Transcriber's note: This book contains several brief passages in German, each of which is followed by an English translation. Several of the German words contain "o-umlaut", which has been rendered as "oe". Several others contain the German "Eszett" character, which has been rendered as "ss". 

MEMORIES

A Story of German Love

Translated from the German of

MAX MULLER

by

George P. Upton

ChicagoA. C. McClurg & Co. 

1902

CONTENTS. 

 TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE AUTHOR'S PREFACE FIRST MEMORY SECOND MEMORY THIRD MEMORY FOURTH MEMORY FIFTH MEMORY SIXTH MEMORY SEVENTH MEMORY LAST MEMORY

TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. 

The translation of any work is at best a difficult task, and mustinevitably be prejudicial to whatever of beauty the original possesses. When the principal charm of the original lies in its elegantsimplicity, as in the case of the "Deutsche Liebe, " the difficulty isstill further enhanced. The translator has sought to reproduce thesimple German in equally simple English, even at the risk oftransferring German idioms into the English text. 

The story speaks for itself. Without plot, incidents or situations, itis nevertheless dramatically constructed, unflagging in interest, abounding in beauty, grace and pathos, and filled with the tenderestfeeling of sympathy, which will go straight to the heart of every loverof the ideal in the world of humanity, and every worshipper in theworld of nature. Its brief essays upon theology, literature and socialhabits, contained in the dialogues between the hero and the heroine, will commend themselves to the thoughtful reader by their clearness andbeauty of statement, as well as by their freedom from prejudice. "Deutsche Liebe" is a poem in prose, whose setting is all the morebeautiful and tender, in that it is freed from the bondage of metre, and has been the unacknowledged source of many a poet's most strikingutterances. 

As such, the translator gives it to the public, confident that it willfind ready acceptance among those who cherish the ideal, and a tenderwelcome by every lover of humanity. 

The translator desires to make acknowledgments to J. J. Lalor, Esq. , late of the Chicago _Tribune_ for his hearty co-operation in theprogress of the work, and many valuable suggestions; to Prof. Feuling, the eminent philologist, of the University of Wisconsin, for hisliteral version of the extracts from the "Deutsche Theologie, " whichpreserve the quaintness of the original, and to Mrs. F. M. Brown, forher metrical version of Goethe's almost untranslatable lines, "Ueberallen Gipfeln, ist Ruh, " which form the keynote of the beautifulharmony in the character of the heroine. 

 G. P. U. Chicago, November, 1874. 

AUTHOR'S PREFACE. 

Who has not, at some period of his life, seated himself at awriting-table, where, only a short time before, another sat, who nowrests in the grave? Who has not opened the drawers, which for longyears have hidden the secrets of a heart now buried in the holy peaceof the church-yard? Here lie the letters which were so precious tohim, the beloved one; here the pictures, ribbons, and books with markson every leaf. Who can now read and interpret them? Who can gatheragain the withered and scattered leaves of this rose, and vivify themwith fresh perfume? The flames, in which the Greeks enveloped thebodies of the departed for the purpose of destruction; the flames, intowhich the ancients cast everything once dearest to the living, are nowthe securest repository for these relics. With trembling fear thesurviving friend reads the leaves no eye has ever seen, save those nowso firmly closed, and if, after a glance, too hasty even to read them, he is convinced these letters and leaves contain nothing which men deemimportant, he throws them quickly upon the glowing coals--a flash andthey are gone. 

From such flames the following leaves have been saved. They were atfirst intended only for the friends of the deceased, yet they havefound friends even among strangers, and, since it is so to be, maywander anew in distant lands. Gladly would the compiler have furnishedmore, but the leaves are too much scattered and mutilated to berearranged and given complete. 

FIRST MEMORY. 

Childhood has its secrets and its mysteries; but who can tell or whocan explain them! We have all roamed through this silentwonder-wood--we have all once opened our eyes in blissful astonishment, as the beautiful reality of life overflowed our souls. We knew notwhere, or who, we were--the whole world was ours and we were the wholeworld's. That was an infinite life--without beginning and without end, without rest and without pain. In the heart, it was as clear as thespring heavens, fresh as the violet's perfume--hushed and holy as aSabbath morning. 

What disturbs this God's-peace of the child? How can this unconsciousand innocent existence ever cease? What dissipates the rapture of thisindividuality and universality, and suddenly leaves us solitary andalone in a clouded life?

Say not, with serious face. It is sin! Can even a child sin? Sayrather, we know not, and must only resign ourselves to it. 

Is it sin, which makes the bud a blossom, and the blossom fruit, andthe fruit dust?

Is it sin, which makes the worm a chrysalis, and the chrysalis abutterfly, and the butterfly dust?

And is it sin, which makes the child a man, and the man a gray-hairedman, and the gray-haired man dust? And what is dust?

Say rather, we know not, and must only resign ourselves to it. 

Yet it is so beautiful, recalling the spring-time of life, to look backand remember one's self. Yes, even in the sultry summer, in themelancholy autumn and in the cold winter of life, there is here andthere a spring day, and the heart says: "I feel like spring. " Such aday is this--and so I lay me down upon the soft moss of the fragrantwoods, and stretch out my weary limbs, and look up, through the greenfoliage, into the boundless blue, and think how it used to be in thatchildhood. 

Then, all seems forgotten. The first pages of memory are like the oldfamily Bible. The first leaves are wholly faded and somewhat soiledwith handling. But, when we turn further, and come to the chapterswhere Adam and Eve were banished from Paradise, then, all begins togrow clear and legible. Now if we could only find the title-page withthe imprint and date--but that is irrevocably lost, and, in theirplace, we find only the clear transcript--our baptismalcertificate--bearing witness when we were born, the names of ourparents and godparents, and that we were not issued _sine loco et anno_. 

But, oh this beginning! Would there were none, since, with thebeginning, all thought and memories alike cease. When we thus dreamback into childhood, and from childhood into infinity, this badbeginning continually flies further away. The thoughts pursue it andnever overtake it; just as a child seeks the spot where the blue skytouches the earth, and runs and runs, while the sky always runs beforeit, yet still touches the earth--but the child grows weary and neverreaches the spot. 

But even since we were once there--wherever it may be, where we had abeginning, what do we know now? For memory shakes itself like thespaniel, just come out of the waves, while the water runs in, his eyesand he looks very strangely. 

I believe I can even yet remember when I saw the stars for the firsttime. They may have seen me often before, but one evening it seemed asif it were cold. Although I lay in my mother's lap, I shivered and waschilly, or I was frightened. In short, something came over me whichreminded me of my little Ego in no ordinary manner. Then my mothershowed me the bright stars, and I wondered at them, and thought thatshe had made them very beautifully. Then I felt warm again, and couldsleep well. 

Furthermore, I remember how I once lay in the grass and everythingabout me tossed and nodded, hummed and buzzed. Then there came a greatswarm of little, myriad-footed, winged creatures, which lit upon myforehead and eyes and said, "Good day. " Immediately my eyes smarted, and I cried to my mother, and she said: "Poor little one, how the gnatshave stung him!" I could not open my eyes or see the blue sky anylonger, but my mother had a bunch of fresh violets in her hand, and itseemed as if a dark-blue, fresh, spicy perfume were wafted through mysenses. Even now, whenever I see the first violets, I remember this, and it seems to me that I must close my eyes so that the old dark-blueheaven of that day may again rise over my soul. 

Still further do I remember, how, at another time, a new worlddisclosed itself to me--more beautiful than the star-world or theviolet perfume. It was on an Easter morning, and my mother had dressedme early. Before the window stood our old church. It was notbeautiful, but still it had a lofty roof and tower, and on the tower agolden cross, and it appeared very much older and grayer than the otherbuildings. I wondered who lived in it, and once I looked in throughthe iron-grated door. It was entirely empty, cold and dismal. Therewas not even one soul in the whole building, and after that I alwaysshuddered when I passed the door. But on this Easter morning, it hadrained early, and when the sun came out in full splendor, the oldchurch with the gray sloping roof, the high windows and the tower withthe golden cross glistened with a wondrous shimmer. All at once thelight which streamed through the lofty windows began to move andglisten. It was so intensely bright that one could have looked within, and as I closed my eyes the light entered my soul and thereineverything seemed to shed brilliancy and perfume, to sing and to ring. It seemed to me a new life had commenced in myself and that I wasanother being, and when I asked my mother what it meant, she replied itwas an Easter song they were singing in the church. What bright, holysong it was, which at that time surged through my soul, I have neverbeen able to discover. It must have been an old church hymn, likethose which many a time stirred the rugged soul of our Luther. I neverheard it again, but many a time even now when I hear an adagio ofBeethoven's, or a psalm of Marcellus, or a chorus of Handel's, or asimple song in the Scotch Highlands or the Tyrol, it seems to me as ifthe lofty church windows again glistened and the organ-tones once moresurged through my soul, and a new world revealed itself--more beautifulthan the starry heavens and the violet perfume. 

These things I remember in my earliest childhood, and intermingled withthem are my dear mother's looks, the calm, earnest gaze of my father, gardens and vine leaves, and soft green turf, and a very old and quaintpicture-book--and this is all I can recall of the first scatteredleaves of my childhood. 

Afterwards it grows brighter and clearer. Names and faces appear--notonly father and mother, but brothers and sisters, friends and teachers, and a multitude of _strange people_. Ah! yes, of these _strangepeople_ there is so much recorded in memory. 

SECOND MEMORY. 

Not far from our house, and opposite the old church with the goldencross, stood a large building, even larger than the church, and havingmany towers. They looked exceedingly gray and old and had no goldencross, but stone eagles tipped the summits and a great white and bluebanner fluttered from the highest tower, directly over the loftydoorway at the top of the steps, where, on either side, two mountedsoldiers stood sentinels. The building had many windows, and behindthe windows you could distinguish red-silk curtains with goldentassels. Old lindens encircled the grounds, which, in summer, overshadowed the gray masonry with their green leaves and bestrewed theturf with their fragrant white blossoms. I had often looked in there, and at evening when the lindens exhaled their perfumes and the windowswere illuminated, I saw many figures pass and repass like shadows. Music swept down from on high, and carriages drove up, from whichladies and gentlemen alighted and ascended the stairs. They all lookedso beautiful and good! The gentlemen had stars upon their breasts, andthe ladies wore fresh flowers in their hair; and I often thought, --Whydo I not go there too?

One day my father took me by the hand and said: "We are going to thecastle; but you must be very polite if the Princess speaks to you, andkiss her hand. "

I was about six years of age and as delighted as only one can be at sixyears of age. I had already indulged in many quiet fancies about theshadows which I had seen evenings through the lighted windows, and hadheard many good things at home of the beneficence of the Prince andPrincess; how gracious they were; how much help and consolation theybrought to the poor and sick; and that they had been chosen by thegrace of God to protect the good and punish the bad. I had longpictured to myself what transpired in the castle, so that the Princeand Princess were already old acquaintances whom I knew as well as mynut-crackers and leaden soldiers. 

My heart beat quickly as I ascended the high stairs with my father, andjust as he was telling me I must call the Princess "Highness, " and thePrince "Serene Highness, " the folding-door opened and I saw before me atall figure with brilliantly piercing eyes. She seemed to advance andstretch out her hand to me. There was an expression on her countenancewhich I had long known, and a heavenly smile played about her cheeks. I could restrain myself no longer, and while my father stood at thedoor bowing very low--I knew not why--my heart sprang into my throat. I ran to the beautiful lady, threw my arms round her neck and kissedher as I would my mother. The beautiful, majestic lady willinglysubmitted, stroked my hair and smiled; but my father took my hand, ledme away, and said I was very rude, and that he should never take methere again. I grew utterly bewildered. The blood mounted to mycheeks, for I felt that my father had been unjust to me. I looked atthe Princess as if she ought to shield me, but upon her face was onlyan expression of mild earnestness. Then I looked round upon the ladiesand gentlemen assembled in the room, believing that they would come tomy defense. But as I looked, I saw that they were laughing. Then thetears sprang into my eyes, and out of the door, down the stairs, andpast the lindens in the castle yard, I rushed home, where I threwmyself into my mother's arms and sobbed and wept. 

"What has happened to you?" said she. 

"Oh! mother!" I cried; "I was at the Princess', and she was such a goodand beautiful woman, just like you, dear mother, that I had to throw myarms round her neck and kiss her. "

"Ah!" said my mother; "you should not have done that, for they arestrangers and high dignitaries. "

"And what then are strangers?" said I. 

"May I not love all people who look upon me with affectionate andfriendly eyes?"

"You can love them, my son, " replied my mother, "but you should notshow it. "

"Is it then something wrong for me to love people?" said I. "Whycannot I show it?"

"Well, perhaps you are right, " said she, "but you must do as yourfather says, and when you are older you will understand why you cannotembrace every woman who regards you with affectionate and friendlyeyes. "

That was a sad day. Father came home, agreed I had been very uncivil. At night my mother put me to bed, and I prayed, but I could not sleep, and kept wondering what these strange people were, whom one must notlove. 

 * * * * *

Thou poor human heart! So soon in the spring are thy leaves broken andthe feathers torn from the wings! When the spring-red of life opensthe hidden calyx of the soul, it perfumes our whole being with love. We learn to stand and to walk, to speak and to read, but no one teachesus love. It is inherent in us like life, they say, and is the verydeepest foundation of our existence. As the heavenly bodies incline toand attract each other, and will always cling together by theeverlasting law of gravitation, so heavenly souls incline to andattract each other, and will always cling together by the everlastinglaw of love. A flower cannot blossom without sunshine, and man cannotlive without love. Would not the child's heart break in despair whenthe first cold storm of the world sweeps over it, if the warm sunlightof love from the eyes of mother and father did not shine upon him likethe soft reflection of divine light and love? The ardent yearning, which then awakes in the child, is the purest and deepest love. It isthe love which embraces the whole world; which shines resplendentwherever the eyes of men beam upon it, which exults wherever it hearsthe human voice. It is the old, immeasurable love, a deep well whichno plummet has ever sounded; a fountain of perennial richness. Whoeverknows it also knows that in love there is no More and no Less; but thathe who loves can only love with the whole heart, and with the wholesoul; with all his strength and with all his will. 

But, alas, how little remains of this love by the time we have finishedone-half of our life-journey! Soon the child learns that there arestrangers, and ceases to be a child. The spring of love becomes hiddenand soon filled up. Our eyes gleam no more, and heavy-hearted we passone another in the bustling streets. We scarcely greet each other, forwe know how sharply it cuts the soul when a greeting remainsunanswered, and how sad it is to be sundered from those whom we haveonce greeted, and whose hands we have clasped. The wings of the soullose their plumes; the leaves of the flower fast fall off and wither;and of this fountain of love there remain but a few drops. We stillcall these few drops love, but it is no longer the clear, fresh, all-abounding child-love. It is love with anxiety and trouble, aconsuming flame, a burning passion; love which wastes itself likerain-drops upon the hot sand; love which is a longing, not a sacrifice;love which says "Wilt thou be mine, " not love which says, "I must bethine. " It is a most selfish, vacillating love. And this is the lovewhich poets sing and in which young men and maidens believe; a firewhich burns up and down, yet does not warm, and leaves nothing behindbut smoke and ashes. All of us at some period of life have believedthat these rockets of sunbeams were everlasting love, but the brighterthe glitter, the darker the night which follows. 

And then when all around grows dark, when we feel utterly alone, whenall men right and left pass us by and know us not, a forgotten feelingrises in the breast. We know not what it is, for it is neither lovenor friendship. You feel like crying to him who passes you so cold andstrange: "Dost thou not know me?" Then one realizes that man is nearerto man than brother to brother, father to son, or friend to friend. How an old, holy saying rings through our souls, that strangers arenearest to us. Why must we pass them in silence? We know not, butmust resign ourselves to it. When two trains are rushing by upon theiron rails and thou seest a well-known eye that would recognize thee, stretch out thy hand and try to grasp the hand of a friend, and perhapsthou wilt understand why man passes man in silence here below. 

An old sage says: "I saw the fragments of a wrecked boat floating onthe sea. Only a few meet and hold together a long time. Then comes astorm and drives them east and west, and here below they will nevermeet again. So it is with mankind. Yet no one has seen the greatshipwreck. "

THIRD MEMORY. 

The clouds in the sky of childhood do not last long, and disappearafter a short, warm tear-rain. I was shortly again at the castle, andthe Princess gave me her hand to kiss and then brought her children, the young princes and princesses, and we played together, as if we hadknown each other for years. Those were happy days when, afterschool--for I was now attending school--I could go to the castle andplay. We had everything the heart could wish. I found playthingsthere which my mother had shown me in the shop-windows, and which wereso dear, she told me, that poor people could live a whole week on whatthey cost. When I begged the Princess' permission to take them homeand show them to my mother, she was perfectly willing. I could turnover and over and look for hours at a time at beautiful picture books, which I had seen in the book stores with my father, but which were madeonly for very good children. Everything which belonged to the youngprinces belonged also to me--so I thought, at least. Furthermore, Iwas not only allowed to carry away what I wished, but I often gave awaythe playthings to other children. In short, I was a young Communist, in the full sense of the term. I remember at one time the Princess hada golden snake which coiled itself around her arm as if it were alive, and she gave it to us for a plaything. As I was going home I put thesnake on my arm and thought I would give my mother a real fright withit. On the way, however, I met a woman who noticed the snake andbegged me to show it to her; and then she said if she could only keepthe golden snake, she could release her husband from prison with it. Naturally I did not stop to think for a minute, but ran away and leftthe woman alone with the golden serpent-bracelet. The next day therewas much excitement. The poor woman was brought to the castle and thepeople said she had stolen it. Thereupon I grew very angry andexplained with holy zeal that I had given her the bracelet and that Iwould not take it back again. What further occurred I know not, but Iremember that after that time, I showed the Princess everything I tookhome with me. 

It was a long time before my conceptions of Meum and Tuum were fullysettled, and at a very late period they were at times confused, just asit was a long time before I could distinguish between the blue and redcolors. The last time I remember my friends laughing at me on thisaccount was when my mother gave me some money to buy apples. She gaveme a groschen. The apples cost only a sechser, and when I gave thewoman the groschen, she said, very sadly as it seemed to me, that shehad sold nothing the whole livelong day and could not give me back asechser. She wished I would buy a groschen's worth. Then it occurredto me that I also had a sechser in my pocket, and thoroughly delightedthat I had solved the difficult problem, I gave it to the woman andsaid: "Now you can give me back a sechser. " She understood me solittle however that she gave me back the groschen and kept the sechser. 

At this time, while I was making almost daily visits to the youngprinces at the castle, both to play as well as to study French withthem, another image comes up in my memory. It was the daughter of thePrincess, the Countess Marie. The mother died shortly after the birthof the child and the Prince subsequently married a second time. I knownot when I saw her for the first time. She emerges from the darknessof memory slowly and gradually--at first like an airy shadow whichgrows more and more distinct as it approaches nearer and nearer, atlast standing before my soul like the moon, which on some stormy nightthrows back the cloud-veils from across its face. She was always sickand suffering and silent, and I never saw her except reclining upon hercouch, upon which two servants brought her into the room and carriedher out again, when she was tired. There she lay in her flowing whitedrapery, with her hands generally folded. Her face was so pale and yetso mild, and her eyes so deep and unfathomable, that I often stoodbefore her lost in thought and looked upon her and asked myself if shewas not one of the "strange people" also. Many a time she placed herhand upon my head and then it seemed to me that a thrill ran throughall my limbs and that I could not move or speak, but must forever gazeinto her deep, unfathomable eyes. She conversed very little with us, but watched our sports, and when at times we grew very noisy andquarrelsome, she did not complain but held her white hands over herbrow and closed her eyes as if sleeping. But there were days when shesaid she felt better, and on such days she sat up on her couch, conversed with us and told us curious stories. I do not know how oldshe was at that time. She was so helpless that she seemed like achild, and yet was so serious and silent that she could not have beenone. When people alluded to her they involuntarily spoke gently andsoftly. They called her "the angel, " and I never heard anything saidof her that was not good and lovely. Often when I saw her lying sosilent and helpless, and thought that she would never walk again inlife, that there was for her neither work nor joy, that they wouldcarry her here and there upon her couch until they laid her upon hereternal bed of rest, I asked myself why she had been sent into thisworld, when she could have rested so gently on the bosom of the angelsand they could have borne her through the air on their white wings, asI had seen in some sacred pictures. Again I felt as if I must take apart of her burden, so that she need not carry it alone, but we withher. I could not tell her all this for I knew it was not proper. Ihad an indefinable feeling. It was not a desire to embrace her. Noone could have done that, for it would have wronged her. It seemed tome as if I could pray from the very bottom of my heart that she mightbe released from her burden. 

One warm spring day she was brought into our room. She lookedexceedingly pale; but her eyes were deeper and brighter than ever, andshe sat upon her couch and called us to her. "It is my birth-day, "said she, "and I was confirmed early this morning. Now, it ispossible, " she continued as she looked upon her father with a smile, "that God may soon call me to him, although I would gladly remain withyou much longer. But if I am to leave you, I desire that you shouldnot wholly forget me; and, therefore, I have brought a ring for each ofyou, which you must now place upon the fore-finger. As you grow olderyou can continue to change it until it fits the little finger; but youmust wear it for your lifetime. "

With these words she took the five rings she wore upon her fingers, which she drew off, one after the other, with a look so sad and yet soaffectionate, that I pressed my eyes closely to keep from weeping. Shegave the first ring to her eldest brother and kissed him, the secondand third to the two princesses, and the fourth to the youngest prince, and kissed them all as she gave them the rings. I stood near by, and, looking fixedly at her white hand, saw that she still had a ring uponher finger; but she leaned back and appeared wearied. My eyes methers, and as the eyes of a child speak so loudly, she must have easilyknown my thoughts, I would rather not have had the last ring, for Ifelt that I was a stranger; that I did not belong to her, and that shewas not as affectionate to me as to her brothers and sisters. Thencame a sharp pain in my breast as if a vein had burst or a nerve hadbeen severed, and I knew not which way to turn to conceal my anguish. 

She soon raised herself again, placed her hand upon my forehead andlooked down into my heart so deeply that I felt I had not a thoughtinvisible to her. She slowly drew the last ring from her finger, gaveit to me and said; "I intended to have taken this with me, when I wentfrom you, but it is better you should wear it and think of me when I amno longer with you. Read the words engraved upon the ring: 'As Godwills. ' You have a passionate heart, easily moved. May life subduebut not harden it. " Then she kissed me as she had her brothers andgave me the ring. 

All my feelings I do not truly know. I had then grown up to boyhood, and the mild beauty of the suffering angel could not linger in my youngheart without alluring it. I loved her as only a boy can love, andboys love with an intensity and truth and purity which few preserve intheir youth and manhood; but I believed she belonged to the "strangepeople" to whom you are not allowed to speak of love. I scarcelyunderstood the earnest words she spoke to me. I only felt that hersoul was as near to mine as one human soul can be to another. Allbitterness was gone from my heart. I felt myself no longer alone, nolonger a stranger, no longer shut out. I was by her, with her and inher. I thought it might be a sacrifice for her to give me the ring, and that she might have preferred to take it to the grave with her, anda feeling arose in my soul which overshadowed all other feelings, and Isaid with quivering voice: "Thou must keep the ring if thou dost notwish to give it to me; for what is thine is mine. " She looked at me amoment surprised and thoughtfully. Then she took the ring, placed iton her finger, kissed me once more on the forehead, and said gently tome: "Thou knowest not what thou sayest. Learn to understand thyself. Then shall thou be happy and make many others happy. "

FOURTH MEMORY. 

Every life has its years in which one progresses as on a tedious anddusty street of poplars, without caring to know where he is. Of theseyears nought remains in memory but the sad feeling that we haveadvanced and only grown older. While the river of life glides alongsmoothly, it remains the same river; only the landscape on either bankseems to change. But then come the cataracts of life. They are firmlyfixed in memory, and even when we are past them and far away, and drawnearer and nearer to the silent sea of eternity, even then it seems asif we heard from afar their rush and roar. We feel that the life-forcewhich yet remains and impels us onward still has its source and supplyfrom those cataracts. 

School time was ended, the first fleeting years of university life wereover, and many beautiful life-dreams were over also. But one of themstill remained: Faith in God and man. Otherwise life would have beencircumscribed within one's narrow brain. Instead of that, a noblerconsecration had preserved all, and even the painful andincomprehensible events of life became a proof to me of theomnipresence of the divine in the earthly. "The least important thingdoes not happen except as God wills it. " This was the brieflife-wisdom I had accumulated. 

During the summer holidays I returned to my little native city. Whatjoy in these meetings again! No one has explained it, but in thisseeing and finding again, and in these self-memories, lie the realsecrets of all joy and pleasure. What we see, hear or taste for thefirst time may be beautiful, grand and agreeable, but it is too new. It overpowers, but gives no repose, and the fatigue of enjoying isgreater than the enjoyment itself. To hear again, years afterward, anold melody, every note of which we supposed we had forgotten, and yetto recognize it as an old acquaintance; or, after the lapse of manyyears, to stand once more before the Sistine Madonna at Dresden, andexperience afresh all the emotions which the infinite look of the childaroused in us for years; or to smell a flower or taste a dish againwhich we have not thought of since childhood--all these produce such anintense charm that we do not know which we enjoy most, the actualpleasure or the old memory. So when we return again, after longabsence, to our birth-place, the soul floats unconsciously in a sea ofmemories, and the dancing waves dreamily toss themselves upon theshores of times long passed. The belfry clock strikes and we fear weshall be late to school, and recovering from this fear feel relievedthat our anxiety is over. The same dog runs along the street on whoseaccount we used to go far out of our way. Here sits the old hucksterwhose apples often led us into temptation, and even now, we fancy theymust taste better than all other apples in the world, notwithstandingthe dust on them. There one has torn down a house and built a new one. Here the old music-teacher lived. He is dead--and yet how beautiful itseemed as we stood and listened on summer evenings under the windowwhile the True Soul, when the hours of the day were over, indulged inhis own enjoyment and played fantasies, like the roaring and hissingengine letting off the steam which has accumulated during the day. Here in this little leafy lane, which seemed at that time so muchlarger, as I was coming home late one evening, I met our neighbor'sbeautiful daughter. At that time I had never ventured to look at oraddress her, but we school-children often spoke of her and called her"the Beautiful Maiden, " and whenever I saw her passing along the streetat a distance I was so happy that I could only think of the time when Ishould meet her nearer. Here in this leafy walk which leads to thechurch-yard, I met her one evening and she took me by the arm, althoughwe had never spoken together before, and asked me to go home with her. I believe neither of us spoke a word the whole way; but I was so happythat even now, after all these years, I wish it were that evening, andthat I could go home again, silently and blissfully, with "theBeautiful Maiden. "

Thus one memory follows another until the waves dash together over ourheads, and a deep sigh swells the breast, which warns us that we haveforgotten to breathe in the midst of these pure thoughts. Then all atonce, the whole dream-world vanishes, like uprisen ghosts at thecrowing of the cock. 

As I passed by the old castle and the lindens, and saw the sentinelsupon their horses, how many memories awakened in my soul, and howeverything had changed! Many years had flown since I was at thecastle. The Princess was dead. The Prince had given up his rule andgone back to Italy, and the oldest prince, with whom I had grown up, was regent. His companions were young noblemen and officers, whoseintercourse was congenial to him, and whose company in our early dayshad often estranged us. Other circumstances combined to weaken ouryoung friendship. Like every young man who perceives for the firsttime the lack of unity in the German folk-life, and the defects ofGerman rule, I had caught up some phrases of the Liberal party, whichsounded as strangely at court as unseemly expressions in an honestminister's family. In short, it was many years since I had ascendedthose stairs, and yet a being dwelt in that castle whose name I hadnamed almost daily, and who was almost constantly present in my memory. I had long dwelt upon the thought that I should never see her again inthis life. She was transformed into an image which I felt neither didnor could exist in reality. She had become my good angel--my otherself, to whom I talked instead of talking with myself. How she becameso I could not explain to myself, for I scarcely knew her. Just as theeye sometimes pictures figures in the clouds, so I fancied myimagination had conjured up this sweet image in the heaven of mychildhood, and a complete picture of phantasy developed itself out ofthe scarcely perceptible outlines of reality. My entire thought hadinvoluntarily become a dialogue with her, and all that was good in me, all for which I struggled, all in which I believed, my entire betterself, belonged to her. I gave it to her. I received it from her, fromher my good angel. 

I had been at home but a few days, when I received a letter onemorning. It was written in English, and came from the Countess Marie:

_Dear Friend_: I hear you are with us for a short time. We have notmet for many years, and if it is agreeable to you, I should like to seean old friend again. You will find me alone this afternoon in theSwiss Cottage. Yours sincerely, MARIE. 

I immediately replied, also in English, that I would call in theafternoon. 

The Swiss Cottage constituted a wing of the castle, which overlookedthe garden, and could be reached without going through the castle yard. It was five o'clock when I passed through the garden and approached thecottage. I repressed all emotion and prepared myself for a formalmeeting. I sought to quiet my good angel, and to assure her that thislady had nothing to do with her. And yet I felt very uneasy, and mygood angel would not listen to counsel. Finally I took courage, murmuring something to myself about the masquerade of life, and rappedon the door, which stood ajar. 

There was no one in the room except a lad whom I did not know, and wholikewise spoke English, and said the Countess would be present in amoment. She then left, and I was alone, and had time to look about. 

The walls of the room were of rose-chestnut, and over an openworktrellis, a luxuriant broadleaved ivy twined around the whole room. Allthe tables and chairs were of carved rose-chestnut. The floor was ofvariegated woodwork. It gave me a curious sensation to see so muchthat was familiar in the room. Many articles from our old play-room inthe castle were old friends, but the others were new, especially thepictures, and yet they were the same as those in my Universityroom--the same portraits of Beethoven, Handel and Mendelssohn, as I hadselected--hung over the grand piano. In one corner I saw the Venus diMilo, which I always regarded as the masterpiece of antiquity. On thetable were volumes of Dante, Shakspeare, Tauler's Sermons, the "GermanTheology, " Ruckert's Poems, Tennyson and Burns, and Carlyle's "Past andPresent, "--the very same books--all of which I had had but recently inmy hands. I was growing thoughtful, but I repressed my thoughts andwas just standing before the portrait of the deceased Princess, whenthe door opened, and the same two servants, whom I had so often seen inchildhood, brought the Countess into the room upon her couch. 

What a vision! She spoke not a word, and her countenance was as placidas the sea, until the servants left the room. Then her eyes soughtme--the old, deep, unfathomable eyes. Her expression grew moreanimated each instant. At last her whole face lit up, and she said:

"We are old friends--I believe; we have not changed. I cannot say'You, ' and if I may not say 'Thou, ' then we must speak in English. Doyou understand me?"

I had not anticipated such a reception, for I saw here was nomasquerade--here was a soul which longed for another soul--here was agreeting like that between two friends who recognize each other by theglance of the eye, notwithstanding their disguises and dark masks. Iseized the hand she held out to me, and replied: "When we address anangel, we cannot say 'You. '"

And yet how singular, is the influence of the forms and habits of life!How difficult it is to speak the language of nature even to the mostcongenial souls! Our conversation halted, and both of us felt theembarrassment of the moment. I broke the silence and spoke out mythoughts: "Men become accustomed to live from youth up as it were in acage, and when they are once in the open air they dare not venture touse their wings, fearing, if they fly, that they may stumble againsteverything. "

"Yes, " replied she, "and that is very proper and cannot well beotherwise. One often wishes that he could live like the birds whichfly in the woods, and meet upon the branches and sing together withoutbeing presented to each other. But, my friend, even among the birdsthere are owls and sparrows, and in life it is well that one can passthem without knowing them. It is sometimes with life as with poetry. As the real poet can express the Truest and most Beautiful, althoughfettered by metrical form, so man should know how to preserve freedomof thought and feeling notwithstanding the restraints of society. "

I could not help recalling the words of Platen: "That which provesitself everlasting under all circumstances, told in the fetters ofwords, is the unfettered spirit. "

"Yes, " said she, with a cordial but sweetly playful smile; "but I havea privilege which is at the same time my burden and loneliness. Ioften pity the young men and maidens, for they cannot have a friendshipor an intimacy without their relatives or themselves pronouncing itlove, or what they call love. They lose much on this account. Themaiden knows not what slumbers in her soul, and what might be awakenedby earnest conversation with a noble friend; and the young man in turnwould acquire so much knightly virtue if women were suffered to be thedistant witnesses of the inner struggles of the spirit. It will notdo, however, for immediately love comes in play, or what they calllove--the quick beating of the heart--the stormy billows of hope--thedelight over a beautiful face--the sweet sentimentality--sometimes alsoprudent calculation--in short, all that troubles the calm sea, which isthe true picture of pure human love------"

She checked herself suddenly, and an expression of pain passed over hercountenance. "I dare not talk more to-day, " said she; "my physicianwill not allow it. I would like to hear one of Mendelssohn'ssongs--that duet, which my young friend used to play years ago. Is itnot so?"

I could not answer, for as she ceased speaking and gently folded herhands, I saw upon her hand a ring. She wore it on her littlefinger--the ring which she had given me and I had given her. Thoughtscame too fast for utterance, and I seated myself at the piano andplayed. When I had done, I turned around and said: "Would one couldonly speak thus in tones without words!"

"That is possible, " said she; "I understood it all. But I must not doanything more to-day, for every day I grow weaker. We must be betteracquainted, and a poor sick recluse may certainly claim forbearance. We meet to-morrow evening, at the same hour; shall we not?"

I seized her hand and was about to kiss it, but she held my handfirmly, pressed it and said: "It is better thus. Good bye. "

FIFTH MEMORY. 

It would be difficult to describe my thoughts and emotions as I wenthome. The soul cannot at once translate itself perfectly in words, andthere are "thoughts without words, " which in every man are the preludeof supreme joy and suffering. It was neither joy nor pain, only anindescribable bewilderment which I felt; thoughts flew through myinnermost being like meteors, which shoot from heaven towards earth butare extinguished before they reach the goal. As we sometimes say in adream, "I am dreaming, " so I said to myself "thou livest"--"it is she. "I tried again to reflect and calm myself, and said, "She is a lovelyvision--a very wonderful spirit. " At another time, I pictured thedelightful evenings I should pass during the holidays. But no, no, this cannot be. She is everything I sought, thought, hoped andbelieved. Here was at last a human soul, as clear and fresh as aspring morning. I had seen at the first glance what she was and howshe felt, and we had greeted and recognized one another. And my goodangel in me, she answered me no more. She was gone and I felt therewas no place on earth where I should find her again. 

Now began a beautiful life, for I was with her every evening. We soonrealized that we were in truth old acquaintances and that we could onlycall each other Thou. It seemed also as if we had lived near and withone another always, for she manifested not an emotion that did not findits counterpart in my soul, and there was no, thought which I utteredto which she did not nod friendly assent, as much as to say: "I thoughtso too. " I had previously heard the greatest master of our time andhis sister extemporize on the piano, and scarcely comprehended how twopersons could understand and feel themselves so perfectly and yetnever, not even in a single note, disturb the harmony of their playing. Now it became intelligible to me. Yes, now I understood for the firsttime that my soul was not so poor and empty as it had seemed to me, andthat it had been only the sun that was lacking to open all its germs, and buds to the light. And yet what a sad and brief spring-time it wasthat our souls experienced! We forget in May that roses so soonwither, but here every evening reminded us that one leaf after anotherwas falling to the ground. She felt it before I did, and alluded to itapparently without pain, and our interviews grew more earnest andsolemn daily. 

One evening, as I was about to leave, she said: "I did not think Ishould grow so old. When I gave you the ring on my confirmation day Ithought I should have to take my departure from you all, very soon. And yet I have lived so many years, and enjoyed so much beauty--andsuffered so very much! But one forgets that! Now, while I feel thatmy departure is near, every hour, every minute, grows precious to me. Good night! Do not come too late to-morrow. "

One day as I went into her room, I met an Italian painter with her. She spoke Italian with him, and although he was evidently more artisanthan artist, she addressed him with such amiability and modesty, withsuch respect even, one could not avoid recognizing that nobility ofsoul which is the true nobility of birth. When the painter had takenhis leave, she said to me: "I wish to show you a picture which willplease you. The original is in the gallery at Paris. I read adescription of it, and have had it copied by the Italian. " She showedme the painting, and waited my opinion. It was a picture of a man ofmiddle age, in the old German costume. The expression was dreamy andresigned, and so characteristic that no one could doubt this man oncelived. The whole tone of the picture in the foreground was dark andbrownish; but in the background was a landscape, and on the horizon thefirst gleams of daybreak appeared. I could discover nothing special inthe picture, and yet it produced a feeling of such satisfaction thatone might have tarried to look at it for hours at a time. "There isnothing like a genuine human face, " said I; "Raphael himself could nothave imagined a face like this. "

"No, " said she. "But now I will tell you why I wished to have thepicture. I read that no one knew the artist, nor whom the picturerepresents. But it is very clearly a philosopher of the Middle Ages. Just such a picture I wanted for my gallery, for you are aware that noone knows the author of the 'German Theology, ' and moreover, that wehave no picture of him. I wished to try whether the picture of anUnknown by an Unknown would answer for our German theologian, and ifyou have no objections we will hang it here between the 'Albigenses'and the 'Diet of Worms, ' and call it the 'German Theologian. '"

"Good, " said I; "but it is somewhat too vigorous and manly for theFrankforter. "

"That may be, " replied she. "But for a suffering and dying life likemine, much consolation and strength may be derived from his book. Ithank him much, for it disclosed to me for the first time the truesecret of Christian doctrine in all its simplicity. I felt that I wasfree to believe or disbelieve the old teacher, whoever he may havebeen, for his doctrines had no external constraint upon me; at last itseized upon me with such power that it seemed to me I knew for thefirst time what revelation was. It is precisely this fact that bars somany out from true Christianity, namely: that its doctrines confront usas revelation before revelation takes place in ourselves. This hasoften given me much anxiety; not that I had ever doubted the truth anddivinity of our religion, but I felt I had no right to a belief whichothers had given me, and that what I, had learned and received when achild, without comprehending, did not belong to me. One can believefor us as little as one can live and die for us. "

"Certainly, " said I; "therein lies the cause of many hot and bitterstruggles; that the teachings of Christ, instead of winning our heartsgradually and irresistibly, as they won the hearts of the apostles andearly Christians, confront us from the earliest childhood as theinfallible law of a mighty church, and demand of us an unconditionalsubmission, which they call faith. Doubts arise sooner or later in thebreast of every one who has the power of thinking and reverence for thetruth; and then even when we are on the right road, to overcome ourfaith, the terrors of doubt and unbelief arise and disturb the tranquildevelopment of the new life. "

"I read recently in an English work, " she interrupted, "that truthmakes revelation, and not revelation truth. This perfectly expressedwhat I found in reading the 'German Theology. ' I read the book, and Ifelt the power of its truths so overwhelmingly that I was compelled tosubmit to it. The truth was revealed to me; or rather, I was revealedto myself, and I felt for the first time what belief meant. The truthwhich had long slumbered in my soul belonged to me, but it was the wordof the unknown teacher which filled me with light, illuminated my innervision, and brought out my indistinct presentiments in fuller clearnessbefore my soul. When I had thus experienced for the first time how thehuman soul can believe, I read the Gospels as if they, too, had beenwritten by an Unknown man, and banished the thought as well as I couldthat they were an inspiration from the Holy Ghost to the apostles, insome wonderful manner; that they had been endorsed by the councils andproclaimed by the church as the supreme authority of the alone-savingbelief. Then, for the first time, I understood what Christian faithand revelation were. "

"It is wonderful, " said I, "that the theologians have not broken downall religion, and they will succeed yet, if the believers do notseriously confront them and say: 'Thus far but no farther. ' Everychurch must have its servants, but there has been as yet no religionwhich the Priests, the Brahmins, the Schamins, the Bonzes, the Lamas, the Pharisees, or the Scribes have not corrupted and perverted. Theywrangle and dispute in a language unintelligible to nine-tenths oftheir congregations, and instead of permitting themselves to beinspired by the apostles, and of inspiring others with theirinspiration, they construct long arguments to show that the Gospelsmust be true, because they were written by inspired men. But this isonly a makeshift for their own unbelief. How can they know that thesemen were inspired in a wonderful manner, without ascribing tothemselves a still more wonderful inspiration? Therefore they extendthe gift of inspiration to the fathers of the church; they attribute tothem those very things which the majority have incorporated in thecanons of the councils; and there again, when the question arises howwe know that of fifty bishops twenty-six were inspired and twenty-fourwere not, they finally take the last desperate step, and say thatinfallibility and inspiration are inherent in the heads of the churchdown to the present day, through the laying on of hands, so thatinfallibility, majority and inspiration make all our convictions, allresignation, all devout intuitions, superfluous. And yet, notwithstanding all these connecting links, the first question returnsin all its simplicity: How can B know that A is inspired, if B is notequally, or even more, inspired than A? For it is of more consequenceto know that A was inspired than for one's self to be inspired. "

"I have never comprehended this so clearly myself, " said she. "But Ihave often felt how difficult it must be to know whether one loves whoshows not a sign of love that could not be imitated. And, again, Ihave thought that no one could know it unless he knew love himself, andthat he could only believe in the love of another so far as he believedin his own love. As with the gift of love so is it with the gift ofthe Holy Spirit. They upon whom it descended heard a rushing fromheaven as of a mighty wind, and there appeared to them cloven tongueslike as of fire. But the rest were either amazed and perplexed, orthey made sport of them and said: 'They are full of sweet wine. '

"Still, as I said to you, it is the 'German Theology' to which I amindebted for learning to believe in my belief, and what will seem aweakness to many, strengthened me the most; namely, that the old masternever stops to demonstrate his propositions rigidly, but scatters themlike a sower, in the hope that some grains will fall upon good soil andbear fruit a thousand fold. So our Divine Master never attempted toprove his doctrines, for the perfect conviction of truth disdains theform of a demonstration. "

"Yes, " I interrupted her, for I could not help thinking of thewonderful chain of proof in Spinoza's 'Ethics, ' the straining afterdemonstration by Spinoza gives me the impression that this acutethinker could not have believed in his own doctrines with his wholeheart, and that he therefore felt the necessity of fastening every meshof his net with the utmost care. "Still, " I continued, "I mustacknowledge I do not share this great admiration for the 'GermanTheology, ' although I owe the book many a doubt. To me there is a lackof the human and the poetical in it, and of warm feeling and reverencefor reality altogether. The entire mysticism of the fourteenth centuryis wholesome as a preparative, but it first reaches solution in thedivinely holy and divinely courageous return to real life, as wasexemplified by Luther. Man must at some time in his life recognize hisnothingness. He must feel that he is nothing of himself, that hisexistence, his beginning, his everlasting life are rooted in thesuperearthly and incomprehensible. That is the returning to God whichin reality is never concluded on earth but yet leaves behind in thesoul a divine home sickness, which never again ceases. But man cannotignore the creation as the Mystics would. Although created out ofnothing, that is, through and out of God, he cannot of his own powerresolve himself back into this nothingness. The self-annihilation ofwhich Tauler so often speaks is scarcely better than the sinking awayof the human soul in Nirvana, as the Buddhists have it. Thus Taulersays: 'That if he by greater reverence and love could reach the highestexistence in non-existence, he would willingly sink from his heightinto the deepest abyss. ' But this annihilation of the creature was notthe purpose of the Creator since he made it. 'God is transformed inman, ' says Augustine, 'not man in God. ' Thus mysticism should be onlya fire-trial which steels the soul but does not evaporate it likeboiling water in a kettle. He who has recognized the nothingness ofself ought to recognize this self as a reflection of the actual divine. The 'German Theology' says:

["Was nu us geflossen ist, das ist nicht war wesen, und hat kein wesenanders dan in dem volkomen, sunder es ist ein zufal oder ein glast undein schin, der nicht wesen ist oder nicht wesen hat anders, dan in demsewer, da der glast us flusset, als in der sunnen oder in einemliechte. "]

"What has flown out is not real substance and has no other realityexcept in the perfect; but it is an incident or a glare or a shimmer, which is no substance, and has no other reality, except in the firefrom which a glare proceeds, as in the sun or a light. "

"What is emitted from the divine, though it be only like the reflectionfrom the fire, still has the divine reality in itself, and one mightalmost ask what were the fire without glow, the sun without light, orthe Creator without the creature? These are questions of which it issaid very truthfully:

["Welch mensche und welche creatur begert zu erfaren und zu wissen denheimlichen rat und willen gottes, der begert nicht anders denne alsAdam tet und der boese geist. "]

"What man or creature desires to learn and to know the secret counseland will of God--desires nothing else but what Adam did and the evilspirit. 

"For this reason, it should be enough for us to feel and to appear thatwe are a reflection of the divine until we are divine. No one shouldplace under a bushel or extinguish the divine light which illuminatesus, but let it beam out, that it may brighten and warm all about it. Then one feels a living fire in his veins, and a higher consecrationfor the struggle of life. The most trivial duties remind us of God. The earthly becomes divine, the temporal eternal, and our entire life alife in God. God is not eternal repose. He is everlasting life, whichAngelus Silesius forgets when he says: 'God is without will. '

 "'We pray: 'Thy will my Lord and God be done, ' And lo, He has no will! He is an eternal silence. '"

She listened to me quietly, and, after a moment's reflection, said:"Health and strength belong to your faith; but there are life-wearysouls, who long for rest and sleep, and feel so lonely that when theyfall asleep in God, they miss the world as little as the world missesthem. It is a foretaste of divine rest to them when they can wrapthemselves in the divine; and this they can do, since no tie binds themfast to earth, and no wish troubles their hearts except the wish forrest. 

 "'Rest is the highest good, and were God not rest, Then would I avert my gaze even from Him. '

"You do the German theologian an injustice. It is true he teaches thenothingness of the external life, but he does not wish to see itannihilated. Read me the twenty-eighth chapter. "

I took the book and read, while she closed her eyes and listened:

["Und wa die voreinunge geschicht in der wahrheit und wesentlich wirt, da stet vorbass der inner mensche in der einung unbeweglich und gotlest den ussern menschen her und dar bewegt werden von diesem zu dem. Das muss und sol sin und geschehen, dass der usser mensche spricht undes ouch in der warheit also ist, 'ich wil weder sin noch nit sin, wederleben oder sterben, wissen oder nicht wissen, tun oder lassen, undalles das disem glich ist, sunder alles, das da muss und sol sin undgeschehen, da bin ich bereit und gehorsam zu, es si in lidender wiseoder in tuender wise. ' Und alsoe hat der usser mensch kein warumbeoder gesuch, sunder alleine dem ewigen willen genuk zu sin. Wan daswirt bekannt in der warheit, das der inner mensche sten sol unbeweglichund der usser mensch muss und sol bewegt werden, und hat der innermensch in siner beweglikeit ein warumb, das ist anders nichts dann einmuss- und sol-sin, geordnet von dem ewigen willen. Und wa got selberder mensch were oder ist, da ist es also. Das merket man wol inKristo. Auch wa das in goetlichem und us goetlichem liechte ist, daist nit geistliche hochfart noch unachtsame friheit oder frie gemute, sunder ein gruntlose demutigkeit und ein nider geschlagen und eingesunken betrubet gemut, und alle ordenligkeit und redeligkeit, glichheit und warheit, fride und genugsamkeit, und alles das, das allentugenden zu gehoert, das muss da sin. Wa es anders ist, da ist im nitrecht, als vor gesprochen ist. Wan recht als dises oder das zu disereinung nit gehelfen oder gedienen kan, also is ouch nichtes, das esgeirren oder gehindern mag, denn alleine der mensch mit sinem eigenwillen, der tut im disen grossen schaden. Das sol man wissen. "]

"And when the union takes place in truth and becomes real, then theinner man stands henceforth immovable in the union, and God permits theouter man to be driven hither and thither from this to that. It mustand shall be and happen, that the outer man says--and is so also intruth--'I will neither be nor not be, neither live nor die, neitherknow nor not know, neither do nor leave undone--and everything which issimilar to this, but I am ready and obedient to do everything, whichmust and shall be done, be it passively or actively. ' And thus has theouter man no question or desire, but to, satisfy only the Eternal Will. When this will be known in truth, that the inner man shall stand, immovable, and that the outer man shall and must be moved, --the innerman has a why and wherefore of his moving, which is nothing but an 'itmust and shall be' ordered by the Eternal Will. And if God himselfwere or is the man, it would be so. This is well seen in Christ. Andwhat in the Divine Light is and from the Divine Light, has neitherspiritual pride nor careless license nor an independent spirit--but agreat humility, and a broken and contrite heart, --and all propriety andhonesty, justice and truth, peace and happiness, --all that belongs toall virtues, it must have. When it is otherwise, then he is not happy, as has been said. When this does not help to this union, then there isnothing which may hinder it but man alone with his own will, which doeshim such great harm. That, one ought to know. "

"This is sufficient, " said she; "I believe we understand each othernow. In another place, our unknown friend says still more unmistakablythat no man is passive before death, and that the glorified man is likethe hand of God, which does nothing of itself except as God wills; or, like a house in which God dwells. A God-possessed man feels thisperfectly, but does not speak of it. He treasures his life in God likea love secret. It often seems to me like that silver poplar before mywindow. It is perfectly still at evening, and not a leaf trembles orstirs. When the morning breeze rustles and tosses every leaf, thetrunk with its branches stands still and immovable, and when autumnconies, though every leaf which once rustled falls to the ground andwithers, the trunk waits for a new spring. "

She had lived so deep a life in her world that I did not wish todisturb it. I had but just released myself with difficulty from themagic circle of these thoughts, and scarcely knew whether she had notchosen the better part which could not be taken away from her; while wehave so much trouble and care. 

Thus every evening brought its new conversation, and with each evening, some new phase of her fathomless mind disclosed itself. She kept nosecret from me. Her talk was only thinking and feeling aloud, and whatshe said must have dwelt with her many long years, for she poured outher thoughts as freely as a child that picks its lap full of flowersand then sprinkles them upon the grass. I could not disclose my soulto her as freely as she did to me, and this oppressed and pained me. Yet how few can, with those continual deceptions imposed upon us bysociety, called manners, politeness, consideration, prudence, andworldly wisdom, which make our entire life a masquerade! How few, evenwhen they would, can regain the complete truth of their existence!Love itself dares not speak its own language and maintain its ownsilence, but must learn the set phrases of the poet and idealize, sighand flirt instead of freely greeting, beholding and surrenderingitself, I would most gladly have confessed and said to her: "You knowme not, " but I found that the words were not wholly true. Before Ileft, I gave her a volume of Arnold's poems, which I had had a shorttime, and begged her to read the one called "The Buried Life. " It wasmy confession, and then I kneeled at her couch and said "Good Night. ""Good Night, " said she, and laid her hand upon my head, and again hertouch thrilled through, every limb and the dreams of childhood uprosein my soul. I could not go, but gazed into her deep unfathomable eyesuntil the peace of her soul completely overshadowed mine. Then I aroseand went home in silence--and in the night I dreamed of the silverpoplar around which the wind roared--but not a leaf stirred on itsbranches. 

 THE BURIED LIFE. 

 Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet Behold, with tears my eyes are wet; I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll. 

 Yes, yes, we know that we can jest; We know, we know that we can smile; But there's a something in this breast To which thy light words bring no rest, And thy gay smiles no anodyne. 

 Give me thy hand, and hush awhile, And turn those limpid eyes on mine, And, let me read there, love, thy inmost soul. 

 Alas, is even love too weak To unlock the heart, and let it speak? Are even lovers powerless to reveal To one another what indeed they feel? I knew the mass of men concealed Their thoughts, for fear that if revealed They would by other men be met With blank indifference, or with blame reproved; I knew they lived and moved, Tricked in disguises, alien to the rest Of men and alien to themselves--and yet, The same heart beats in every human breast. 

 But we, my love--does a like spell benumb Our hearts--our voices?--must we too be dumb?

 Ah! well for us, if even we, Even for a moment, can yet free Our hearts and have our lips unchained; For that which seals them hath been deep ordained. Fate which foresaw How frivolous a baby man would be, By what distractions he would be possessed, How he would pour himself in every strife, And well-nigh change his own identity, That it might keep from his capricious play His genuine self, and force him to obey, Even in his own despite, his being's law, Bade through the deep recesses of our breast The unregarded River of our Life, Pursue with indiscernible flow its way; And that we should not see The buried stream, and seem to be Eddying about in blind uncertainty, Though driving on with it eternally. 

 But often, in the world's most crowded streets, But often in the din of strife, There rises an unspeakable desire After the knowledge of our buried life;

 A thirst to spend our fire and restless force In tracking out our true original course; A longing to inquire Into the mystery of this heart that beats So wild, so deep, in us; to know Whence our thoughts come, and where they go. And many a man in his own breast then delves, But deep enough, alas, none ever mines; And we have been on many thousand lines, And we have shown on each, talent and power, But hardly have we, for one little hour, Been on our own line, have we been ourselves; Hardly had skill to utter one of all The nameless feelings that course through our breast, But they course on forever unexpressed. And long we try in vain to speak and act Our hidden self, and what we say and do Is eloquent, is well--but 'tis not true. 

 And then we will no more be racked With inward striving, and demand Of all the thousand nothings of the hour Their stupefying power; Ah! yes, and they benumb us at our call; Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn, From the soul's subterranean depth upborne, As from an infinitely distant land, Come airs and floating echoes, and convey A melancholy into all our day. 

 Only--but this is rare-- When a beloved hand is laid in ours, When, jaded with the rush and glare Of the interminable hours, Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, When our world-deafened ear Is by the tones of a loved voice caressed, -- A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast, And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again: The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain, And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know;

 A man becomes aware of his life's flow, And, hears its winding murmur, and he sees The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze. 

 And there arrives a lull in the hot race Wherein he doth forever chase That flying and elusive shadow, Rest; An air of coolness plays upon his face, And an unwonted calm pervades his breast. 

 And then he thinks he knows The Hills where his life rose, And the Sea where it goes. . . . . . . 

SIXTH MEMORY. 

Early the next morning, there was a knock at the door, and my old doctor, the Hofrath, entered. He was the friend, the body-and-soul-guardian ofour entire little village. He had seen two generations grow up. Children whom he had brought into the world had in turn become fathersand mothers, and he treated them as his children. He himself wasunmarried, and even in his old age was strong and handsome to look upon. I never knew him otherwise than as he stood before me at that time; hisclear blue eyes gleaming under the bushy brows, his flowing white hairstill full of youthful strength, curling and vigorous. I can neverforget, also, his shoes, with their silver buckles, his white stockings, his brown coat, which always looked new, and yet seemed to be old, andhis cane, which was the same I had seen standing by my bedside inchildhood, when he felt my pulse and prescribed my medicines. I hadoften been sick, but it was always faith in this man which made me wellagain. I never had the slightest doubt of his ability to cure me, andwhen my mother said she must send for the Hofrath that I might get wellagain, it was as if she had said she must send for the tailor to mend mytorn trousers. I had only to take the medicine, and I felt that I mustbe well again. 

"How are you, my child?" said he, as he entered the room. "You are notlooking perfectly well. You must not study too much. But I have littletime to-day to talk, and only came to tell you, you must not go to seethe Countess Marie again. I have been with her all night, and it is yourfault. So be careful, if her life is dear to you, that you do not goagain. She must leave here as soon as possible, and be taken into thecountry. It would be best for you also to travel for a long time. Sogood morning, and be a good child. "

With these words, he gave me his hand, looked at me affectionately in theeyes, as if he would exact the promise, and then went on his way to lookafter his sick children. 

I was so astonished that another had penetrated so deeply into thesecrets of my soul, and that he knew what I did not know myself, thatwhen I recovered from it he had already been long upon the street. Anagitation began to seize me, as water, which has long been over the firewithout stirring, suddenly bubbles up, boils, heaves and rages until itoverflows. 

Not see her again! I only live when I am with her. I will be calm; Iwill not speak a word to her; I will only stand at her window as shesleeps and dreams. But not to see her again! Not to take one farewellfrom her! She knows not, they cannot know, that I love her. Surely I donot love her--I desire nothing, I hope for nothing, my heart never beatsmore quietly then when I am with her. But I must feel her presence--Imust breathe her spirit--I must go to her! She waits for me. Hasdestiny thrown us together without design? Ought I not to be herconsolation, and ought she not to be my repose? Life is not a sport. Itdoes not force two souls together like the grains of sand in the desert, which the sirocco whirls together and then asunder. We should hold fastthe souls which friendly fate leads to us, for they are destined for us, and no power can tear them from us if we have the courage to live, tostruggle, and to die for them. She would despise me if I deserted herlove at the first roll of the thunder, as it were in the shadow of atree, under which I have dreamed so many happy hours. 

Then I suddenly grew calm, and heard only the words "her love;" theyreverberated through all the recesses of my soul like an echo, and I wasterrified at myself. "Her love, " and how had I deserved it? She hardlyknows me, and even if she could love me, must I not confess to her I donot deserve the love of an angel? Every thought, every hope which arosein my soul, fell back like a bird which essays to soar into the blue skyand does not see the wires which restrain it. And yet, why all thisblissfulness, so near and so unattainable? Cannot God work wonders?Does He not work wonders every morning? Has He not often heard my prayerwhen it importuned him, and would not cease, until consolation and helpcame to the weary one? These are not earthly blessings for which wepray. It is only that two souls, which have found and recognized eachother, may be allowed to finish their brief life-journey, arm in arm, andface to face; that I may be a support to her in suffering, and that shemay be a consolation and precious burden to me until we reach the end. And if a still later spring were promised to her life, if her burdenswere taken from her--Oh, what blissful scenes crowded upon my vision!The castle of her deceased mother, in the Tyrol, belonged to her. There, on the green mountains, in the fresh mountain air, among a sturdy anduncorrupted people, far away from the hurly-burly of the world, its caresand its struggles, its opinion and its censure, how blissfully we couldawait the close of life, and silently fade away like the evening-red!Then I pictured the dark lake, with the dancing shimmer of waves, and theclear shadows of distant glaciers reflected in it; I heard the lowing ofcattle and the songs of the herdsmen; I saw the hunters with their riflescrossing the mountains, and the old and young gathering together attwilight in the village; and, to crown all, I saw her passing along likean angel of peace in benediction, and I was her guide and friend. "Poorfool!" I cried out, "poor fool! Is thy heart always to be so wild and soweak? Be a man. Think who thou art, and how far thou art from her. Sheis a friend. She gladly reflects herself in another's soul, but herchildlike trust and candor at best only show that no deeper feeling livesin her breast for thee. Hast thou not, on many a clear summer's night, wandering alone, through the beech groves, seen how the moon sheds itslight upon all the branches and leaves, how it brightens the dark, dullwater of the pool and reflects itself clearly in the smallest drops? Inlike manner she shines upon this dark life, and thou may'st feel hergentle radiance reflected in thy heart--but hope not for a warmer glow!"

Suddenly an image approached me as it were from life; she stood beforeme, not like a memory but as a vision, and I realized for the first timehow beautiful she was. It was not that beauty of form and face whichdazzles us at the first sight of a lovely maiden, and then fades away assuddenly as a blossom in spring. It was much more the harmony of herwhole being, the reality of every emotion, the spirituality ofexpression, the perfect union of body and soul which blesses him so wholooks upon it. The beauty which nature lavishes so prodigally does notbring any satisfaction, if the person is not adapted to it and as it weredeserves and overcomes it. On the other hand, it is offensive, as whenwe look upon an actress striding along the stage in queenly costume, andnotice at every step how poorly the attire fits her, how little itbecomes her. True beauty is sweetness, and sweetness is thespiritualizing of the gross, the corporeal and the earthly. It is thespiritual presence which transforms ugliness into beauty. The more Ilooked upon the vision which stood before me, the more I perceived, aboveall else, the majestic beauty of her person and the soulful depths of herwhole being. Oh, what happiness was near me! And was this all--to beshown the summit of earthly bliss and then be thrust out into the flat, sandy wastes of existence? Oh, that I had never known what treasures theearth conceals! Once to love, and then to be forever alone! Once tobelieve, and then forever to doubt! Once to see the light, and thenforever to be blinded! In comparison with this rack, all thetorture-chambers of man are insignificant. 

Thus rushed the wild chase of my thoughts farther and farther away untilat last all was silent. The confused sensations gradually collected andsettled. This repose and exhaustion they call meditation, but it israther an inspection--one allows time for the mixture of thoughts tocrystallize themselves according to eternal laws, and regards the processlike an observing chemist; and the elements having assumed a form, weoften wonder that they, as well as ourselves, are so entirely differentfrom what we expected. 

When I awoke from my abstraction, my first words were, "I must away. " Iimmediately sat down and wrote the Hofrath that I should travel forfourteen days and submit entirely to him. I easily made an excuse to myparents, and at night I was on my way to the Tyrol. 

SEVENTH MEMORY. 

Wandering, arm in arm with a friend, through the valleys and over themountains of the Tyrol, one sips life's fresh air and enjoyment; but totravel the same road solitary and alone with your thoughts is time andtrouble lost. Of what interest to me are the green mountains, the darkravines, the blue lake, and the mighty cataracts? Instead ofcontemplating them they look at me and wonder among themselves at thissolitary being. It smote me to the heart that I had found no one inall the world who loved me more than all others. With such thoughts Iawoke every morning, and they haunted me all the day like a song whichone cannot drive away. When I entered the inn at night and sat downwearied, and the people in the room watched me, and wondered at thesolitary wanderer, it often urged me out into the night again, where noone could see I was alone. At a late hour I would steal back, goquietly up to my room and throw myself upon my hot bed, and the song ofSchubert's would ring through my soul until I went to sleep: "Wherethou art not, is happiness. " At last the sight of men, whom Icontinually met laughing, rejoicing and exulting in this gloriousnature, became so intolerable that I slept by day, and pursued myjourney from place to place in the clear moonlight nights. There wasat least one emotion which dispelled and dissipated my thoughts: it wasfear. Let any one attempt to scale mountains alone all night long inignorance of the way--where the eye, unnaturally strained, beholdsdistant shapes it cannot solve--where the ear, with morbid acuteness, hears sounds without knowing whence they come--where the foot suddenlystumbles, it may be over a root which forces its way through the rocks, or on a slippery path which the waterfall has drenched with itsspray--and besides all this, a disconsolate waste in the heart, nomemory to cheer us, no hope to which we may cling--let any one attemptthis, and he will feel the cold chill of night both outwardly andinwardly. The first fear of the human heart arises from God forsakingus; but life dissipates it, and mankind, created after the image ofGod, consoles us in our solitariness. When even this consolation andlove, however, forsake us, then we feel what it means to be deserted byGod and man, and nature with her silent face terrifies rather thanconsoles us. Even when we firmly plant our feet upon the solid rocks, they seem to tremble like the mists of the sea from which they onceslowly emerged. When the eye longs for the light, and the moon risesbehind the firs, reflecting their tapering tops against the bright rockopposite, it appears to us like the dead hand of a clock which was oncewound up, and will some day cease to strike. There is no retreat forthe soul, which feels itself alone and forsaken even among the stars, or in the heavenly world itself. One thought brings us a littleconsolation: the repose, the regularity, the immensity, and theunavoidableness of nature. Here, where the waterfall has clothed thegray rocks on either side with green moss, the eye suddenly recognizesa blue forget-me-not in the cool shade. It is one of millions ofsisters now blossoming along all the rivulets and in all the meadows ofearth, and which have blossomed ever since the first morning ofcreation shed its entire inexhaustible wealth over the world. Everyvein in its leaves, every stamen in its cup, every fibre of its roots, is numbered, and no power on earth can make the number more or less. Still more, when we strain our weak eyes and, with superhuman power, cast a more searching glance into the secrets of nature, when themicroscope discloses to us the silent laboratory of the seed, the budand the blossom, do we recognize the infinite, ever-recurring form inthe most minute tissues and cells, and the eternal unchangeableness ofNature's plans in the most delicate fibre. Could we pierce stilldeeper, the same form-world would reveal itself, and the vision wouldlose itself as in a hall hung with mirrors. Such an infinity as thislies hidden in this little flower. If we look up to the sky, we seeagain the same system--the moon revolving around the planets, theplanets around suns, and the suns around new suns, while to thestraining eye the distant star-nebulae themselves seem to be a new andbeautiful world. Reflect then how these majestic constellationsperiodically revolve, that the seasons may change, that the seed ofthis forget-me-not may shed itself again and again, the cells open, theleaves shoot out, and the blossoms decorate the carpet of the meadow;and look upon the lady-bug which rocks itself in the blue cup of theflower, and whose awakening into life, whose consciousness ofexistence, whose living breath, are a thousand-fold more wonderful thanthe tissue of the flower, or the dead mechanism of the heavenly bodies. Consider that thou also belongest to this infinite warp and woof, andthat thou art permitted to comfort thyself with the infinite creatureswhich revolve and live and disappear with thee. But if this All, withits smallest and its greatest, with its wisdom and its power, with thewonders of its existence, and the existence of its wonders, is the workof a Being in whose presence thy soul does not shrink back, before whomthou fallest prostrate in a feeling of weakness and nothingness, and towhom thou risest again in the feeling of His love and mercy--if thoureally feelest that something dwells in thee more endless and eternalthan the cells of the flowers, the spheres of the planets, and the lifeof the insect--if thou recognizest in thyself as in a shadow thereflection of the Eternal which illuminates thee--if thou feelest inthyself, and under and above thyself, the omnipresence of the Real, inwhich thy seeming becomes being, thy trouble, rest, thy solitude, universality--then thou knowest the One to Whom thou criest in the darknight of life: "Creator and Father, Thy will be done in Heaven as uponearth, and as on earth so also in me. " Then it grows bright in andabout thee. The daybreak disappears with its cold mists, and a newwarmth streams through shivering nature. Thou hast found a hand whichnever again leaves thee, which holds thee when the mountains trembleand moons are extinguished. Wherever thou may'st be, thou art withHim, and He with thee. He is the eternally near, and His is the worldwith its flowers and thorns, His is man with his joys and sorrows. "The least important thing does not happen except as God wills it. "

With such thoughts I went on my way. At one time, all was well withme; at another, troubled; for even when we have found rest and peace inthe lowest depths of the soul, it is still hard to remain undisturbedin this holy solitude. Yes, many forget it after they find it andscarcely know the way which leads back to it. 

Weeks had flown, and not a syllable had reached me from her. "Perhapsshe is dead and lies in quiet rest, " was another song forever on mytongue, and always returning as often as I drove it from me. It wasnot impossible, for the Hofrath had told me she suffered with hearttroubles, and that he expected to find her no more among the livingevery morning he visited her. Could I ever forgive myself if she hadleft this world and I had not taken farewell of her, nor told her atthe last moment how I loved her? Must I not follow until I found heragain in another life, and heard from her that she loved me and that Iwas forgiven? How mankind defers from day to day the best it can do, and the most beautiful things it can enjoy, without thinking that everyday may be the last one, and that lost time is lost eternity! Then allthe words of the Hofrath, the last time I saw him, recurred to me, andI felt that I had only resolved to make my sudden journey to show mystrength to him, and that it would have been a still more difficulttask to have confessed my weakness and remained. It was clear to methat it was my simple duty to return to her immediately and to beareverything which Heaven ordained. But as soon as I had laid the planfor my return journey, I suddenly remembered the words of the Hofrath:"As soon as possible she must go away and be taken into the country. "She had herself told me that she spent the most of her time, in summer, at her castle. Perhaps she was there, in my immediate vicinity; in oneday I could be with her. Thinking was doing; at daybreak I was off, and at evening I stood at the gate of the castle. 

The night was clear and bright. The mountain peaks glistened in thefull gold of the sunset and the lower ridges were bathed in a rosyblue. A gray mist rose from the valleys which suddenly glistened whenit swept up into the higher regions, and then like a cloud-sea rolledheavenwards. The whole color-play reflected itself in the gentlyagitated breast of the dark lake from whose shores the mountains seemedto rise and fall, so that only the tops of the trees and the peaks ofthe church steeples and the rising smoke from the houses defined thelimits which separated the reality of the world from its reflection. My glance, however, rested upon only one spot--the old castle--where apresentiment told me I should find her again. No light could be seenin the windows, no footstep broke the silence of the night. Had mypresentiment deceived me? I passed slowly through the outer gatewayand up the steps until I stood at the fore-court of the castle. Here Isaw a sentinel pacing back and forwards, and I hastened to the soldierto inquire who was in the castle. "The Countess and her attendants arehere, " was the brief reply, and in an instant I stood at the mainportal and had even pulled the bell. Then, for the first time, myaction occurred to me. No one knew me. I neither could nor dare saywho I was. I had wandered for weeks about the mountains, and lookedlike a beggar. What should I say? For whom should I ask? There waslittle time for consideration, however, for the door opened and aservant in princely livery stood before me, and regarded me withamazement. 

I asked if the English lady, who I knew would never forsake theCountess, was in the castle, and when the servant replied in theaffirmative, I begged for paper and ink and wrote her I was present toinquire after the health of the Countess. 

The servant called an attendant, who took the letter away. I heardevery step in the long halls, and every moment I waited, my positionbecame more unendurable. The old family portraits of the princelyhouse hung upon the walls--knights in full armor, ladies in antiquecostume, and in the center a lady in the white robes of a nun with ared cross upon her breast. At any other time I might have looked uponthese pictures and never thought that a human heart once beat in theirbreasts. But now it seemed to me I could suddenly read whole volumesin their features, and that all of them said to me: "We also have oncelived and suffered. " Under these iron armors secrets were once hiddenas even now in my own breast. These white robes and the red cross arereal proofs that a battle was fought here like that now raging in myown heart. Then I fancied all of them regarded me with pity, and aloftier haughtiness rested on their features as if they would say, Thoudost not belong to us. I was growing uneasy every moment, whensuddenly a light step dissipated my dream. The English lady came downthe stairs and asked me to step into an apartment. I looked at herclosely to see if she suspected my real emotions, but her face wasperfectly calm, and without manifesting the slightest expression ofcuriosity or wonder, she said in measured tones, the Countess was muchbetter to-day and would see me in half an hour. 

When I heard these words, I felt like the good swimmer who has venturedfar out into the sea, and first thinks of returning when his arms havebegun to grow weary. He cleaves the waves with haste, scarcelyventuring to cast a glance at the distant shore, feeling with everystroke that his strength is failing and that he is making no headway, until at last, purposeless and cramped, he scarcely has any realizationof his position; then suddenly his foot touches the firm bottom, andhis arm hugs the first rock on the shore. A fresh reality confrontedme, and my sufferings were a dream. There are but few such moments inthe life of man, and thousands have never known their rapture. Themother whose child rests in her arms for the first time, the fatherwhose only son returns from war covered with glory, the poet in whomhis countrymen exult, the youth whose warm grasp of the hand isreturned by the beloved being with a still warmer pressure--they knowwhat it means when a dream becomes a reality. 

At the expiration of the half hour, a servant came and conducted methrough a long suite of rooms, opened a door, and in the fading lightof the evening I saw a white figure, and above her a high window, whichlooked out upon the lake and the shimmering mountains. 

"How singularly people meet!" she cried out in a clear voice, and everyword was like a cool rain-drop on a hot summer's day. 

"How singularly people meet, and how singularly they lose each other, "said I; and thereupon I seized her hand, and realized that we weretogether again. 

"But people are to blame if they lose each other, " she continued; andher voice, which seemed always to accompany her words, like music, involuntarily modulated into a tenderer key. 

"Yes, that is true, " I replied; "but first tell me, are you well, andcan I talk with you?"

"My dear friend, " said she, smiling, "you know I am always sick, and ifI say that I feel well, I do so for the sake of my old Hofrath; for heis firmly convinced that my entire life since my first year is due tohim and his skill. Before I left the Court-residence I caused him muchanxiety, for one evening my heart suddenly ceased beating, and Iexperienced such distress that I thought it would never beat again. But that is past, and why should we recall it? Only one thing troublesme, I have hitherto believed I should some time close my eyes inperfect repose, but now I feel that my sufferings will disturb andembitter my departure from life. " Then she placed her hand upon herheart, and said: "But tell me, where have you been, and why have I notheard from you all this time? The old Hofrath has given me so manyreasons for your sudden departure, that I was finally compelled to tellhim I did not believe him--and at last he gave me the most incredibleof all reasons, and counselled--what do you suppose?"

"He might seem untruthful, " I interrupted, so that she should notexplain the reason, "and yet, perhaps he was only too truthful. Butthis also is past, and why should we recall it?"

"No, no, my friend, " said she, "why call it past? I told the Hofrath, when he gave me the last reason for your sudden departure, that Iunderstood neither him nor you. I am a poor sick, forsaken being, andmy earthly existence is only a slow death. Now if Heaven sends me afew souls who understand me, or love me, as the Hofrath calls it, whythen should it disturb their joy or mine? I had been reading myfavorite poet, the old Wordsworth, when the Hofrath made hisacknowledgment, and I said: 'My dear Hofrath, we have so many thoughtsand so few words that we must express many thoughts in every word. Nowif one who does not know us understood that our young friend loved me, or I him, in such manner as we suppose Romeo loved Juliet and JulietRomeo, you would be entirely right in saying it should not be so. Butis it not true that you love me also, my old Hofrath, and that I loveyou, and have loved you for many years? And has it not sometimesoccurred to you that I have neither been past remedy nor unhappy onthat account? Yes, my dear Hofrath, I will tell you still more--Ibelieve you have an unfortunate love for me, and are jealous of ouryoung friend. Do you not come every morning and inquire how I am, evenwhen you know I am very well? Do you not bring me the finest flowersfrom your garden? Did you not oblige me to send you my portrait, and--perhaps I ought not to disclose it--did you not come to my roomlast Sunday and think I was asleep? I was really sleeping--at least Icould not stir myself. I saw you sitting at my bedside for a longtime, your eyes steadfastly fixed upon me, and I felt your glancesplaying upon my face like sunbeams. At last your eyes grew weary, andI perceived the great tears falling from them. You held your face inyour hands, and loudly sobbed: Marie, Marie! Ah, my dear Hofrath, ouryoung friend has never done that, and yet you have sent him away. ' AsI thus talked with him, half in jest and half in earnest, as I alwaysspeak, I perceived that I had hurt the old man's feelings. He becameperfectly silent, and blushed like a child. Then I took the volume ofWordsworth's poems which I had been reading, and said: 'Here is anotherold man whom I love, and love with my whole heart, who understands me, and whom I understand, and yet I have never seen him, and shall neversee him on earth, since it is so to be. Now I will read you one of hispoems, that you may see how one can love, and that love is a silentbenediction which the lover lays upon the head of the beloved, and thengoes on his way in rapturous sorrow. ' Then I read to him Wordsworth's'Highland Girl;' and now, my friend, place the lamp nearer, and readthe poem to me, for it refreshes me every time I hear it. A spiritbreathes through it like the silent, everlasting evening-red, whichstretches its arms in love and blessing over the pure breast of thesnow-covered mountains. "

As her words thus gradually and peacefully filled my soul, it at lastgrew still and solemn in my breast again; the storm was over, and herimage floated like the silvery moonlight upon the gently rippling wavesof my love--this world-sea which rolls through the hearts of all men, and which each calls his own while it is an all-animating pulse-beat ofthe whole human race. I would most gladly have kept silent like Natureas it lay before our view without, and ever grew stiller and darker:But she gave me the book, and I read:

 Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower! Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head: And these gray rocks, that household lawn, Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn, This fall of water that doth make A murmur near the silent lake, This little bay; a quiet road That holds in shelter thy abode-- In truth, together do ye seem Like something fashioned in a dream; Such forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep! But, O fair creature! in the light Of common day, so heavenly bright, I bless thee, vision as thou art, I bless thee with a human heart; God shield thee to thy latest years! Thee neither know I, nor thy peers; And yet my eyes are filled with tears. 

 With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far away; For never saw I mien or face, In which more plainly I could trace Benignity and home-bred sense Ripening in perfect innocence. Here scattered, like a random seed, Remote from men, thou dost not need The embarrassed look of shy distress, And maidenly shamefacedness: Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a mountaineer: A face with gladness overspread! Soft smiles, by human kindness bred! And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays; With no restraint, but such as springs From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech: A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life! So have I, not unmoved in mind, Seen birds of tempest-loving kind-- Thus beating up against the wind. 

 What hand but would a garland cull For thee who art so beautiful? O happy pleasure! here to dwell Beside thee in some heathy dell; Adopt your homely ways and dress, A shepherd, thou a shepherdess: But I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality: Thou art to me but as a wave Of the wild sea; and I would have Some claim upon thee, if I could, Though but of common neighborhood What joy to hear thee, and to see! Thy elder brother I would be, Thy father--anything to thee!

 Now thanks to heaven! that of its grace Hath led me to this lonely place. Joy have I had; and going hence I bear away my recompense. In spots like these it is we prize Our memory, feel that she hath eyes: Then why should I be loth to stir? I feel this place was made for her; To give new pleasure like the past, Continued long as life shall last. Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, Sweet Highland Girl, from thee to part; For I, methinks, till I grow old, As fair before me shall behold, As I do now, the cabin small, The lake, the bay, the waterfall, And thee, the spirit of them all!

I had finished, and the poem had been to me like a draught of the freshspring-water which I had sipped so often of late as it dropped from thecup of some large green leaf. 

Then I heard her gentle voice, like the first tone of the organ, whichwakens us from our dreamy devotion, and she said:

"Thus I desire you to love me, and thus the old Hofrath loves me, andthus in one way or another we should all love and believe in eachother. But the world, although I scarcely know it, does not seem tounderstand this love and faith, and, on this earth, where we could havelived so happily, men have made existence very wretched. 

"It must have been otherwise of old, else how could Homer have createdthe lovely, wholesome, tender picture of Nausikaa? Nausikaa lovesUlysses at the first glance. She says at once to her female friends:'Oh, that I could call such a man my spouse, and that it were hisdestiny to remain here. ' She was even too modest to appear in publicat the same time with him, and she says, in his presence, that if sheshould bring such a handsome and majestic stranger home, the peoplewould say, she may have taken him for a husband. How simple andnatural all this is! But when she heard that he was going home to hiswife and children, no murmur escaped her. She disappears from oursight, and we feel that she carried the picture of the handsome andmajestic stranger a long time afterward in her breast, with silent andjoyful admiration. Why do not our poets know this love--this joyfulacknowledgment, this calm abnegation? A later poet would have made awomanish Werter out of Nausikaa, for the reason that love with us isnothing more than the prelude to the comedy, or the tragedy, ofmarriage. Is it true there is no longer any other love? Has thefountain of this pure happiness wholly dried up? Are men onlyacquainted with the intoxicating draught, and no longer with theinvigorating well-spring of love?"

At these words the English poet occurred to me, who also thus complains:

 From heaven if this belief be sent, If such be nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man. 

"Yet, how happy the poets are, " said she. "Their words call thedeepest feelings into existence in thousands of mute souls, and howoften their songs have become a confession of the sweetest secrets!Their heart beats in the breasts of the poor and the rich. The happysing with them, and the sad weep with them. But I cannot feel any poetso completely my own as Wordsworth. I know many of my friends do notlike him. They say he is not a poet. But that is exactly why I likehim; he avoids all the hackneyed poetical catch-words, allexaggeration, and everything comprehended in Pegasus-flights. He istrue--and does not everything lie in this one word? He opens our eyesto the beauty which lies under our feet like the daisy in the meadow. He calls everything by its true name. He never intends to startle, deceive, or dazzle any one. He seeks no admiration for himself. Heonly shows mankind how beautiful everything is which man's hand has notyet spoiled or broken. Is not a dew-drop on a blade of grass morebeautiful than a pearl set in gold? Is not a living spring, whichgushes up before us, we know not whence, more beautiful than all thefountains of Versailles? Is not his Highland Girl a lovelier and truerexpression of real beauty than Goethe's Helena, or Byron's Haidee? Andthen the plainness of his language, and the purity of his thoughts! Isit not a pity that we have never had such a poet? Schiller could havebeen our Wordsworth, had he had more faith in himself than in the oldGreeks and Romans. Our Ruckert would come the nearest to him, had henot also sought consolation and home under Eastern roses, away from hispoor Fatherland. Few poets have the courage to be just what they are. Wordsworth had it; and as we gladly listen to great men, even in thosemoments when they are not inspired, but, like other mortals, quietlycherish their thoughts, and patiently wait the moment that willdisclose new glimpses into the infinite, so have I also listened gladlyto Wordsworth himself, in his poems, which contain nothing more thanany one might have said. The greatest poets allow themselves rest. InHomer we often read a hundred verses without a single beauty, and justso in Dante; while Pindar, whom all admire so much, drives me todistraction with his ecstacies. What would I not give to spend onesummer on the lakes; visit with Wordsworth all the places to which hehas given names; greet all the trees which he has saved from the axe;and only once watch a far-off sunset with him, which he describes asonly Turner could have painted. "

It was a peculiarity of hers that her voice never dropped at the closeof her talk, as with most people; on the contrary, it rose and alwaysended, as it were, in the broken seventh chord. She always talked up, never down, to people. The melody of her sentences resembled that ofthe child when it says: "Can't I, father?" There was somethingbeseeching in her tones, and it was well-nigh impossible to gainsay her. 

"Wordsworth, " said I, "is a dear poet, and a still dearer man to me, and as one often has a more beautiful, wide-spread, and stirringoutlook from a little hill which he ascends without effort, than whenhe has clambered up Mont Blanc with difficulty and weariness, so itseems to me with Wordsworth's poetry. At first, he often appearedcommonplace to me, and I have frequently laid down his poems unable tounderstand how the best minds of England to-day can cherish such anadmiration for him. The conviction has grown upon me that no poet whomhis nation, or the intellectual aristocracy of his people, recognize asa poet, should remain unenjoyed by us, whatever his language. Admiration is an art which we must learn. Many Germans say Racine doesnot please them. The Englishman says, 'I do not understand Goethe. 'The Frenchman says Shakespeare is a boor. What does all this amountto? Nothing more than the child who says it likes a waltz better thana symphony of Beethoven's. The art consists in discovering andunderstanding what each nation admires in its great men. He who seeksbeauty will eventually find it, and discover that the Persians are notentirely deceived in their Hafiz, nor the Hindoos in their Kalidasa. We cannot understand a great man all at once. It takes strength, effort, and perseverance, and it is singular that what pleases us atfirst sight seldom captivates us any length of time. 

"And yet, " she continued, "there is something common to all greatpoets, to all true artists, to all the world's heroes, be they Persianor Hindoo, heathen or Christian, Roman or German; it is--I hardly knowwhat to call it--it is the Infinite which seems to lie behind them, afar away glance into the Eternal, an apotheosis of the most triflingand transitory things. Goethe, the grand heathen, knew the sweet peacewhich comes from Heaven; and when he sings:

 "On every mountain-height Is rest. O'er each summit white Thou feelest Scarcely a breath. The bird songs are still from each bough; Only wait, soon shalt thou Rest too, in death. 

"does not an endless distance, a repose which earth cannot give, disclose itself to him above the fir-clad summits? This background isnever wanting with Wordsworth. Let the carpers say what they will, itis nevertheless only the super-earthly, be it ever so obscure, whichcharms and quiets the human heart. Who has better understood thisearthly beauty than Michel Angelo?--but he understood it, because itwas to him a reflection of superearthly beauty. You know his sonnet:

 ["La forza d'un bel volto al ciel mi sprona (Ch'altro in terra non e che mi diletti), E vivo ascendo tra gli spirti eletti; Grazia ch'ad uom mortal raro si dona. Si ben col suo Fattor l'opra consuona, Ch'a lui mi levo per divin concetti; E quivi informo i pensier tutti e i detti; Ardendo, amando per gentil persona. Onde, se mai da due begli occhi il guardo Torcer non so, conosco in lor la luce Che mi mostra la via, ch'a Dio mi guide; E se nel lume loro acceso io ardo, Nel nobil foco mio dolce riluce La gioja che nel cielo eterna ride. "]

 "The might of one fair face sublimes my love, For it hath weaned my heart from low desires; Nor death I heed nor purgatorial fires. Thy beauty, antepast of joys above Instructs me in the bliss that saints approve; For, Oh! how good, how beautiful must be The God that made so good a thing as thee, So fair an image of the Heavenly Dove. Forgive me if I cannot turn away From those sweet eyes that are my earthly heaven, For they are guiding stars, benignly given To tempt my footsteps to the upward way; And if I dwell too fondly in thy sight, I live and love in God's peculiar light. "

She was exhausted and silent, and how could I disturb that silence?When human hearts, after friendly interchange of thoughts feel calmedand quieted, it is as if an angel had flown through the room and weheard the gentle flutter of wings over our heads. As my gaze restedupon her, her lovely form seemed illuminated in the twilight of thesummer evening, and her hand, which I held in mine, alone gave me theconsciousness of her real presence. Then suddenly a bright refulgencespread over her countenance. She felt it, opened her eyes and lookedupon me wonderingly. The wonderful brightness of her eyes, which thehalf-closed eyelids covered as with a veil, shone like the lightning. I looked around and at last saw that the moon had arisen in fullsplendor between two peaks opposite the castle, and brightened the lakeand the village with its friendly smiles. Never had I seen Nature, never had I seen her dear face so beautiful, never had such holy restsettled down upon my soul. "Marie, " said I, "in this resplendentmoment, let me, just as I am, confess my whole love. Let us, while wefeel so powerfully the nearness of the superearthly, unite our souls ina tie which can never again be broken. Whatever love may be, Marie, Ilove you and I feel, Marie, you are mine for I am thine. "

I knelt before her, but ventured not to look into her eyes. My lipstouched her hand and I kissed it. At this she withdrew her hand fromme, slowly at first and then quickly and decidedly, and as I looked ather an expression of pain was on her face. She was silent for a time, but at last she raised herself and said with a deep sigh:

"Enough for to-day. You have caused me pain, but it is my fault. Close the window. I feel a cold chill coming over me as if a strangehand were touching me. Stay with me--but no, you must go. Farewell!Sleep well! Pray that the peace of God may abide with us. We see eachother again--shall we not? To-morrow evening I await you. "

Oh, where all at once had this heavenly rest flown? I saw how shesuffered, and all that, I could do was to quickly hurry away, summonthe English lady and then go alone in the darkness of night to thevillage. Long time I wandered back and forth about the lake, long mygaze strayed to the lighted window where I had just been. Finally, thelast light in the castle was extinguished. The moon mounted higher andhigher, and every pinnacle and projection and decoration on the loftywalls grew visible in the fairy-like illumination. Here was I allalone in the silent night. It seemed to me my brain had refused itsoffice, for no thought came to an end and I only felt I was alone onthis earth, that it contained no soul for me. The earth was like acoffin, the black sky a funeral pall, and I scarcely knew whether I wasliving or had long been dead. Then I suddenly looked up to the starswith their blinking eyes, which went their way so quietly--and itseemed to me that they were only for the lighting and consolation ofmen, and then I thought of two heavenly stars which had risen in mydark heaven so unexpectedly, and a thanksgiving rang through mybreast--a thanksgiving for the love of my angel. 

LAST MEMORY. 

The sun was already looking into my window over the mountains when Iawoke. Was it the same sun which looked upon us the evening before withlingering gaze, like a departing friend, as if it would bless the unionof our souls, and which set like a lost hope? It shone upon me now, likea child which bursts into our room with beaming glance to wish us goodmorning on a joyful holiday. And was I the same man who, only a fewhours before, had thrown himself upon his bed, broken in body and spirit?Immediately I felt once more the old life-courage and trust in God andmyself, which quickened and animated my soul like the fresh morning, breeze. What would become of man without sleep? We know not where thisnightly messenger leads us; and when he closes our eyes at night who canassure us that he will open them again in the morning--that he will bringus to ourselves? It required courage and faith for the first man tothrow himself into the arms of this unknown friend; and were there not inour nature a certain helplessness which forces us to submission, andcompels us to have faith in all things we are to believe, I doubt whetherany man, notwithstanding all his weariness, could close his eyes of hisown free will and enter into this unknown dream-land. The veryconsciousness of our weakness and our weariness gives us faith in ahigher power, and courage to resign ourselves to the beautiful system ofthe All, and we feel invigorated and refreshed when, in waking or insleeping, we have loosened, even for a short time only, the chains whichbind our Eternal Self to our temporal Ego. 

What had appeared to me, only yesterday, dark as an evening cloud flyingoverhead, became instantly clear. We belonged to one another, that Ifelt; be it as brother and sister, father and child, bridegroom andbride, we must remain together now and forever. It only concerned us tofind the right name for that which we in our stammering speech call Love. 

 "Thy elder brother I would be, Thy father--anything to thee. "

It was this "anything" for which a name must be found, for the world nowrecognizes nothing as nameless. She had told me herself that she lovedme with that pure all-human love, out of which springs all other love. Her shuddering, her uneasiness, when I confessed my full love to her, were still incomprehensible to me, but it could no longer shatter myfaith in our love. Why should we desire to understand all that takesplace in other human natures, when there is so much that isincomprehensible in our own? After all, it is the inconceivable whichgenerally captivates us, whether in nature, in man, or in our ownbreasts. Men whom we understand, whose motives we see before us like ananatomical preparation, leave us cold, like the characters in most of ournovels. Nothing spoils our delight in life and men more than this ethicrationalism which insists upon clearing up everything, and illuminatingevery mystery of our inner being. There is in every person a somethingthat is inseparable--we call it fate, the suggestive power orcharacter--and he knows neither himself nor mankind, who believes that hecan analyze the deeds and actions of men without taking into account thisever-recurring principle. Thus I consoled myself on all those pointswhich had troubled me in the evening; and at last no streak of cloudobscured the heaven of the future. 

In this frame of mind I stepped out of the close house into the open air, when a messenger brought a letter for me. It was from the Countess, as Isaw by the beautiful, delicate handwriting. I breathlessly opened it--Ilooked for the most blissful tidings man can expect. But all my hopeswere immediately shattered. The letter contained only a request not tovisit her to-day, as she expected a visit at the castle from the CourtResidence. No friendly word--no news of her health--only at the close, apostscript: "The Hofrath will be here to-morrow and the next day. "

Here were two days torn out at once from the book of life. If they couldonly be completely obliterated--but no, they hang over me like the leadenroof of a prison. They must be lived. I could not give them away as acharity to king or beggar, who would gladly have sat two days longer uponhis throne, or on his stone at the church door. I remained in thisabstraction for a long time; but then I thought of my morning prayer, andhow I said to myself there was no greater unbelief than despondency--howthe smallest and greatest in life are part of one great divine plan, towhich we must submit, however hard it may be. Like a rider who sees aprecipice before him, I drew in the reins. "Be it so, since it must be!"I cried out; "but God's earth is not the place for complaints andlamentations. Is it not a happiness to hold in my hand these lines whichshe has written? and is not the hope of seeing her again in a short timea greater bliss than I have ever deserved? 'Always keep the head abovewater, ' say all good life-swimmers. As well sink at once as allow thewater to run into your eyes and throat. " If it is hard for us, amidthese little ills of life, to keep God's providence continually in view, and if we hesitate, perhaps rightly, in every struggle, to step out ofthe common-places of life into the presence of the divine, then lifeought to appear, to us at least, an art, if not a duty. What is moredisagreeable than the child who behaves ungovernably and grows dejectedand angry at every little loss and pain? On the other hand, nothing ismore beautiful than the child in whose tearful eyes the sunshine of joyand innocence soon beams again, like the flower, which quivers andtrembles in the spring shower, and soon after blossoms and exhales itsfragrance, as the sun dries the tears upon its cheeks. 

A good thought speedily occurred to me, that I could live both these dayswith her, notwithstanding fate. For a long time I had intended to writedown the dear words she had said, and the many beautiful thoughts she hadconfided to me; and so the days passed away in memory of the manycharming hours spent, together, and in the hope of a still more beautifulfuture, and I was by her and with her, and lived in her, and felt thenearness of her spirit and her love more than I had ever felt them when Iheld her hand in mine. 

How dear to me now are these leaves! How often have I read and re-readthem--not that I had forgotten one word she said, but they were thewitnesses of my happiness, and something looked out of them upon me likethe gaze of a friend, whose silence speaks more than words. The memoryof a past happiness, the memory of a past sorrow, the silent meditationupon the past, when everything disappears that surrounds and restrainsus, when the soul throws itself down, like a mother upon the greengrave-mound of her child who has slept under it many long years, when nohope, no desire, disturbs the silence of peaceful resignation, we maywell call sadness, but there is a rapture in this sadness which onlythose know who have loved and suffered much. Ask the mother what shefeels when she ties upon the head of her daughter the veil _she_ oncewore as a bride, and thinks of the husband no longer with her! Ask a manwhat he feels when the maiden whom he has loved, and the world has tornfrom him, sends him after death the dried rose which he gave her inyouth! They may both weep, but their tears are not tears of sorrow, buttears of joy; tears of sacrifice, with which man consecrates himself tothe Divine, and with faith in God's love and wisdom, looks upon thedearest he has passing away from him. 

Still let us go back in memory, back in the living presence of the past. The two days flew so swiftly that I was agitated, as the happiness ofseeing her again drew nearer and nearer. As the carriages and horsemenarrived on the first day from the city, I saw that the castle was alivewith gaily-dressed visitors. Banners fluttered from the roof, musicsounded through the castle-yard. In the evening, the lake swarmed withpleasure-boats. The moennerchors sounded over the waves, and I could notbut listen, for I fancied she also listened to these songs from thewindow. Everything was stirring, also, on the second day, and early inthe afternoon the guests prepared for departure. Late in the evening Isaw the Hofrath's carriage also going back alone to the city. I couldnot restrain myself any longer, I knew she was alone. I knew she thoughtof me, and longed for me. Should I allow one night to pass without atleast pressing her hand, without saying to her that the separation wasover, that the next morning would waken us to new rapture. I still saw alight in her window--why should she be alone? Why should I not, for onemoment at least, feel her sweet presence? Already I stood at the castle;already I was about to pull the bell--then suddenly I stopped and said:"No! no weakness! You should be ashamed to stand before her like a thiefin the night. Early in the morning go to her like a hero, returning frombattle, for whom she is now weaving the crown of love, which she willplace upon thy head in the morning. "

And the morning came--and I was with her, really with her. Oh, speak notof the spirit as if it could exist without the body. Complete existence, consciousness, and enjoyment, can only be where body and soul are one--anembodied spirit, a spiritualized body. There is no spirit without body, else it would be a ghost: there is no body without spirit, else it wouldbe a corpse. Is the flower in the field without spirit? Does it notappear in a divine will, in a creative thought which preserves it, andgives it life and existence? That is its soul--only it is silent in theflower, while it manifests itself in man by words. Real life is, afterall, the bodily and spiritual life; real consciousness is, after all, thebodily and spiritual consciousness; real being together is, after all, bodily and spiritually being together, and the whole world of memory inwhich I had lived so happily for two days, disappeared like a shadow, like a nonentity, as I stood before her, and was really with her. Icould have laid my hands upon her brow, her eyes, and her cheeks, toknow, to unmistakably know, if it were really she--not only the imagewhich had hovered before my soul day and night, but a being who was notmine, and still could and would be mine; a being in whom I could believeas in myself; a being far from me and yet nearer to me than my own self;a being without whom my life was no life, death was no death; withoutwhom my poor existence would dissolve into infinity like a sigh. I felt, as my thoughts and glances rested upon her, that now, in this veryinstant, the happiness of my existence was complete--and a shudder creptover me as I thought of death--but it seemed no longer to have any terrorfor me; for death could not destroy this love; it would only purify;ennoble, and immortalize it. 

It was so beautiful to be silent with her. The whole depth of her soulwas reflected in her countenance, and as I looked upon her I saw andheard her every thought and emotion. "You make me sad, " she seemed onthe point of saying, and yet would not, "Are we not together again atlast? Be quiet! Complain not! Ask not! Speak not! Be welcome to me!Be not bad to me!" All this looked from her eyes, and still we did notventure to disturb the peace of our happiness with a word. 

"Have you received a letter from the Hofrath?" was the first question, and her voice trembled with each word. 

"No, " I replied. 

She was silent for a time, and then said:

"Perhaps it is better it has happened thus, and that I can tell youeverything myself. My friend, we see each other to-day for the lasttime. Let us part in peace, without complaint and without anger. I feelthat I have done you a great wrong. I have intruded upon your lifewithout thinking that even a light breath often withers a flower. I knowso little of the world that I did not believe a poor suffering being likemyself could inspire anything but pity. I welcome you in a frank andfriendly way because I had known you so long, because I felt so well inyour presence--why should I not tell all?--because I loved you. But theworld does not understand or tolerate this love. The Hofrath has openedmy eyes. The whole city is talking about us. My brother, the Regent, has written to the Prince, and he requests me never to see you again. Ideeply regret that I have caused you this sorrow. Tell me you forgiveme--and then let us separate as friends. "

Her eyes had filled with tears, and she closed them that I should not seeher weeping. 

"Marie, " said I, "for me there is but one life which is with you; but foryou there is one will which is your own. Yes, I confess, I love you withthe whole fire of love, but I feel I am not worthily yours. You standfar above me in nobility, sublimity and purity, and I can scarcelyunderstand the thought of ever calling you my wife. And, yet, there isno other road on which we could travel through life together. Marie, youare wholly free; I ask for no sacrifice. The world is great, and if youwish it, we shall never see each other again. But if you love me, if youfeel you are mine, oh, then, let us forget the world and its coldverdict. In my arms I will bear you to the altar, and on my knees I willswear to be yours in life and in death. "

"My friend, " said she, "we must never wish for the impossible. Had itbeen God's will that such a tie should unite us in this life, would He, forsooth, have imposed these burdens upon me which make me incapable ofbeing else than a helpless child? Do not forget that what we call Fate, Circumstance, Relations, in life, is in reality only the work ofProvidence. To resist it is to resist God himself, and were it not sochildish one might call it presumptuous. Men wander on earth like thestars in heaven. God has indicated the paths upon which they meet, andif they are to separate, they must. Resistance were useless, otherwiseit would destroy the whole system of the world. We cannot understand it, but we can submit to it. I cannot myself understand why my inclinationtowards you was wrong. No! I cannot, will not call it wrong. But itcannot be, it is not to be. My friend, this is enough--we must submit inhumility and faith. "

Notwithstanding the calmness with which she spoke, I saw how deeply shesuffered; and yet I thought it wrong to surrender so quickly in thisbattle of life. I restrained myself as much as I could, so that nopassionate word should increase her trouble, and said:

"If this is the last time we are to meet in this life, let us see clearlyto whom we offer this sacrifice. If our love violated any higher lawwhatsoever, I would, as you say, bow myself in humility. It were aforgetfulness of God to oppose one's self to a higher will. It may seemat times as if men could delude God, as if their small sense had gainedsome advantage over the Divine wisdom. This is frenzy--and the man whocommences this Titanic battle; will be crushed and annihilated. But whatopposes our love? Nothing but the talk of the world. I respect thecustoms of human society. I even respect them when, as in our time, theyare over-refined and confused. A sick body needs artificial medicines, and without the barriers, the respect and the prejudices of society, atwhich we smile, it were impossible to hold mankind together as at presentexisting, and to accomplish the purpose of our temporal co-existence. Wemust sacrifice much to these divinities. Like the Athenians, we sendevery year a heavy boatload of youths and maidens as tribute to thismonster which rules the labyrinth of our society. There is no longer aheart that has not broken; there is no longer a man of true feelings whohas not been obliged to break the wings of his love before he came intothe cage of society for rest. It must be so. It cannot be otherwise. You know not life, but thinking only of my friends, I can tell you manyvolumes of tragedy. 

"One loved a maiden, and the love was returned; but he was poor, she wasrich. The fathers and relatives wrangled and sneered, and two heartswere broken. Why? Because the world looked upon it as a misfortune fora woman to wear a dress made of the wool of a shrub in America, and notof the fibres of a worm in China. 

"Another loved a maiden, and was loved in return; but he was aProtestant, she was a Catholic. The mothers and the priests bredmischief, and two hearts were broken. Why? On account of a politicalgame of chess which Charles V and Henry VIII played together, threehundred years ago. 

"A third loved a maiden, and was loved in return; but he was a noble, shea peasant. The sisters were angry, and quarreled, and two hearts werebroken. Why? Because, a hundred years ago, one soldier slew another inbattle, who threatened the life of his king. This gave him title andhonors, and his great grandson expiated the blood shed at that time, witha disappointed life. 

"The statisticians say a heart is broken every hour, and I believe it. But why? In almost every case, because the world does not recognize lovebetween 'strange people, ' unless it be between man and wife. If twomaidens love the same man--the one must fall as a sacrifice. If two menlove the same maiden, one or both must fall as a sacrifice. Why? Cannotone love a maiden, without wishing to marry her? Cannot one look upon awoman, without desiring her for his own? You close your eyes, and I feelI have said too much. The world has changed the most sacred things inlife into the most common. But, Marie, enough! Let us talk the languageof the world when we must talk, and act in it, and with it. But let uspreserve a sanctuary where two hearts can speak the pure language of theheart, undisturbed by the raging of the world without. The world itselfhonors this seclusion, this courageous resistance, which noble hearts, conscious of their own rectitude, oppose to the ordinary course ofthings. The attentions, the amenities, the prejudices of the world arelike a climbing plant. It is pleasant to see an ivy, with its thousandtendrils and roots, decorating the solid wall-work; but it should not beallowed too luxuriant growth, else it will penetrate every crevice of thestructure, and destroy the cement which welds it together. Be mine, Marie; follow the voice of your heart. The word which now hangs uponyour lips decides forever your life and mine--my happiness and yours. "

I was silent. The hand I held in mine returned the warm pressure of theheart. A storm raged in her breast, and the blue heaven before me neverseemed so beautiful as now, while the storm swept by, cloud upon cloud. 

"Why do you love me?" said she, gently, as if she must still delay themoment of decision. 

"Why, Marie? Ask the child why it is born; ask the flower why itblossoms; ask the sun why it shines. I love you because I must love you. But if I am compelled to answer further, let this book, lying by you, which you love so much, speak for me:

["Das beste solte das liebste sin, und in diser libe solte nichtangesehen werden nuss und unnuss, fromen oder schaden, gewin odervorlust, ere oder unere, lob oder unlob oder diser keins, sunder was inder warheit das edelste und das aller beste ist, das solt auch dasallerliebste sin, und umb nichts anders dan allein umb das, das es dasedelst und das beste ist. Hie nach mocht ein mensche sin leben gerichtenvon ussen und von innen. Von ussen: wan under den creaturen ist einsbesser dan das ander, dar nach dan das ewig gut in einem mer oder minnerschinet und wurket dan in dem andern. In welchem nun das ewig gut allermeist schinet, luchtet, wurket und bekant und geliebet wirt, das ist ouchdas beste under den creaturen; und in welchem dis minst ist, das ist ouchdas aller minst gut. So nu der mensche die creatur handelt und da mitumb get, und disen underscheit bekennet, so sol im ie die beste creaturdie liebste sin und sol sich mit flis zu ir halden und sich da mitvoreinigen. . . "]

"The best should be the most loved, and in this love there should be noconsideration of advantage or disadvantage, gain or loss, honor ordishonor, praise or blame, or anything else, but of that which in realityis the noblest and best, which should be the dearest of all; and for noother reason, but because it is the noblest and best. According to thisa man should plan his inner and outer life. From without: if amongmankind there is one better than another, in proportion as the eternallygood shines or works more in one than in another. That being in whom theeternally good shines, works, is known and loved most, is therefore thebest among mankind; and in whom this is most, there is also the mostgood. As now a man has intercourse with a being, and apprehends thisdistinction, then the best being should be the dearest to him, and heshould fervently cling to it, and unite himself with it. . . . . . "

"Because you are the most perfect creature that I know, Marie, thereforeI am good to you, therefore you are dear to me, therefore we love eachother. Speak the word which lives in you, say that you are mine. Denynot your innermost convictions. God has imposed a life of suffering uponyou. He sent me to bear it with you. Your sorrow shall be my sorrow, and we will bear it together, as the ship bears the heavy sails whichguide it through the storms of life into the safe haven at last. "

She grew more and more silent, A gentle flush played upon her cheeks likethe quiet evening gleam. Then she opened her eyes full--the sun gleamedall at once with marvellous lustre. 

"I am yours, " said she. "God wills it. Take me just as I am; so long asI live I am yours, and may God bring us together again in a morebeautiful life, and recompense your love. "

We lay heart to heart. My lips closed the lips upon which had just nowhung the blessing of my life, with a gentle kiss. Time stood still forus. The world about us disappeared. Then a deep sigh escaped from herbreast. "May God forgive me for this rapture, " she whispered. "Leave mealone now, I cannot endure more. _Auf wiedersehen_! my friend, my lovedone, my savior. "

These were the last words I ever heard from her. But no--I had reachedhome and was lying upon my bed in troubled dreams. It was past midnightwhen the Hofrath entered my room. "Our angel is in Heaven, " said he;"here is the last greeting she sends you. " With these words he gave me aletter. It enclosed the ring which she had given me, and I once hadgiven her, with the words: "_As God wills_. " It was wrapped in an oldpaper, whereon she had some time written the words I spoke to her when achild: "What is thine, is mine. Thy Marie. "

Hours long, we sat together without speaking. It was a spiritual swoonwhich Heaven sends us when the load of pain becomes greater than we canbear. At last the old man arose, took my hand and said: "We see eachother to-day for the last time, for you must leave here, and my days arenumbered. There is but one thing I must say to you--a secret which Ihave carried all my life, and confessed to no one. I have always longedto confess it to some one. Listen to me. The spirit which has left uswas a beautiful spirit, a majestic, pure soul, a deep, true heart. Iknew one spirit as beautiful as hers--still more beautiful. It was hermother. I loved her mother, and she loved me. We were both poor, and Istruggled with life to obtain an honorable position both on her accountand my own. The young Prince saw my bride and loved her. He was myPrince; he loved her ardently. He was ready to make any sacrifice and toelevate her, the poor orphan, to the rank of Princess. I loved her sothat I sacrificed the happiness of my love for her. I forsook my nativeland and wrote her I would release her from her vow. I never saw heragain, except on her death-bed. She died in giving birth to her firstdaughter. Now you know why I loved your Marie, and prolonged her lifefrom day to day. She was the only being that linked my heart to thislife. Bear life as I have borne it. Lose not a day in uselesslamentation. Help mankind whenever you can. Love them and thank Godthat you have seen and known and loved on this earth such a human heartas hers--and that you have lost it. "

"_As God will_. " said I, and we parted for life. 

 * * * * *

And days and weeks and months and years have flown. Home is a strangerto me, and a foreign land is my home. But her love remains with me, andas a tear drops into the ocean, so has her love dropped into the livingocean of humanity and pervades and embraces millions--millions of the"strange people" whom I have so loved from childhood. 

 * * * * *

Only on quiet summer days like this, when one in the green woods hasnature alone at heart, and knows not whether there are human beings. Without, or he is living entirely alone in the world, then there is astir in the graveyard of memory, the dead thoughts, rise again, the fullomnipotence of love returns to the heart and streams out from thatbeautiful being who once looked upon me with her deep unfathomable eyes. Then it seems as if the love for the millions were lost in the love forthe one, my good angel, and my thoughts are dumb in the presence of theincomprehensible enigma of endless and everlasting love.