ever perverse nephew. Now, when he has kept his cards hid from
us for three years, and still keeps them hid, we, forsooth, are
to spread ours on the table, and play an open against a secret
game. This is not fair, and yet let it pass; for the craftiest
is often caught, simply by his own over-anxious precautions.
But, as to the way and manner of transacting this commission, we
are not agreed. To write of our familiars as we think of them is
for us, at least, a very strange problem. Commonly we do not
think of them at all, except in this or that particular case,
when they give us some peculiar satisfaction or vexation. At
other times, each lets his neighbor go his way. You alone could
manage it, dear aunt; for you have both the penetration and the
tolerance. Hersilia, who, you know, is not difficult to kindle,
has just, on the spur of the moment, given me a bird’s-eye view
of the whole family in all the graces of caricature. I wish it
stood on paper, to entice a smile from yourself in your illness,
but not that I would have it sent. My own project is, to lay
before him our correspondence for these three years: then let
him read, if he have the heart; or let him come and see with his
eyes, if he have not. Your letters to me, dear aunt, are in the
best order, and all at your service. Hersilia dissents from this
opinion, excuses herself with the disorder of her papers, and so
forth, as she will tell you herself.

_Hersilia to her Aunt._

I will and must be very brief, dear aunt; for the messenger is
clownishly impatient. I reckon it an excess of generosity, and
not at all in season, to submit our correspondence to Lenardo.
What has he to do with knowing all the good we have said of him,
with knowing all the ill we have said of him, and finding out
from the latter, still more than from the former, that we like
him? Hold him tight, I entreat you! There is something so
precise and presumptuous in this demand, in this conduct, of
his,--just the fashion of your young gentlemen when they return
from foreign parts. They can never look on those who have staid
at home as full-grown persons, like themselves. Make your
headache an excuse. He will come, doubtless; and, if he do not
come, we can wait a little. Perhaps his next idea may be, to
introduce himself in some strange, secret way, to become
acquainted with us in disguise; and who knows what more may be
included in the plan of so deep a gentleman? How pretty and
curious this would be! It could not fail to bring about all
manner of embroilments and developments, far grander than any
that could be produced by such a diplomatic entrance into his
family as he now purposes.

The messenger! The messenger! Bring up your old people better,
or send young ones. This man is neither to be pacified with
flattery nor wine. A thousand farewells!

_Postscript for Postscript._--What does our cousin want, will
you tell me, with his postscript of Valerina? This question of
his has struck me doubly. She is the only person whom he
mentions by name. The rest of us are nieces, aunts,
stewards,--not persons, but titles. Valerina, our lawyer’s
daughter! In truth, a pretty, fair-haired girl, that may have
glanced in our gallant cousin’s eyes before he went away. She is
married well and happily: this to you is no news; but to him it
is, of course, as unknown as every thing that has occurred here.
Forget not to inform him, in a postscript, that Valerina grew
daily more and more beautiful, and so at last made a very good
match. That she is the wife of a rich proprietor. That the
lovely, fair-haired maid is married. Make it perfectly distinct
to him. But neither is this all, dear aunt. How the man can so
accurately remember his flaxen-headed beauty, and yet confound
her with the daughter of that worthless farmer, with a wild
humble-bee of a brunette, whose name was Nachodina, and who went
away, Heaven knows whither,--this, I declare to you, remains
entirely incomprehensible, and puzzles me quite excessively. For
it seems as if our pretty cousin, who prides himself on his good
memory, could change names and persons to a very strange degree.
Perhaps he feels this obscurely himself, and would have the
faded image refreshed by your delineation. Hold him tight, I beg
of you! but try to learn, for our own behoof, how it does stand
with these Valerinas and Nachodinas, and how many more Inas and
Trinas have retained their place in his imagination, while the
poor Ettas and Ilias have vanished. The messenger! The cursed
messenger!

_The Aunt to her Nieces._

(DICTATED.)

Why should we dissemble towards those we have to spend our life
with? Lenardo, with all his peculiarities, deserves confidence.
I send him both your letters; from these he will get a view of
you: and the rest of us, I hope, will erelong unconsciously find
occasion to depict ourselves before him likewise. Farewell! My
head is very painful.

_Hersilia to her Aunt._

Why should we dissemble towards those we have to spend our life
with? Lenardo is a spoiled nephew. It is horrible in you to send
him our letters. From these he will get no real view of us; and
I wish, with all my heart, for opportunity to let him view me in
some other light. You give pain to others, while you are in pain
yourself, and blind to boot. Quick recovery to your head! Your
heart is irrecoverable.

_The Aunt to Hersilia._

Thy last note I should likewise have packed in for Lenardo, had
I happened to continue by the purpose which my irrecoverable
heart, my sick head, and my love of ease, suggested to me. Your
letters are not gone. I am just parting with the young man who
has been for some time living in our circle, who, by the
strangest chance, has come to know us pretty well, and is,
withal, of an intelligent and kindly nature. Him I am
despatching. He undertakes the task with great readiness. He
will prepare our nephew, and send or bring him. Thus can your
aunt recollect herself in the course of a rash enterprise, and
bend into another path. Hersilia also will take thought, and a
friendly revocation will not long be wanting from her hand.

Wilhelm having accurately and circumstantially fulfilled this task, Lenardo answered with a smile, “Much as I am obliged to you for what you tell me, I must still put another question. Did not my aunt, in conclusion, request you also to inform me of another, and, seemingly, an unimportant, matter?”

Wilhelm thought a moment. “Yes,” said he then: “I remember. She mentioned a lady, named Valerina. Of her I was to tell you that she is happily wedded, and every way well.”

“You roll a stone from my heart,” replied Lenardo. “I now gladly return home, since I need not fear that my recollection of this girl can reproach me there.”

“It beseems not me to inquire what relation you have had to her,” said Wilhelm: “only you may be at ease if in any way you feel concerned for her fortunes.”

“It is the strangest relation in the world,” returned Lenardo,--“nowise a love-matter, as you might, perhaps, conjecture. I may confide in you, and tell it; as, indeed, there is next to nothing to be told. But what must you think, when I assure you that this faltering in my return, this fear of revisiting our family, these strange preparatives, and inquiries how things looked at home, had no other object but to learn, by the way, how it stood with this young woman?

“For you will believe,” continued he, “I am very well aware that we may leave people whom we know without finding them, even after a considerable time, much altered; and so I likewise expect very soon to be quite at home with my relatives. This single being only gave me pause: her fortune, I knew, must have changed; and, thank Heaven, it has changed for the better.”

“You excite my curiosity,” said Wilhelm. “There must be something singular in this.”

“I, at least, think it so,” replied Lenardo, and began his narrative as follows:--

“To accomplish, in my youth, the grand adventure of a tour through cultivated Europe was a fixed purpose, which I had entertained from boyhood; but the execution of which was, as usually happens in these things, from time to time postponed. What was at hand attracted me, retained me; and the distant lost more and more of its charms the more I read of it or heard it talked of. However, at last, incited by my uncle, allured by friends who had gone forth into the world before me, I did form the resolution, and that more rapidly than any one had been expecting.

“My uncle, who had to afford the main requisite for my enterprise, directly made this his chief concern. You know him, and the way he has,--how he still rushes with his whole force on one single object, and every thing else in the mean while must rest and be silent: by which means, indeed, he has effected much that seemed to lie beyond the influence of any private man. This journey came upon him, in some degree, unawares; yet he very soon took his measures. Some buildings which he had planned, nay, even begun, were abandoned; and, as he never on any account meddles with his accumulated stock, he looked about him, as a prudent financier, for other ways and means. The most obvious plan was, to call in outstanding debts, especially remainders of rent; for this, also, was one of his habits, that he was indulgent to debtors, so long as he himself had, to a certain degree, no need of money. He gave his steward the list, with orders to manage the business. Of individual cases we learned nothing: only I heard transiently, that the farmer of one of our estates, with whom my uncle had long exercised patience, was at last actually to be ejected; his cautionary pledge, a scanty supplement to the produce of this prosecution, to be retained, and the land to be let to some other person. This man was of a religious turn, but not, like others of his sect among us, shrewd and active withal; for his piety and his goodness he was loved by his neighbors, but, at the same time, censured for his weakness, as the master of a house. After the death of his wife, a daughter, whom we usually named the Nut-brown Maid, though already giving promise of activity and resolution, was still too young for taking a decisive management: in short, the man went back in his affairs; and my uncle’s indulgence had not stayed the sinking of his fortune.

“I had my journey in my head, and could not quarrel with the means for accomplishing it. All was ready: packing and sorting went forward; every moment was becoming full of business. One evening I was strolling through the park for the last time, to take leave of my familiar trees and bushes, when all at once Valerina stepped into my way,--for such was the girl’s name: the other was but a by-name, occasioned by her brown complexion. She stepped into my way.”

Lenardo paused for a moment, as if considering. “How is this, then?” said he. “Was her name really Valerina? Yes, surely,” he continued; “but the by-name was more common. In short, the brown maid came into my path, and pressingly entreated me to speak a good word for her father, for herself, to my uncle. Knowing how the matter stood, and seeing clearly that it would be difficult, nay, impossible, to do her any service at this moment, I candidly told her so, and set before her the blameworthiness of her father in an unfavorable light.

“She answered this with so much clearness, and, at the same time, with so much filial mitigation and love, that quite gained me; and, had it been my own money, I should instantly have made her happy by granting her request. But it was my uncle’s income; these were his arrangements, his orders: with such a temper as his, to attempt altering aught that had been done was hopeless. From of old I had looked on a promise as in the highest degree sacred. Whoever asked any thing of me embarrassed me. I had so accustomed myself to refuse, that I did not even promise what I purposed to perform. This habit came in good stead in the present instance. Her arguments turned on individuality and affection, mine on duty and reason; and I will not deny that at last they seemed too harsh, even to myself. Already we had more than once repeated our topics without convincing one another, when necessity made her more eloquent: the inevitable ruin which she saw before her pressed tears from her eyes. Her collected manner she entirely lost: she spoke with vivacity, with emotion; and, as I still kept up a show of coldness and composure, her whole soul turned itself outwards. I wished to end the scene; but all at once she was lying at my feet, had seized my hand, kissed it, and was looking up to me, so good, so gentle, with such supplicating loveliness, that, in the haste of the moment, I forgot myself. Hurriedly I said, while raising her from her kneeling posture, ‘I will do what is possible: compose thyself, my child!’ and so turned into a side-path. ‘Do what is impossible!’ cried she after me. I now knew not what I was saying, but answered, ‘I will,’ and hesitated. ‘Do it!’ cried she, at once enlivened, and with a heavenly expression of hope. I waved a salutation to her, and hastened away.

“To my uncle I did not mean to apply directly; for I knew too well that with him it was vain to speak about the partial, when his purpose was the whole. I inquired for the steward; he had ridden off to a distance: visitors came in the evening, friends wishing to take leave of me. They supped and played till far in the night. They continued next day, and their presence effaced the image of my importunate petitioner. The steward returned: he was busier and more overloaded than ever. All were asking for him: he had no time to hear me. However, I did make an effort to detain him; but scarcely had I named that pious farmer, when he eagerly repelled the proposal. ‘For Heaven’s sake, not a word of this to your uncle, if you would not have a quarrel with him!’ The day of my departure was fixed: I had letters to write, guests to receive, visits in the neighborhood to pay. My servants had been hitherto sufficient for my wants, but were nowise adequate to forward the arrangements of a distant journey. All lay on my own hands; and yet, when the steward appointed me an hour in the night before my departure to settle our money concerns, I neglected not again to solicit him for Valerina’s father.

“‘Dear baron,’ said the unstable man, ‘how can such a thing ever come into your head? To-day already I have had a hard piece of work with your uncle, for the sum you need is turning out to be far higher than we reckoned on. This is natural enough, but not the less perplexing. To the old gentleman it is especially unwelcome, when a business seems concluded, and yet many odds and ends are found straggling after it. This is often the case, and I and the rest have to take the brunt of it. As to the rigor with which the outstanding debts were to be gathered in, he himself laid down the law to me: he is at one with himself on this point, and it would be no easy task to move him to indulgence. Do not try it, I beg of you! It is quite in vain.’

“I let him deter me from my attempt, but not entirely. I pressed him, since the execution of the business depended on himself, to act with mildness and mercy. He promised every thing, according to the fashion of such persons, for the sake of momentary peace. He got quit of me: the bustle, the hurry of business, increased. I was in my carriage, and had turned my back on all home concerns.

“A keen impression is like any other wound: we do not feel it in receiving it. Not till afterwards does it begin to smart and gangrene. So was it with me in regard to this occurrence in the park. Whenever I was solitary, whenever I was unemployed, that image of the entreating maiden, with the whole accompaniment, with every tree and bush, the place where she knelt, the side-path I took to get rid of her, the whole scene, rose like a fresh picture before my soul. It was an indestructible impression, which, by other images and interests, might indeed be shaded or overhung, but never obliterated. Still, in every quiet hour, she came before me; and, the longer it lasted, the more painful did I feel the blame which I had incurred against my principles, against my custom, though not expressly, only while hesitating, and for the first time caught in such a perplexity.

“I failed not, in my earliest letters, to inquire of our steward how the business had turned. He answered evasively. Then he engaged to explain this point; then he wrote ambiguously; at last he became silent altogether. Distance increased; more objects came between me and my home; I was called to many new observations, many new sympathies; the image faded away, the maiden herself, almost to the name. The remembrance of her came more rarely before me; and my whim of keeping up my intercourse with home, not by letters, but by tokens, tended gradually to make my previous situation, with all its circumstances, nearly vanish from my mind. Now, however, when I am again returning home, when I am purposing to repay my family with interest what I have so long owed it, now at last this strange repentance, strange I myself must call it, falls on me with its whole weight. The form of the maiden brightens up with the forms of my relatives: and I dread nothing more deeply than to learn, that, in the misery into which I drove her, she has sunk to ruin; for my negligence appears in my own mind an abetting of her destruction, a furtherance of her mournful destiny. A thousand times I have told myself that this feeling was at bottom but a weakness; that my early adoption of the principle, never to promise, had originated in my fear of repentance, not in any noble sentiment. And now it seems as if Repentance, which I had fled from, meant to avenge herself by seizing this incident, instead of hundreds, to pain me. Yet is the picture, the imagination which torments me, so agreeable withal, so lovely, that I like to linger over it. And, when I think of the scene, that kiss which she imprinted on my hand still seems to burn there.”

Lenardo was silent; and Wilhelm answered quickly and gayly, “It appears, then, I could have done you no greater service than by that appendix to my narrative; as we often find in the postscript the most interesting part of the letter. In truth, I know little of Valerina, for I heard of her only in passing: but, for certain, she is the wife of a prosperous land-owner, and lives happily; as your aunt assured me on taking leave.”

“Good and well,” said Lenardo: “now there is nothing to detain me. You have given me absolution: let us now to my friends, who have already waited for me too long.” To this Wilhelm answered, “Unhappily I cannot attend you; for a strange obligation lies on me to continue nowhere longer than three days, and not to revisit any place in less than a year. Pardon me, if I am not at liberty to mention the cause of this singularity.”

“I am very sorry,” said Lenardo, “that we are to lose you so soon; that I cannot, in my turn, do any thing for you. But, since you are already in the way of showing me kindness, you might make me very happy if you pleased to visit Valerina, to inform yourself accurately of her situation, and then to let me have in writing or in speech (a place of meeting might easily be found,) express intelligence for my complete composure.”

This proposal was further discussed: Valerina’s place of residence had been named to Wilhelm. He engaged to visit her: a place of meeting was appointed, to which the baron should come, bringing Felix with him, who in the mean while had remained with the ladies.

Lenardo and Wilhelm had proceeded on their way for some time, riding together through pleasant fields, with abundance of conversation, when at last they approached the highway, and found the baron’s coach in waiting, now ready to revisit, with its owner, the spot it had left three years before. Here the friends were to part; and Wilhelm, with a few kindly words, took his leave, again promising the baron speedy news of Valerina.

“Now, when I bethink me,” said Lenardo, “that it were but a small circuit if I accompanied you, why should I not visit Valerina myself? Why not witness with my own eyes her happy situation? You were so friendly as to engage to be my messenger, why should you not be my companion? For some companion I must have, some moral counsel; as we take legal counsel to assist us, when we think ourselves inadequate to the perplexities of a process.”

Wilhelm’s objections, that the friends at home would be anxiously expecting the long-absent traveller, that it would produce a strange impression if the carriage came alone, and other reasons of the like sort, had no weight with Lenardo; and Wilhelm was obliged at last to resolve on acting the companion to the baron, a task on which, considering the consequences that might be apprehended, he entered with no great alacrity.

Accordingly the servants were instructed what to say on their arrival, and the two friends now took the road for Valerina’s house. The neighborhood appeared rich and fertile, the true seat of agriculture. Especially the grounds of Valerina’s husband seemed to be managed with great skill and care. Wilhelm had leisure to survey the landscape accurately, while Lenardo rode in silence beside him. At last the latter said, “Another in my place would perhaps try to meet Valerina undiscovered, for it is always a painful feeling to appear before those whom we have injured; but I had rather front this, and bear the reproach which I have to dread from her first look, than secure myself from it by disguise and untruth. Untruth may bring us into embarrassment quite as well as truth; and, when we reckon up how often the former or the latter profits us, it really seems most prudent, once for all, to devote ourselves to what is true. Let us go forward, therefore, with cheerful minds: I will give my name, and introduce you as my friend and fellow-traveller.”

They had now reached the house, and dismounted in the court. A portly man, plainly dressed, whom you might have taken for a farmer, came out to them, and announced himself as master of the family. Lenardo named himself; and the landlord seemed highly delighted to see him, and obtain his acquaintance. “What will my wife say,” cried he, “when she again meets the nephew of her benefactor? She never tires of recounting and reckoning up what her father owes your uncle.”

What strange thoughts rushed in rapid disorder through Lenardo’s mind! “Does this man, who looks so honest-minded, hide his bitterness under a friendly countenance and smooth words? Can he give his reproaches so courteous an outside? For did not my uncle reduce that family to misery? And can the man be ignorant of this? Or,” so thought he to himself, with quick hope, “has the business not been so bad as thou supposest? For no decisive intelligence has ever yet reached thee.” Such conjectures alternated this way and that, while the landlord was ordering out his carriage to bring home his wife, who, it appeared, was paying a visit in the neighborhood.

“If, in the mean while, till my wife return,” said the latter, “I might entertain you in my own way, and at the same time carry on my duties, say you walk a few steps with me into the fields, and look about you how I manage my husbandry; for, no doubt, to you, as a great proprietor of land, there is nothing of more near concernment than the noble science, the noble art, of agriculture.”

Lenardo made no objection: Wilhelm liked to gather information. The landlord had his ground, which he possessed and ruled without restriction, under the most perfect treatment; what he undertook was adapted to his purpose; what he sowed and planted was always in the right place; and he could so clearly explain his mode of procedure, and the reasons of it, that every one comprehended him, and thought it possible for himself to do the same,--a mistake one is apt to fall into on looking at a master, in whose hand all moves as it should do.

The strangers expressed their satisfaction, and had nothing but praise and approval to pronounce on every thing they saw. He received it gratefully and kindly, and at last added, “Now, however, I must show you my weak side, a quality discernible in every one that yields himself exclusively to one pursuit.” He led them to his court-yard, showed them his implements, his store of these, and, besides this, a store of all imaginable sorts of farm-gear, with its appurtenances, kept by way of specimen. “I am often blamed,” said he, “for going too far in this matter; but I cannot quite blame myself. Happy is he to whom his business itself becomes a puppet, who, at length, can play with it, and amuse himself with what his situation makes his duty.”

The two friends were not behindhand with their questions and examinations. Wilhelm, in particular, delighted in the general observations which this man appeared to have a turn for making, and failed not to answer them; while the baron, more immersed in his own thoughts, took silent pleasure in the happiness of Valerina, which, in this situation, he reckoned sure, yet felt underhand a certain faint shadow of dissatisfaction, of which he could give himself no account.

The party had returned within doors, when the lady’s carriage drove up. They hastened out to meet her; but what was Lenardo’s amazement, his fright, when she stepped forth! This was not the person: this was no nut-brown maid, but directly the reverse,--a fair, slim form, in truth, but light-haired, and possessing all the charms which belonged to that complexion.

This beauty, this grace, affrighted Lenardo. His eyes had sought the brown maiden: now quite a different figure glanced before them. These features, too, he recollected; her words, her manners, soon banished all uncertainty; it was the daughter of the lawyer, a man who stood in high favor with the uncle; for which reason also the dowry had been so handsome, and the new pair so generously dealt with. All this, and much more, was gayly recounted by the young wife as an introductory salutation, and with such a joy as the surprise of an unexpected meeting naturally gives rise to. The question, whether they could recognize each other, was mutually put and answered: the changes in look were talked of, which in persons of that age are found notable enough. Valerina was at all times agreeable, but lovely in a high degree when any joyful feeling raised her above her usual level of indifference. The company grew talkative: the conversation became so lively that Lenardo was enabled to compose himself and hide his confusion. Wilhelm, to whom he had very soon given a sign of this strange incident, did his best to help him; and Valerina’s little touch of vanity in thinking that the baron, even before visiting his own friends, had remembered her, and come to see her, excluded any shadow of suspicion that another purpose, or a misconception, could be concerned in the affair.

The party kept together till a late hour, though the two friends were longing for a confidential dialogue; which, accordingly, commenced the moment they were left alone in their allotted chambers.

“It appears,” said Lenardo, “I am not to get rid of this secret pain. A luckless confusion of names, I now observe, redoubles it. This fair-haired beauty I have often seen playing with the brunette, who could not be called a beauty; nay, I myself have often run about with them over the fields and gardens, though so much older than they. Neither of them made the slightest impression on me: I have but retained the name of the one and applied it to the other. And now her who does not concern me I find happy above measure in her own way; while the other is cast forth, who knows whither? into the wide world.”

Next morning the friends were up almost sooner than their active entertainers. The happiness of seeing her guests had also awakened Valerina early. She little fancied with what feelings they came to breakfast. Wilhelm, seeing clearly, that, without some tidings of the nut-brown maid, Lenardo must continue in a painful state, led the conversation to old times, to playmates, to scenes which he himself knew, and other such recollections; so that Valerina soon quite naturally came to speak of the nut-brown maid, and to mention her name.

No sooner did Lenardo hear the name Nachodina, than he perfectly remembered it; but, with the name, the figure also, of that supplicant, returned to him with such violence that Valerina’s further narrative became quite agonizing to him, as with warm sympathy she proceeded to describe the distrainment of the pious farmer, his submissive resignation and departure, and how he went away, leaning on his daughter, who carried a little bundle in her hand. Lenardo was like to sink under the earth. Unhappily and happily, she went into a certain circumstantiality in her details; which, while it tortured Lenardo’s heart, enabled him, with help of his associate, to put on some appearance of composure.

The travellers departed amid warm, sincere invitations, on the part of the married pair, to return soon, and a faint, hollow assent on their own part. And as a person who stands in any favor with himself takes every thing in a favorable light; so Valerina explained Lenardo’s silence, his visible confusion in taking leave, his hasty departure, entirely to her own advantage, and could not, although the faithful and loving wife of a worthy gentleman, help feeling some small satisfaction at this re-awakening or incipient inclination, as she reckoned it, of her former landlord.

After this strange incident, while the friends were proceeding on their way, Lenardo thus addressed Wilhelm: “For our shipwreck with such fair hopes, at the very entrance of the haven, I can still console myself in some degree for the moment, and go calmly to meet my people, when I think that Heaven has brought me you, you to whom, under your peculiar mission, it is indifferent whither or how you direct your path. Engage to find out Nachodina, and to give me tidings of her. If she be happy, then am I content; if unhappy, then help her at my charges. Act without reserve; spare, calculate nothing. I shall return home, shall endeavor to get intelligence, and send your Felix to you by some trusty person. Place the boy, as your intention was, where many of his equals are placed: it is almost indifferent under what superintendence; but I am much mistaken if, in the neighborhood, in the place where I wish you to wait for your son and his attendant, you do not find a man that can give you the best counsel on this point. It is he to whom I owe the training of my youth, whom I should have liked so much to take along with me in my travels, whom, at least, I should many a time have wished to meet in the course of them, had he not already devoted himself to a quiet, domestic life.”

The friends had now reached the spot where they were actually to part. While the horses were feeding, the baron wrote a letter, which Wilhelm took charge of, yet, for the rest, could not help communicating his scruples to Lenardo.

“In my present situation,” said he, “I reckon it a desirable commission to deliver a generous man from distress of mind, and, at the same time, to free a human creature from misery, if she happen to be miserable. Such an object one may look upon as a star, towards which one sails, not knowing what awaits him, what he is to meet, by the way. Yet, with all this, I must not be blind to the danger which, in every case, still hovers over you. Were you not a man who regularly avoids engagements, I should require a promise from you not again to see this female, who has come to be so precious in your eyes, but to content yourself when I announce to you that all is well with her, be it that I actually find her happy, or am enabled to make her so. But, having neither power nor wish to extort a promise from you, I conjure you by all you reckon dear and sacred, for your own sake, for that of your kindred, and of me, your new-acquired friend, to allow yourself no approximation to that lost maiden under what pretext soever; not to require of me that I mention or describe the place where I find her, or the neighborhood where I leave her; but to believe my word that she is well, and be enfranchised and at peace.”

Lenardo gave a smile, and answered, “Perform this service for me, and I shall be grateful. What you are willing and able to do, I commit to your own hands; and, for my self, leave me to time, to common sense, and, if possible, to reason.”

“Pardon me,” answered Wilhelm; “but whoever knows under what strange forms love glides into our hearts, cannot but be apprehensive on foreseeing that a friend may come to entertain wishes, which, in his circumstances, his station, would, of necessity, produce unhappiness and perplexity.”

“I hope,” said Lenardo, “when I know the maiden happy, I have done with her.”

The friends parted, each in his own direction.

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